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dearieshima · 18 days ago

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winner

feat. what happens if no nut november comes around, and you're almost there at the finish line, and the girl you pined over since highschool, finally wants to fuck you?

God had granted him the ultimate temptation– the chance to fuck one of his perfect angels, and it felt like divine retribution for not seizing such a heavenly opportunity.

c.w. cowgirl, breast worship, unprotected sex, loser boy gojo, afab!reader

Gojo Satoru is the kind of guy people talk about. A natural winner in every way that matters.

He walks around campus like he owns the place, because he might as well have, since his net worth was three million by the time of his conception.

He’s the one everyone wants to be or be with—athletic, good-looking, blessed with charisma, and even intelligent. People gravitate toward him as if he’s the sun, and it seems like everything in his life just falls into place.

So it was only natural he would accumulate jealousy brewing among some students. They love to admire him, sure, but secretly, they waited for a crack to appear in his perfect image, eager for it to crumble.

So when November rolled around, Geto and a group of underclassmen saw an opportunity. They set up a bet, daring him to a challenge: for the entire month, Gojo was forbidden from his usual playful flirting and pursuits. A month of self-restraint for a guy who usually had the university’s most admired women hanging on his every word.

He shrugged it off. The only woman he truly wanted was you, from the start, anyway. The only true threat to his virtue was his hand itching to jerk him off to the thought of you. Other than that, he was fine.

…

Well, something happened.

Gojo couldn't remember what triggered it, why your lips were suddenly pressed against his. Perhaps it was the cheesy sex scene playing out on the screen, or the dumb joke he made about the actor's dick - it must have been a particularly good, dumb dick joke to elicit such a response from you.

The specifics leading up to this moment didn't matter. This was what he had fantasized about endlessly since high school, and now here you were, in his arms, your body flush against his.

But as your hand slid down his thigh, brushing against the throbbing bulge straining against his pants, a sudden realization hit him like a bucket of ice water. He had been strong for 24 days, resisting temptation and keeping his resolve. But now, with you so close, so eager, his resolve stood a chance of a house of cards against wind.

"Fuck," he groaned, pulling back slightly, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Wait… goddamn it."

You blinked at him, confusion flashing across your face, then understanding cleared it all away. "... Did you…?"

“No, no– thank fuck no,” he rasped, wiping a shaky hand over his face.

Your brows furrowed.

He had come so far, resisting temptation for nearly a month. And now, with you in his arms, the only person he had pined for those years back, all he wanted to come so far in, was you.

"I can't,” he said, his voice low and strained, almost as if the words were painful to speak. “It's November.”

“November...?” you echoed, your voice trailing off, searching your mind for any important dates in November that might explain his reaction.

Gojo nodded, his hands resting on your hips, his eyes searching your face for understanding. "Yeah, November. It's… um. Remember that bet I made with Geto and some other guys?”

You shook your head. Gojo let out a sigh, realizing that he would have to explain the whole situation to you. He ran a hand through his white hair, messing it up further.

"Alright, listen. You know how I like to make bets? I had this bet with Geto and some underclassmen… and it's about No Nut November, and–”

You let out a deep groan, dragging your hand down your face in exasperation. Your fingers tugged at your eyelids as you drew out a long, "Nooo, ‘Toru... That's so stupid. You guys are so stupid. Do you guys seriously believe in that?”

Gojo gave a sheepish grin, his cheeks reddening just slightly at your reaction, which was, as expected, not the most enthusiastic.

"I know, I know, it's a dumb bet, but these guys were so convinced that I couldn't make it a month without… you know." He paused, looking away for a moment, his voice dropping slightly.

"And the bet was for a lot of money, y'know.”

You sighed, “'Toru, your family’s loaded. What could money possibly mean to you?”

Gojo flinched, reluctant to admit you had a point. It was true, his family’s wealth granted him a life of ease and luxury that most people could only imagine.

"It's not about the money," he insisted, his grip on your hips tightening slightly. "It's about the… the principle."

"The principal," you said flatly.

Gojo sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly. He knew your disbelief was warranted, but he was in too deep now to back out.

You nodded, pretending to get it, and rolled away from him.

“I don’t know. Six more days, and then…” His voice faded as he watched you settle on the other side of the couch. His body quivered without the heat of yours.

He sighed, propping himself on an elbow, eyes fixed on you as you refocused on the movie.

“Six days isn’t that long, right?”

“Sure, ‘Toru.”

The room was filled with a charged silence, broken only by the breathy moans emanating from the erotic scene playing out on the television screen, taunting him. His mouth opened and closed, searching for words, but none came. How could you be so casual, so dismissive, after just making out with him? He was the king of sass and comebacks, but he was struck speechless by your nonchalance.

"Wait," he said, his voice slightly rougher than before. "That's it?”

You looked at him as the TV screen flashed, illuminating your face where he could see you with a raised eyebrow, slouched on the couch.

Gojo stared at you, disbelief filling his gaze. Was this really happening? Was he really about to miss out on this opportunity because of a stupid bet? His mind raced, searching for any possible loophole.

"But… I mean," he stuttered, "you were all over me just a minute ago. Are you really just gonna turn away from me now?”

You shrugged. "What do you expect me to do?" you asked. "Since you're set on doing that… November thing.”

Gojo deflated back against the couch, a defeated sigh escaping him. You were giving him attitude, and it was both annoying him and turning him on at the same time.

He ran a hand through his messy hair, trying to think of a response that wouldn't make him sound like a whiny child.

"I don't know," he pouted. "I just… I was hoping you'd understand. Maybe be a little supportive?”

You deadpanned. "You can't be serious. Supportive of what?”

Gojo huffed, his eyes narrowing as he glanced at you, taking in your blank expression.

"Supportive of me trying to win the bet! I've been holding back for about 3 weeks, and you make it seem like it's nothing, like I'm being ridiculous for sticking to it.”

"Not just you, but Geto and everyone else you made the bet with," you said, grabbing your Coke. "It's okay, really, 'Toru. If you’re not up for it, let’s just watch the movie.”

Gojo huffed and slid back into the arm of the couch, sulking. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest as he stared blankly at the movie playing out before him, not really seeing or processing any of it. His mind was a tangled mess of frustration and disappointment, replaying the events of the night over and over.

This was not at all how he had imagined things would go. The movie, with its stupid unexpected sex scene, you, offering yourself to him so freely, so willingly, and most important of all, him, refusing you.

As the night wore on, Gojo found himself growing increasingly restless. He tried to focus on the movie, but his mind kept wandering back to the bet and the opportunity slipping through his fingers. By the time the credits rolled, he was practically vibrating with tension. He turned to you, his heart racing.

His hungry gaze devoured your form, lingering on the tantalizing curves of your breasts, barely contained by your rumpled shirt. The lacy edge of your bra peeked out, teasing him with glimpses of doughy flesh straining against the delicate fabric. Each second stretched into an eternity, his heart pounding wildly in his chest as he imagined burying his face between those soft mounds, worshiping every inch of your divine body. God had granted him the ultimate temptation– the chance to fuck one of his perfect angels, and it felt like divine retribution for not seizing such a heavenly opportunity.

His inner monologue was a rapid-fire debate. The urge to forget the stupid bet, to toss all caution to the wind and just give in to the desire that was coursing through his veins, was overwhelming.

But then the image of Geto's smug face popped into his mind, the memory of the bet gnawing at his thoughts. He couldn't just give in, not after all this time. Could he?

God, your face was so adorable, lips swollen and glistening from his kisses, your neck a leopard print of hickies. His hungry eyes trailed further down, to the tantalizing swell of your ass from your tiny shorts riding up, exposing the globes. The loose hem showcased a pair of skimpy white panties, and he could only imagine how drenched they were, just from him. He was a fool. He's been waiting since highschool for the chance to fuck his dream girl, and when offered the chance, he was just going to give it up? To give it to the next guy? Fuck no. You might not give him another chance by then.

In an instant, he was on his knees, closing the distance between you with a swiftness that was almost alarming. His voice was a low, guttural growl as he leaned over you.

"Screw it.”

Your wide-eyed look of surprise didn't deter Gojo, not one bit. His eyes were burning, his gaze practically burning holes through your clothes.

He planted his hands on the arm of the couch, effectively trapping you, his body looming over you like a predator over its prey.

"Fuck the bet," he growled, his hands roaming hungrily over your curves. "Fuck the bet. Fuck Geto, fuck Shoko, fuck Ino– fuck everything else. I just want to fuck you. They don't have a sexy girl waiting for them at home like I do. They can't understand the struggle."

His mouth crashed against your neck, his tongue and teeth working the sensitive flesh as he pulled you down onto his lap, your bodies melding together on the couch. His hardness pressed insistently against your core as he ground up into you.

Gojo tore at his belt, his fingers flying as he unbuttoned his pants. He pushed them down, along with his underwear, freeing himself. His cock sprung proudly, his tip flushed and glistening with pre. Subtle blue veins snaked up the creamy length, pulsing with need.

Hooking his fingers under your shorts and panties, he tugged them down, exposing your dripping wet pussy to his hungry gaze. You lifted your hips obligingly, allowing him to remove the flimsy garments completely. Gojo groaned at the sight of your slick folds, already swollen with arousal.

Positioning himself beneath you, his rigid shaft bobbed against his stomach. The musky scent of his desire filled the air as his fingers curled around himself, guiding himself to your entrance. He thrust up, sheathing himself inside you in one stroke.

You tossed your head back, your pussy clenching around him. Gojo's eyes rolled back as he bottomed out inside you, his cock buried to the hilt in your tight pussy. He let out a guttural moan, his hands on your hips as he started to pound into you at a brutal pace, his balls slapping against your ass with each thrust.

Gojo's voice was a guttural growl against your neck as he fucked you relentlessly. "I can't... Stop... Fuck, I've wanted this for so long... Fuck, fuck, fuck!" His hips hammered against yours, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing through the room.

"'Toru...!”

"Shh...shh, baby, not so loud..." Gojo panted, trying to muffle his own moans. Despite resigning to fucking you, he remained paranoid that the others may hear you both. Maybe he could salvage himself.

His hips jackhammered upwards, his hard length spearing into you over and over, the couch creaking under the force of his thrusts.

"Oh… Oh god..." You whimpered, grinding against him. "You feel so good…”

Gojo's hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise as he slammed into you, his thick cock stretching you deliciously. He could feel your velvety walls fluttering around him, gripping him like a vice. "You're so fucking tight…”

His gaze was glued to your bouncing tits as he fucked you, his cock twitching inside you with every bounce. He reached up to grab one, squeezing the soft flesh in his hands as he continued to pound into your soaked pussy. "Fuck, your tits are perfect...so fucking perfect..." He groaned, "you're gonna make me cum so hard…”

“‘Toru…! you feel, feel so... mngh," you whimpered out, your hands curling over his as it kneaded your breasts.

"I'm not going to last long after holding back for so long…” Gojo cried, his voice strained with lust and exertion. “Say my name again, baby. Please…”

“‘Toru…!”

Gojo threw his head back with a loud groan as he heard his name on your lips, the sound spurring him on. His thrusts became erratic, losing rhythm as his climax approached. "Oh, shit… oh shit–! I'm... I'm gonna... fuck!”

Gojo buried himself inside you as far as he could go, his cock pulsing. "Ah fuck, ah fuck, ah–fuck!”

With a loud grunt, Gojo pulled you down to bury his face in the valley of your breasts, his cock throbbing violently inside you as he unleashed a torrent of cum deep within your pussy. His entire body shudders as he emptied himself inside you, filling you to the brim with his thick, hot seed. "Nnngh!"

You continued to grind down onto him, prolonging your shared climax. He groaned, his cock twitching with aftershocks as your pussy clenched and fluttered around him, milking him for every last drop. "Fuck...yes… ride it out, baby… ride... ugh…”

As your movements stilled, Gojo moved to nuzzled into your neck, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. He peppered soft kisses onto your heated skin, his hands still squeezing your breasts gently. "Mmm... you feel so good... why'd we wait so long..."

Gathering your thoughts, you sighed, "'cuz you're always doing dumb things. You lost by the way.”

Gojo chuckled weakly, his arms wrapping around you to pull you closer. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm just glad it's finally over… and now I get to do this every day…”

He pressed his lips to your neck, a shuddering sigh escaping you, just as his phone buzzed on the coffee table. It was a message from Geto, who lived in the flat above.

New text from MOMMY GETO!

sent 9:48p.m.:

loser.

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dailyrothko · 3 months ago

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No, the Popularity of Abstract Art is Not the Result of a CIA PsyOp

If you are unlucky enough to move around the internet these days and talk about art, you’ll find that many “First commenters” will hit you with what they see as some hard truth about your taste in art. Comments usually start with how modern art is “money laundering” always comically misunderstanding what that means. What they are saying is that, of course, rich people use investments as tax shelters and things like expensive antiques and art appraised at high prices to increase their net worth. Oh my god, I’ve been red-pilled. The rich getting richer? I have never heard of such a thing.

What is conveniently left out of this type of comment is that the same valuation and financial shenanigans occur with baseball cards, wine, vacation homes, guitars, and dozens of other things. It does indeed happen with art, but even the kind that the most conservative internet curator can appreciate. After all, Rembrandts are worth money too, you just don’t see many because he’s not making any more of them. The only appropriate response to these people who are, almost inevitably themselves, the worst artists you have ever seen, is silence. It would cruel to ask about their own art because there’s a danger they might actually enjoy such a truly novel experience.

When you are done shaking your head that you just subjected yourself to an argument about the venality of poor artists plotting to make their work valuable after they died, you can certainly then enjoy the accompanying felicity of the revelation they have saved to knock you off your feet: “Abstract art is a CIA PsyOp”

Here one must get ready either to type a lot or to simply say “Except factually” and go along your merry, abstract-art-loving way. But what are the facts? Unsurprisingly with things involving US government covert operations, the facts are not so clear.

Like everything on the internet, you are unlikely to find factual roots to the arguments about government conspiracies and modern art. The mere idea of it is enough to bring blossom for the “I’m not a sheep” crowd, some of whom believe that a gold toilet owning former president is a morally good, honest hard-working man of the people.

The roots of this contention come from a 1973 article in Artforum magazine, where art critic Max Kozloff wrote about post-war American painting in the context of the Cold War, centering around Irving Sandler’s book, The Triumph of American Painting (1970). Kozloff takes on more than just abstract expressionism in his article but condemns the “Self-congratulatory mood”of Sandler’s book and goes on to suggest the rise of abstract expressionism was a “Benevolent form of propaganda”. Kozoloff treads a difficult line here, asserting that abstraction was genuinely important to American art but that its luminaries, “have acquired their present blue-chip status partly through elements in their work that affirm our most recognizable norms and mores.”

While there were rumblings of agreements around Kozloff’s article of broad concerns, it did not give birth to an actual conspiracy theory at the time. The real public apprehension of this idea seems to mostly come from articles written by historian Frances Stonor Saunders in support of her book, “The Cultural Cold War: The CIA and the World of Arts and Letters” (New York, New Press, 2000). (I have not read this 525 page book, only excerpts).

The gist of Ms. Saunders argument is a tantalizing, but mostly unsupported, labyrinthine maze of back door funding and novelistic cloak and dagger deals. According to Saunders, the Congress for Cultural Freedom (CCF), an anti-communist cultural organization founded in 1950, was behind the promotion of Abstract art as part of their effort to be opinion makers in the war against communism. In 1966 it was revealed that the CCF was funded by the CIA. Saunders says that the CCF financed a litany of art exhibitions including “The New American Painting” which toured Europe in the late 1950s. Some of this is true, but it’s difficult, if not impossible, to know the specifics.

Noted expert in abstract-expressionism, David Anfam said CIA presence was real. It was “a well-documented fact” that the CIA co-opted Abstract Expressionism in their propaganda war against Russia. “Even The New American Painting [exhibition] had some CIA funding behind it,” he says. But the reasons for this are not quite what the abstract art detractors might be looking for. After all, the CCF also funded the travel expenses for the Boston Symphony Orchestra and promoted Fodor’s travel guides. More than trying to pull the wool over anyone’s eyes, it was meant to showcase the freedom artists in the US. enjoyed. Or as Anfam goes on to say, “It’s a very shrewd and cynical strategy, because it showed that you could do whatever you liked in America.”

For what it’s worth, Saunders’s book was eviscerated in the Summer 2000 issue of Art Forum at the time of its publication. Robert Simon wrote:

“Saunders draws extensively on primary and secondary sources, focusing on the convoluted money trail as it twists through dummy corporations, front men, anonymous donors, and phony fund-raising events aimed at filling the CCF’s coffers. She makes lengthy forays into such topics as McCarthyism, the formation and operation of the CIA, the propaganda work of the Hollywood film industry, and New York cultural politics—from Partisan Review to MoMA to Abstract Expressionism. Yet what seems strangely absent from Saunders’s panoramic history, as if it were a minor detail or something too obvious to require discussion, is the cultural object itself: The complex specifics of the texts, exhibitions, intellectual gatherings, paintings, and performances of the culture war are largely left out of the story.”

Another problem with the book seems to be that Saunders is an historian but not an art historian. For me, I sensed an overtone of superiority in the tale she’s spinning and most assuredly from those that repeat its conclusion. The thinly veiled message of some is that if it were “Real art” it would not have had be part of this government subterfuge. The reality is very different. For one thing, most of us know it is simply not true that you can make people devoted to a type of art for 100 years that they would sensibly hate otherwise. Another issue is that it’s quite obvious none of the artists actually knew about any government interference if there was any. Pollock, Rothko, Gottlieb and Newmann were all either communists or anarchists. Hardly the group one would recruit the help the US government free the world of communism. Additionally, this narrow cold war timeline ignores a huge amount of abstract art that Jackson Pollock haters also revile and consider part of the same hijacking of high (Frankly, Greek, Roman, or Renaissance) culture. If you look at the highly abstract signature work of Piet Mondrian and observe the dates they were painted, you’ll see 1908, 1914, 1916. This is some of the art denigrated as a CIA PsyOP, 35 years before the CIA even thought about it. Modern art didn’t come from nowhere as many would have you believe to discredit its rise. There was Surrealism, Dada, Bauhaus, Russian futurism and a host of other movements that fueled it.

Generally, people like to argue. On the internet, “I don’t like this” is a weak statement that always must be replaced by “This is garbage” or my favorite, “This is fake.”

It’s hardly surprising that the more conservative factions of our society look for any government involvement in our lives to explain why things are not exactly as they wish them to be, given the (highly ironic) conservative government-blaming that blew up after Reagan. In addition, modern fascists have always had a love affair with the classical fantasy of Greece and Rome. Both Mussolini and Hitler used Greece and Rome as “Distant models” to address their uncertain national identity. The Nazis confiscated more than 5,000 works in German museums, presenting 650 of them in the Entartete Kunst (Degenerate Art, 1937) show to demonstrate the perverted nature of modern art. It featured artists including Marc Chagall, Max Ernst, Wassily Kandinsky, and Paul Klee, among others. The fear of art was real. It was the fear of ideas.

To a lot of people on the internet just the mentioning a “CIA program” is enough to get the cogs turning, but as with many things, the reality of CIA programs and government plots is often less than evidence of well planned coup.

The CIA reportedly spent 20 millions dollars on Operation Acoustic Kitty which intended to use cats to spy on the Kremlin and Soviet embassies. Microphones were planted on cats and plans were set in motion to get the cats to surreptitiously record important conversations. However, the CIA soon discovered that they were cats and not agreeable to any kind of regulation of their behavior.

As part of Operation Mongoose the CIA planned to undermine Castro's public image by putting thallium salts in his shoes, which would cause his beard to fall out, while he was on a trip outside Cuba. He was expected to leave his shoes outside his hotel room to be polished, at which point the salts would be administered. The plan was abandoned because Castro canceled the trip.

Regardless of your feelings on this subject or how much you believe abstract art benefited from government dollars, Saunders herself quotes in her book a CIA officer apparently involved in these “Long leash” influence operations. He says, “We wanted to unite all the people who were writers, who were musicians, who were artists, to demonstrate that the West and the United States was devoted to freedom of expression and to intellectual achievement, without any rigid barriers as to what you must write, and what you must say, and what you must do.” Hardly the Illuminati plot we were promised.

In 2016, Irving Sandler, author of the book that started Kozloff tirading in 1973, told Alastair Sooke of The Daily Telegraph, “There was absolutely no involvement of any government agency. I haven’t seen a single fact that indicates there was this kind of collusion. Surely, by now, something – anything – would have emerged. And isn’t it interesting that the federal government at the time considered Abstract Expressionism a Communist plot to undermine American society?”

This blog post contains information and quotes sourced from The Piper Played to Us All: Orchestrating the Cultural Cold War in the USA, Europe, and Latin America, Russell H. Bartley International Journal of Politics, Culture, and Society, Vol. 14, No. 3 (Spring, 2001), pp. 571-619 (49 pages) https://www.bbc.com/culture/article/20161004-was-modern-art-a-weapon-of-the-cia https://brill.com/view/journals/fasc/8/2/article-p127_127.xml?language=en https://www.guggenheim-bilbao.eus/en/learn/schools/teachers-guides/the-dark-side-of-classicism https://www.artforum.com/features/american-painting-during-the-cold-war-212902/ https://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/modern-art-was-cia-weapon-1578808.html https://www.artforum.com/columns/frances-stonor-saunders-162391/ https://www.artforum.com/features/abstract-expressionism-weapon-of-the-cold-war-214234/ Mark Rothko and the Development of American Modernism 1938-1948 Jonathan Harris, Oxford Art Journal, Vol. 11, No. 1 (1988), pp. 40-50 (11 pages)

#mark rothko #markrothko #rothko #daily rothko #dailyrothko #abstract expressionism #modern art #abstraction #colorfield #ab ex #colorfield painting #mid century #CIA #pysop

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afniel · 7 months ago

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I was so legitimately confused when my partner told me they'd reread my novel. I was like, "...Wait...you can do that?" immediately followed by, "Why?"

They looked at me like I was being stupid, which was in fact the case so they weren't even wrong, and said, "Because I liked it."

And yeah, that doesn't seem like a revelation, but it kind of was. You can read a thing more than once. You can pick up on different parts on different readthroughs. It can hit differently depending on where in life you are. It can still be entertaining and different even if you have it fully memorized.

The words don't change, but the person reading them does, and it's the combination that makes a story actually happen. So what if someone reads it quickly? So what if it took you a long time? It will keep evolving without you for far longer than you could have spent on it, multiplied by everyone who reads it.

The devastating difference between how much time it takes to write something vs how fast people read it lol

#listen. when I say that I got ONE COMMENT that made the months of feverish writing more than worth it #I am not kidding #they read my fic in a few days which for its length isn't that long #like this thing is the length of The Shining for reference. not a thin piece. they flew through it #and they wrote and said that it was so important to them. they felt seen. they felt heard and represented #they felt *substantially cared about* through the proxy of a story about a broken android who stays broken but learns to live anyway #by a complete stranger who was just writing what he knew and what he wanted for his own reasons #and after that I've had almost no questions about if my writing is good or bad or too short or too long or too self-indulgent #it'll land where it lands. it'll find who needs it. it'll do what it set out to do. don't stress about the details.#so they read your work so so fast but you spent so much time on it? bestie they inhaled that shit like heavenly dessert you mean!!!#and that dessert is still on their plate! they have their cake and they ate it and the net amount of cake remained the same!#they can have another slice any time they want over and over and over! don't worry about the size of the infinite cake. it's enough!

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quasi-normalcy · 19 days ago

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I do think that the rise of fascism is directly tied to the decline of communal values.

So on the one hand, you have capitalism, which relentlessly tells you that everything is a competition, your value as a person can only come at someone else's expense, some people are just intrinsically better than others, and your position on this hierarchy is determined by what's in your bank account. On the other hand, individualist liberalism can only answer this with a sort of weak-tea "self-esteem" discourse, which at best amounts to "try your best! Do what you love! It doesn't matter!" and at worst amounts to shouting "Everyone's a winner!", a position that even children automatically view with cynicism.

Never is there any discussion that maybe value shouldn't be intrinsic to the self. Maybe your value is in how much you make life better for other people. Like, do you make a worthy and necessary contribution to society that helps other people? That adds to the net happiness of the world? Then congratulations, you should take pride in that. Someone who plants a bee garden for free is worth more than a hedge fund manager who only contributes misery to the world, even if he makes a lot of money doing it. Someone who uses their body to block, however temporarily, the export of weapons or the laying of pipeline is infinitely more valuable to society than the skilled engineer who makes his living designing them. Even simple activities like telling jokes or doing chores are worth infinitely more than developing advertising software that only makes people annoyed and parts them from their money!

Like the moral of that movie It's A Wonderful Life wasn't that the guy should go on living because he really tried his best and maybe he'll finally get to do what he wants with his life once he saves up his pennies; the moral was that he should go on living because he'd made life materially and spiritually better for his community. We need that energy!!

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janbutzel · 2 years ago

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Me at 2am

#hstj vx #my sleep schedule is fucked anyway #self - worth issues hitting again #haha ich fang wieder an Zuckungen zu haben gar kein Bock #was ist das hier #mir gehts doch gar net so scheiße #aaaaa

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uncanny-tranny · 1 year ago

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This is a tangentially-related rant, and not to be That Guy, but I honestly don't see anything wrong with this other than I wish we taught people how to ask for attention, and didn't judge people for doing so

I don't want to assume things for anybody, but something I've noticed is that people are afraid to ask for attention, for fear of being seen as "annoying," "desperate," "needy." But humans aren't an island. We need each other. It's scary that so many people have it in their heads that asking for attention is horrible, that so many of us were taught that asking for attention is awful.

The need for attention isn't bad at all. I think we need to go about teaching people how to do so.

The need for attention is so demonized, and it's really scary to me. While people don't do things (like self-harm) inherently for attention or inherently for a specific person's attention, it also wouldn't be like... a horrific crime that's as bad as stealing.

Like obviously the whole "they're just doing [x] for attention!" is completely asinine because humans are social creatures who need attention to some capacity, but also... in your narrative, does everybody do things specifically for your attention? When somebody does something drastic or shocking, is it not because they're desperate for help but just because they crave your attention specifically? Does the sun rise and set at your command as well?

#self reblog #self harm mention tw #sh tw #i would rather somebody annoy me because they need attention than to never see them again because they became so depressed #annoyance is temporary. life is fragile #learning to ask for attention/help is hard and it's okay to have trouble doing that #but i hope you don't judge yourself for having trouble y'know?#you aren't a net negative. you are worth the time and effort it takes to feel well #i feel like the commentor was saying something that felt poignant and something that opened a new conversation #so if the commentor sees this: hey thank you (genuine). i'm glad you felt the need to open up about this and it's not gone unthought of

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mostlysignssomeportents · 3 months ago

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Marshmallow Longtermism

The paperback edition of The Lost Cause, my nationally bestselling, hopeful solarpunk novel is out this week!

My latest column for Locus Magazine is "Marshmallow Longtermism"; it's a reflection on how conservatives self-mythologize as the standards-bearers for deferred gratification and making hard trade-offs, but are utterly lacking in these traits when it comes to climate change and inequality:

https://locusmag.com/2024/09/cory-doctorow-marshmallow-longtermism/

Conservatives often root our societal ills in a childish impatience, and cast themselves as wise adults who understand that "you can't get something for nothing." Think here of the memes about lazy kids who would rather spend on avocado toast and fancy third-wave coffee rather than paying off their student loans. In this framing, poverty is a consequence of immaturity. To be a functional adult is to be sober in all things: not only does a grownup limit their intoxicant intake to head off hangovers, they also go to the gym to prevent future health problems, they save their discretionary income to cover a down-payment and student loans.

This isn't asceticism, though: it's a mature decision to delay gratification. Avocado toast is a reward for a life well-lived: once you've paid off your mortgage and put your kid through college, then you can have that oat-milk latte. This is just "sound reasoning": every day you fail to pay off your student loan represents another day of compounding interest. Pay off the loan first, and you'll save many avo toasts' worth of interest and your net toast consumption can go way, way up.

Cleaving the world into the patient (the mature, the adult, the wise) and the impatient (the childish, the foolish, the feckless) does important political work. It transforms every societal ill into a personal failing: the prisoner in the dock who stole to survive can be recast as a deficient whose partying on study-nights led to their failure to achieve the grades needed for a merit scholarship, a first-class degree, and a high-paying job.

Dividing the human race into "the wise" and "the foolish" forms an ethical basis for hierarchy. If some of us are born (or raised) for wisdom, then naturally those people should be in charge. Moreover, putting the innately foolish in charge is a recipe for disaster. The political scientist Corey Robin identifies this as the unifying belief common to every kind of conservativism: that some are born to rule, others are born to be ruled over:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/08/01/set-healthy-boundaries/#healthy-populism

This is why conservatives are so affronted by affirmative action, whose premise is that the absence of minorities in the halls of power stems from systemic bias. For conservatives, the fact that people like themselves are running things is evidence of their own virtue and suitability for rule. In conservative canon, the act of shunting aside members of dominant groups to make space for members of disfavored minorities isn't justice, it's dangerous "virtue signaling" that puts the childish and unfit in positions of authority.

Again, this does important political work. If you are ideologically committed to deregulation, and then a giant, deregulated sea-freighter crashes into a bridge, you can avoid any discussion of re-regulating the industry by insisting that we are living in a corrupted age where the unfit are unjustly elevated to positions of authority. That bridge wasn't killed by deregulation – it's demise is the fault of the DEI hire who captained the ship:

https://www.axios.com/local/salt-lake-city/2024/03/26/baltimore-bridge-dei-utah-lawmaker-phil-lyman-misinformation

The idea of a society made up of the patient and wise and the impatient and foolish is as old as Aesop's "The Ant and the Grasshopper," but it acquired a sheen of scientific legitimacy in 1970, with Walter Mischel's legendary "Stanford Marshmallow Experiment":

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stanford_marshmallow_experiment

In this experiment, kids were left alone in a locked room with a single marshmallow, after being told that they would get two marshmallows in 15 minutes, but only if they waited until them to eat the marshmallow before them. Mischel followed these kids for decades, finding that the kids who delayed gratification and got that second marshmallow did better on every axis – educational attainment, employment, and income. Adult brain-scans of these subjects revealed structural differences between the patient and the impatient.

For many years, the Stanford Marshmallow experiment has been used to validate the cleavage of humanity in the patient and wise and impatient and foolish. Those brain scans were said to reveal the biological basis for thinking of humanity's innate rulers as a superior subspecies, hidden in plain sight, destined to rule.

Then came the "replication crisis," in which numerous bedrock psychological studies from the mid 20th century were re-run by scientists whose fresh vigor disproved and/or complicated the career-defining findings of the giants of behavioral "science." When researchers re-ran Mischel's tests, they discovered an important gloss to his findings. By questioning the kids who ate the marshmallows right away, rather than waiting to get two marshmallows, they discovered that these kids weren't impatient, they were rational.

The kids who ate the marshmallows were more likely to come from poorer households. These kids had repeatedly been disappointed by the adults in their lives, who routinely broke their promises to the kids. Sometimes, this was well-intentioned, as when an economically precarious parent promised a treat, only to come up short because of an unexpected bill. Sometimes, this was just callousness, as when teachers, social workers or other authority figures fobbed these kids off with promises they knew they couldn't keep.

The marshmallow-eating kids had rationally analyzed their previous experiences and were making a sound bet that a marshmallow on the plate now was worth more than a strange adult's promise of two marshmallows. The "patient" kids who waited for the second marshmallow weren't so much patient as they were trusting: they had grown up with parents who had the kind of financial cushion that let them follow through on their promises, and who had the kind of social power that convinced other adults – teachers, etc – to follow through on their promises to their kids.

Once you understand this, the lesson of the Marshmallow Experiment is inverted. The reason two marshmallow kids thrived is that they came from privileged backgrounds: their high grades were down to private tutors, not the choice to study rather than partying. Their plum jobs and high salaries came from university and family connections, not merit. Their brain differences were the result of a life free from the chronic, extreme stress that comes with poverty.

Post-replication crisis, the moral of the Stanford Marshmallow Experiment is that everyone experiences a mix of patience and impatience, but for the people born to privilege, the consequences of impatience are blunted and the rewards of patience are maximized.

Which explains a lot about how rich people actually behave. Take Charles Koch, who grew his father's coal empire a thousandfold by making long-term investments in automation. Koch is a vocal proponent of patience and long-term thinking, and is openly contemptuous of publicly traded companies because of the pressure from shareholders to give preference to short-term extraction over long-term planning. He's got a point.

Koch isn't just a fossil fuel baron, he's also a wildly successful ideologue. Koch is one of a handful of oligarchs who have transformed American politics by patiently investing in a kraken's worth of think tanks, universities, PACs, astroturf organizations, Star chambers and other world-girding tentacles. After decades of gerrymandering, voter suppression, court-packing and propagandizing, the American billionaire class has seized control of the US and its institutions. Patience pays!

But Koch's longtermism is highly selective. Arguably, Charles Koch bears more personal responsibility for delaying action on the climate emergency than any other person, alive or dead. Addressing greenhouse gasses is the most grasshopper-and-the-ant-ass crisis of all. Every day we delayed doing something about this foreseeable, well-understood climate debt added sky-high compounding interest. In failing to act, we saved billions – but we stuck our future selves with trillions in debt for which no bankruptcy procedure exists.

By convincing us not to invest in retooling for renewables in order to make his billions, Koch was committing the sin of premature avocado toast, times a billion. His inability to defer gratification – which he imposed on the rest of us – means that we are likely to lose much of world's coastal cities (including the state of Florida), and will have to find trillions to cope with wildfires, zoonotic plagues, and hundreds of millions of climate refugees.

Koch isn't a serene Buddha whose ability to surf over his impetuous attachments qualifies him to make decisions for the rest of us. Rather, he – like everyone else – is a flawed vessel whose blind spots are just as stubborn as ours. But unlike a person whose lack of foresight leads to drug addiction and petty crimes to support their habit, Koch's flaws don't just hurt a few people, they hurt our entire species and the only planet that can support it.

The selective marshmallow patience of the rich creates problems beyond climate debt. Koch and his fellow oligarchs are, first and foremost, supporters of oligarchy, an intrinsically destabilizing political arrangement that actually threatens their fortunes. Policies that favor the wealthy are always seeking an equilibrium between instability and inequality: a rich person can either submit to having their money taxed away to build hospitals, roads and schools, or they can invest in building high walls and paying guards to keep the rest of us from building guillotines on their lawns.

Rich people gobble that marshmallow like there's no tomorrow (literally). They always overestimate how much bang they'll get for their guard-labor buck, and underestimate how determined the poors will get after watching their children die of starvation and preventable diseases.

All of us benefit from some kind of cushion from our bad judgment, but not too much. The problem isn't that wealthy people get to make a few poor choices without suffering brutal consequences – it's that they hoard this benefit. Most of us are one missed student debt payment away from penalties and interest that add twenty years to our loan, while Charles Koch can set the planet on fire and continue to act as though he was born with the special judgment that means he knows what's best for us.

On SEPTEMBER 24th, I'll be speaking IN PERSON at the BOSTON PUBLIC LIBRARY!!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/04/deferred-gratification/#selective-foresight

Image: Mark S (modified) https://www.flickr.com/photos/markoz46/4864682934/

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

#pluralistic #locus magazine #guillotine watch #eugenics #climate emergency #inequality #replication crisis #marshmallow test #deferred gratification

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riaki · 1 year ago

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nice boys and sour hearts | satoru gojo x reader

wc: 4.6k cw: minor swearing, he refers to u as 'momma' once (its normal i promise) n i think thats about it post suguru defection, shoko typical smoking ; no established relationship b ur def more than friends

i didnt want this angst to be too intense so i made it super duper fluffy. hopes it tastes like strawberries to u cs it does in my head ; another one of those fics i whipped up to meet the weekend deadline b i’m actually proud of this one not proofread!

satoru hates arguing with you.

it bites at him; twists his heart from the inside out in such a gut-wrenching way that he can hardly stand seeing your nose wrinkle in frustration and your eyes narrow with impatience, let alone hear the words coming out of your mouth, dripping with venom and irritation directed at him. he's never been used to being on the receiving end.

it tastes sour; bitter on his tongue in a way he's never been accustomed to. his tastebuds only recognize the sweet taste of fruit syrup, powdered sugar, or warm chocolate as home; he never indulges in the bitter, like the black coffee the kid he took in seems to like so much. but he'll take the silly sour lemon drops with sweet cream in the center, only because they remind him of you. you, so sweet when you love but sour when you're annoyed, which happens to be now, in this instant.

of course, he'll tell himself he doesn't mind. that sweet and sour have always gone nicely together. like strawberry lemonade on hot summer afternoons when the both of you have had enough of being stuffed into a clammy hot classroom with your musclebrain teacher. sometimes its the three of you, maybe even the four of you if you get lucky with the pixie stick trade offering (a healthier alternative to a cigarette, you both agreed on). but nowadays, it was only ever the two of you. the bitter had chosen his own path, and tangy was locked up in the infirmary sun up to sun down.

but right now, you're upset with him. and he absolutely despises it— to him, it's abhorrent. a strong word, but it's only fitting. but he can't help it when your conversation lingers in his mind, spinning itself a web of self-doubt and hurt and anger as he slips his gym shoes off and redresses himself by the school lockers, running a hand through his hair with a forced, annoyed exhale.

it was nothing big, really. or at least, that's what he thinks. you'd been in the gym after school, watching as he messed around with the basketball, seeing how long he could go dribbling by himself with a bump of his knee there, pushing it to the floor with his hand and watching it bounce back up with mild interest. he had no one to play with, but at least the ball would come back up no matter how much he pushed it down.

it was small. barely worth fussing over.

he had already been irritated. it was hot out, because summer was coming around. sweat beaded on his neck and rolled down his chest, seeping into his shirt as he wiped his forehead and made another shoot at the hoop, landing back on his feet with a soft thud as the basketball rattled around the rusted metal ring and fell through the net for the nth time that afternoon.

a hum of approval comes from your throat, followed by a loud whistle of contentment from him as he watches the ball bounce on the floor. he hikes his sunglasses up his forehead, bringing an arm up and wiping away the sweat on his cheek with his sleeve as he turns to look at you.

"that was pretty good, yeah? i think i deserve a celebratory smooch. lay some sugar on me, momma'." he laughs, loud and arrogant. you just give him a pointed look at that, but he ignores it as a sign for something wrong and only acknowledges it as your dramatic endearment. like speeding up at the sight of a yellow light in hopes that you'll make it instead of slowing down at the warning.

his shoes made squeaking sounds on the gym floor as he made his way over to you, swiping his shades off his face and sliding them onto your forehead, nestling in your hair as he grabbed a rag from the bench and wiped the sweat from his jaw. you have his uniform jacket on your lap, the yellow button glinting in the dying sunlight filtering in through the windows, reflecting off indiscernible flecks of dust in the air.

you had watched him with quiet contentment, observing the languid way he moved, graceful like a dancer moving in water. but then, you seemed to remember something; his lips pressed into a thin line, tilted to one side in anticipation. it made you hesitate— he always knew when you were about to speak before you even opened your mouth. he had come to notice, and appreciate, little things about you like that.

"were you smoking with shoko?" you had asked him. he tilted his head, eyebrow cocked up as he made a face. "no, i wasn't. why d'ya ask?" he huffed, watching from the corner of his eye with mild disinterest as the basketball, still rolling from his previous goal, bumped into the wall. cocky as ever.

(he wouldn't even look you in the eye when you were being dead serious.)

you reach a hand into his jacket, fishing around for something in his pocket; that gets his attention. who knows what trinkets and candy wrappers he has in there? and he'd hate for you to send him to his yearly checkup early again; the nurses always try to coddle him, and he has half a mind to charge for battery. nevertheless, he almost mistakes what you pull out for a lollipop stick. but it's not— it's a cigarette; a white papery hit of cancer with a dead cherry. certainly not a wise idea to keep that in his pocket among the other very flammable wax wrappers and the occasional flower petal, but who were you to judge? you, who's lips pucker like they've just tasted lemon juice when he eyes the unlit cigarette, utterly unamused.

he knows that you know it's his; the subtle glistening of pink around the end points to the gloss on his lips; he can practically taste it on his tongue. he wonders if you'd put the cigarette to your mouth too if you could have a sample of his lipgloss; then again, you could always just ask for a lip-to-lip taste, and he'd indulge you without a second thought.

you twist the cigarette butt between your fingers so that he can see the remnants of faint strawberry pink on the edges. he just rolls his eyes with a loud huff, leaning his weight back on his heels and shoving his hands in his pant pockets.

"yeesh. you're such a goody two shoes, y'know? how come shoko's allowed to smoke 'n i'm not?" he drawls, an arrogant lilt to his voice as he sticks his lower lip out. you can see a matte spot where the gloss had been transferred to the cigarette paper. you just sigh exasperatedly (he feels like a kid when you do that) and lean forward, resting your elbows on your knees. his jacket bunches up in your lap.

you tap the cigarette to his chest a few times; it makes a soft thumping sound against the fabric, and for a moment he's grateful of the noise; it sounds just like the way his heartbeat picks up with each touch, but you don't hear it. he wonders if you ever will. maybe one day, when there isn't so much distance between you and he has the opportunity to tuck your head to his chest, right over his heart.

"it's not that i care about the lung damage, idiot. why were you smoking?" you asked, voice softening. and he absolutely hates when you do that, because it always pulls on his heartstrings and brings a flush to his face, the way you treat him. he thought that if you did it enough, he'd be sent to the doctor for heart palpitations instead of a sweet tooth.

he doesn't answer you at that. how could he tell you, when he knew all that'd result from it was a thorn in his side? you, being the rose. so beautiful but awfully prickly and unfairly sour like a lemondrop with a sweet inside. then again, he'd much rather have your interrogating care than lose you, like what had happened with the reason he was trying out smoking in the first place.

then, it happened— your voice went unbearably soft, like puffy white covers and featherlight pillows with silk covers on a saturday morning, looking out the window to see pink tulips against a cloudy blue sky as the sun streamed in. it almost made him want to clutch your hand over his chest and see if you could feel the way he was reacting. no doubt, it was filled with such patient tenderness; all-encompassing sweetness it made him want to cry. so he coughed to cover it up, averting his gaze and bringing one hand to his face to absentmindedly smooth down the strands of damp white hair hanging over his eyes.

"thinkin' about suguru again, are you?" you asked gently, tucking the cigarette back into your pocket—yours, not his—and reaching out to take his hand.

his lips parted ever so slightly, gaping like a goldfish. he knew he looked silly, and he should've been okay with that— because being vulnerable with you, out of everyone he ever knew (with maybe the exception of one) was easier than breathing; came more naturally to him than his gravitation to a challenge. the same could be said for sweets.

(maybe he'd have to re-evaluate his proclaimed taste, then. since you were more sour than sweet.)

but this time, he wasn't okay with it. it had been hard to talk about what had happened with suguru one year ago since— it formed a nasty lump in his throat, bitter like black coffee and the wrong mix of herbs. it made him feel weak. reminding him of his shortcomings, which, in his mind, shouldn't even exist in the first place. but you never had a problem ripping his problems from the shielded cavity in his gut, bringing them under the operator's light to dissect and solve like a surgeon. forget about forcing him to the doctor's— at this point, you should be the one in the white coat, not shoko. he thinks about what you'd look like with blue gloves on your delicate fingers for a moment too long.

"what's it to you?" he snaps back after what feels like three years of his life. his fingers tighten around yours for a moment before he pulls his hand away abruptly.

the frown that lingered on your face from then on had been burned into his memory.

and, well, that was his mistake. it spiraled from there— because he knew what it was to you, and he hated that. hated that you could see straight through him like a cloud blue stained glass window; without rose colored lenses like the ones he always wore (the ones he rocked, he thinks).

a crack of thunder overhead jolts him from his thoughts; he couldn't even get in there to dust the spiderwebs away before being jerked back into reality. he clicks his tongue in disappointment, watching as the skies pry themselves open and rain begin to fall in the way it only did over heavy summer showers. he wishes the sky would stop its weeping, but even the strongest has his limitations.

but it doesn't matter. he has one of those cheap plastic umbrellas he'd bought from a convenience store one day in a late march many moons ago, during the brightest blue spring of his life. and so, he didn't understand why he was lingering at the door, swinging the umbrella around his fingers by the hook on the handle, watching as the rain fell with increased fervor. there was no plastic button to keep the folds tied up, so it floundered around with each swing like a tulip bent by monsoon winds. maybe on the coast of some faraway land with windmills and fields of flowers. he wonders if he'll ever get to see the world with you someday— a fleeting thought that crumbles instantly when he conjures your pretty face in his vision, clear yet distorted like a reflection on a glazed pond, rippling water from the dragonflies that skipped over the surface.

you were definitely still angry with him, because you hadn't showed— normally, you'd walk home together. sometimes with shoko, if she didn't leave early. angry words echo in his mind, the image of your downturned lips swimming in his bright vision as he watches the rain streak down the window panes by the lockers. there's a fog settling over the grass outside that's sure to leave dew after the storm. he wonders when that'll be.

"why can't you ever take me seriously? can't you see i'm worried about you?"

"of course i can. but i don't need your damn concern!”

...

he'd been sorely mistaken, that was for sure. loosing his cool and snapping at you wasn't exactly something he took pleasure in, either way. he leans back on his heels, tapping his foot impatiently as he holds the umbrella like a cane against the floor. infinity could probably do away with the rain. another reason as to why he's not even sure why he's waiting here, or why he's holding an umbrella. perhaps to keep in case he has to offer it to some poor, shivering and cowering young maiden lost beneath the shading of a bus stop behind a curtain of rain droplets, with a charming grin and a wink.

maybe.

a shuffle behind him catches his ear; he turns his head, an unamused expression on his face as his eyes drift over the empty room to land on you. the shadows beneath your eyes are prominent, and your hair is unkempt. there are sleep lines on your face; you probably fell asleep in a classroom somewhere, which is why you delayed.

it was evident you weren't expecting to see him, though— with the way your eyes widened a little before they dropped again, nose bridge wrinkling slightly as if you'd caught the scent of something unpleasant. your eyes left his, and he felt a little disappointed as he watched them wander toward the window, where the current downpour was prominent. he didn't like the way it made his chest pang when your attention was anywhere but him, so he raised his hand lazily, tilting his head to catch your attention that he so clearly craved.

"yo. got an umbrella?" he calls, tapping the tip of his budget cane on the floor. the thud is the only sound for a while as your gaze wanders back over to him; reluctant.

"no, i don't. i didn't expect it to rain so hard today." you responded quietly, stepping over to him with a small sigh. almost a little resigned, he thinks. he can't be sure, though. he never is with you. doesn't know whether to expect his candy to be sour in the center or the other way around; but maybe he likes a bit of uncertainty every once in a while. (not with you, though. if it means arguing? never with you.)

his sunglasses are hooked around the collar of your shirt. he doesn't know why it takes him so long to realize, but when he does, he has to clear his throat in an effort to hide the heat on his face and do away with the blush. "here. take mine. i don't need it," he says curtly, offering his umbrella to you. he wants to snatch the shades from your shirt, but he doesn't want anything to go wrong, so he just eyes them warily, careful not to let his gaze slip past into anything you'd be pissed at him for.

you eye him, eyes narrowed as you raise an eyebrow, but you don't protest. your fingers brush against his for a brief moment when you take it, shaking it a little before opening the door and stepping outside, opening it up. it looks like a little clear plastic mushroom cap over your head; you're short enough to constitute as the stalk in his eyes. it's a little funny, but he has to stifle the laugh bubbling on his tongue lest you think he's making a mock of you.

he follows after you, slipping past to stand at your side with his hands in his pockets. you can't help but feel a little curious despite your prolonged anger (you like holding grudges, he knows), so you sneak a glance upward to satiate your wonder. you don't expect him to look as breathtaking as he does.

the clouds are light overhead; they're not a heavy blanket of gray anymore, and a small strip of light manages to push through, shining on satoru's pale white hair. you can make out the edge of his undercut against his neck when the wind picks up a little, the color of fluffy white clouds on a lavender sunset with the sway of yellow flowers beneath an expanse of a bright sky. there's a little cat hair on the collar of his jacket; you realize with a faint flush that it must've been from when you were holding his jacket for him in the gym. somehow, the cat you have at home found its way to satoru. you hope your pet has become a matchmaking fortune teller, for the sake of your happiness.

what catches your eye the most, though, isn't the cat hair on his dark jacket or the faraway look in his misty blue eyes; it's the outline of rain water around him, a product of his infinity, you realize. he's dry underneath the downpour, and it never ceases to amaze you. it's like there's a soft glowing halo against the backdrop of tangled wires, gray walls and pale green bushes— he looks like an angel boy, school bag hooked and hanging over one shoulder.

eventually, you manage to peel your gaze away, and he notices— looks down at you, pressing his lips together and running his tongue over them. he can taste strawberry gloss.

wordlessly, you start walking. and he follows suit, rain bouncing off of him; you catch yourself sneaking glances from under the roof of your clear umbrella between raindrops that slide down the clear plastic. sometime during the walk home, he had gone off and gotten himself a drink from a nearby vending machine— the red can catches your eye, and your fingers curl around the rubber handle of the lent umbrella as you watch him drink; the bob of his adam's apple before he crushes the can up and tosses it into a nearby bush, causing a brief scattering of leaves and a downpour of collecting droplets onto the pavement.

despite the rain, the weeds between the cracks in the sidewalk still stay strong; they have deep roots. much like the way you never fail to scowl at him for littering. he catches it— of course he does. he's been praying for a sign you're not still so hopelessly angry with him that you can't even bring yourself to have a civil walk in the summer rain together. after the scowl, though, comes the smile— the one that always makes him melt in his shoes, much like the sunshine after the rain.

and there it is at last, he thinks. the hard sour coating melts away on his tongue, draining the taste of lemon to reveal a sweet, genuine center. all it takes is time. your lips curve up, and you duck your head, hiding the small bemused laugh that leaves you breathless.

"what are you laughin' at?" he huffs, glaring down at you. but there's no malice behind it— if only you could feel the wave of relief that's washed over him, a crest of white foam that leaves behind still waters reflected in the pools of sapphire in his eyes. nothing like the hit of numbing nicotine he'd shared in the shade of an alleyway with shoko earlier that day— away from the sun; away from you. hidden from both. or maybe they were the same— to him, he couldn't differentiate.

"i'm not laughing!" you protested weakly, immediately wiping the grin from your lips, and he regrets speaking up. "just.. i dunno."

you walk in silence for a little longer, content to listen to the rain lighten up overhead. satoru kicks a plastic onigiri wrapper out of the way, splashing up a puddle as a frown dampens his face when the wrapping only clings to his shoes. he's fine with getting a little grumpy if it means seeing you smile again. and even better, you laugh again— so sweet, like the chiming of bells in the wind's melody.

"please don't do that again." your voice sounds so very small when he hears it again, and he looks down at you from beneath long white lashes, the corner of his lips quirked up. the shape of them is almost cat-like, you think. he doesn't even know what you're talking about— a vague idea, at best— but he won't do it. not if it means hearing you sound so pathetically... sad. he doesn't like it. it's far too bitter for his taste. let the black betta you both used to know indulge in dark coffee and bitter cologne— satoru likes things sweet, like the cream surrounded by tea leaf matcha in the center of his mochi and fluttering feeling he gets when you run your hands through his hair, fluffing it up to your heart's content.

(as long as your heart is happy, his is, too.)

"i won't. happy now?" he sticks his tongue out, making a face. but you both know he means it— he hates breaking his promises to you. you smile when you look up at him again with a small nod, and he feels his knees wobble a little. he just hopes you don't notice. "sorry for lying. i just.. don't like it when you're mad at me. and you look at me like that," he mumbles under his breath, bunching up the fabric of his pants between his fingers. then, after a moment, "geez, you're so dramatic. quit carin' so much." he really hopes you don't stop, and it makes him feel like the world's biggest hypocrite. the strongest, but so weak for you.

"sorry, can't. the day you stop crushing your soda cans and littering is the day i'll stop caring, 'cus that won't be my satoru anymore." you tease. and he laughs, throwing his head back so you don't see the red that spreads across his cheeks, dusting his skin like powdered sugar on top of a strawberry crepe. he always wants to be your satoru, so he figures he'll keep littering. a few money fines here and there mean nothing to his undentable wallet, or the erratic beating of his heart, trapped against his ribcage in a feathery blooming of flowers he only gets from you and your pretty smile underneath the layer of lemony sourness.

you walk along the road for a little while longer. the rain has lightened, but it's still going— incessant, dripping from the leaves of trees and the knotted black wires overhead. he still has his infinity up, which means he can't pet the cat the two of you spot on your way back, but he's perfectly content to watch you do it. you scratch its chin, smiling at the way it purrs and nuzzles into your hand, and he wonders if he'd do the same if he was in its position.

he's lost in thought when you speak to him again, shoes splashing against murky puddles in the backdrop of a never-sleeping city; tokyo's bright skyline always makes your eyes go round with wonder. you say something, and he chuckles, warm and velvety. and then you realize what's been off with him this whole time— he doesn't have his shades on.

you slip them off the collar of your shirt, smoothing down the fabric before you reach over and attempt to nudge his arm. you don't think it'll work, because he still has his infinity up— and your sleeves are already getting spattered by rain that leaves darkened wet spots on the cotton. but to your amazement, your fingers make contact with his sleeve, and you watch in wonder as the rain actually falls— soaks into that little patch of wet fabric that you're able to feel on his arm. that he's turned his infinity off in that one spot so you could touch him. you spare a glance up at him, only to find his head angled away from you. you might be hallucinating, but the tips of his ears seem red.

you don't linger on it before you're tugging on his shirt with a frown, getting him to look down at you as you unfold his glasses and offer them over to him. he takes them quickly, and you don't miss the way the rain stops falling onto his arm again, back to bouncing off the invisible shield that protects him from everything (but you, it seems). he slips his dark shades back over his eyes, obscuring oceans of pure blue that seem like they've trickled in from the purest snowcaps on the distant mountains dotted with old red tori gates and shrines with scrapped paint. but you can't stifle the smile that spreads across your lips this time— giddy and fresh and filled with youth, blossoming like sakura petals in a spring that seems so far away yet so close with his presence by your side.

you don't say anything for a while. you're content to watch the rain wash down the pavement and into the gutters, past cute little coffee shops and parks with ponds as the droplets from the sky scatter the water in part of a never-ending cycle; watering the surface of the earth and bringing life that would soon spring up as shroomcaps and fresh dew on the clean cut green grass. you wonder what satoru sees through his lenses— though, you already know. you've worn them plenty of times before, when he insists on having your perfume cling to the frame for long missions he's sent on alone, when he can't have you hold his jacket, or his hand, or scold him for sneaking a smoke when you're not watching. that, and the extra lemondrops he keeps in his pocket; gifts from you that he's fought hard for.

you're more prepared to not feel any interference of his infinity this time when you reach over, and this time you don't go for his sleeve—yanking him close to you by his hand and forcing him beneath your umbrella. you feel the way he freezes up for a moment, but his fingers fill in the gaps between your own like its the most natural thing in the world, palms pressed together in a little breathless hug that leaves no room for the humid air.

"don't waste your infinity on the rain, dumbass. you'll fry what little is left of your brain." you scold him, and he just grumbles and scoffs angrily under his breath, cursing you as he hunches over and ducks his head to fit under the umbrella to negate his height. his hair brushes against the plastic roof of the umbrella, and his lanky limbs are still awkwardly sticking out, but his fingers tighten around yours and his thumb rubs over your knuckles, still a little damp from your earlier encounter with the rain, and you can't help but smile a smile bright enough to wash away every last bit of cloud in the sky. his personal sunshine.

even though he still prefers sweet things, satoru's come to like the taste of lemondrops. sweet and sour go well together, after all. just like you and him.

its okay if it doesnt taste like anything to u as long as u enjoyed it :) thanks for reading !! the black betta in question is suguru btw my (riaki) stuff. don't repost and/or plagiarize !

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