#no I will not tell you who it is but if you guess correctly you will get one million billion dollars because this is so vague

[edamameimei]

Perhaps, Even This —chapter 03

A year ago, you were known as your friend group’s “sunshine.” You were able to light up a whole room with your energy and everyone could rely on you for your quick wit and easy humor. You lived life simply one day at a time. However, seemingly out of nowhere, that all changes. Now a Junior in university, you find it extremely difficult to do all the things you used to do. Especially being the Resident Assistant for the Geffen Dorms. New residents begin to move in and one them is a girl you could only describe as “radiant." Her name is Megan Skiendiel, and at first, you don’t welcome the positivity but as you two continue to meet and hang out, you find yourself becoming the person you used to be. Will you be able to be that person you were a year ago? Or will everything just stay the same?

03. the duet

half written (wc: 1114)

You stand outside the karaoke bar, anxiously. You’re not really sure how everyone convinced you to do this, but you can’t help but feel a little relieved. For once, you got out of the dorms but at what cost? The music is too loud, your friends are screaming over each other, to you, it all just seems a bit overwhelming. You scoff. A year ago, you would have thrived in that environment– actually, a year ago you would have suggested to go. It would have been your idea. But things change, and you’re still trying to figure out if it was for the best. You take a hit from your cigarette, letting the smoke fill your lungs. You exhale, looking around at the city lights. You’re about to put the cigarette out but suddenly the door behind you opens and you turn to see who walked outside as well.

Your breath catches in your throat. It was one of your residents. If you remember correctly, her name is Megan and she is giving you a smile that is brighter than anything you’ve ever seen before. You can’t help but notice her dimples are shaped like whiskers. You smile to yourself without even realizing, the warmth of her presence taking effect on you. You quickly drop your cigarette to the ground, stomping it out. You look up, standing sheepishly. 

“I’m sorry. I saw you out here and I just wanted to say hi.” She giggles and your cheeks heat up at the sound. For some reason, it causes something in the pit of your stomach to stir and it annoys you. “Megan, right?” You manage to say. She smiles wider and nods. You begin to feel even more anxious than before, not really knowing what to say next. You’re about to say something but she beats you to it. “Why are you standing out here?” You shrug, chuckling nervously. 

“Needed some quiet time, I guess…” Megan nods. She looks at you, her eyebrows furrowing as she speaks softly, “If you wanna be alone, I can go back inside! I’m sorry if I was bothering you…” Her words cause your heart to beat faster and you can’t seem to turn her away. She sounds genuinely concerned, as if she were the reason why you were standing outside in the first place. You sigh and shake your head. 

“No, it’s good company…” You reply and she beams at your words, her eyes brown eyes twinkling.

“Really?” 

“I mean. Yeah.” She hums, content with your response. Everything in you is telling you that you should leave. To push her aside and pretend your interaction never even happened. But you can’t. Your heart tells you to stay.

And fuck it, you haven’t really listened to your heart in a while. 

“So, do you always waltz up to strangers and strike up a conversation?” She shakes her head. 

“You looked lonely. I wanted to keep you company,” she singsongs and you can’t help the smile that appears on your face. “I’m not lonely,” you scoff and she bumps into you playfully. Another smile tugs at your lips and you have to bite them before it can show. 

“Well duh, because I’m here now.” You look down at her again and she’s looking at you with that same smile, the one that shows her whiskered dimples and you find yourself smiling at her with the same enthusiasm. You curse yourself for letting your guard down so easily for a girl, let alone your resident of all people. You put your hands in your pocket and look back at her, trying to stay nonchalant. You two begin to talk, the same playful tone stays. She tells, unprompted, of how long it took for all her friends to get ready. She tells you how two of your other residents, Lara and Yoonchae, went to high school with her. She talks about how Manon and Dani made fun of her driving as if you knew these people like she did. She talks about everything and you listen as if you’ve heard about this before, as if you listened to her stories all too well already. You listen to her as if you knew her from another life. 

The urge to pull out your film camera comes back with a familiarity you haven’t felt in months. You subconsciously reach for it, as if it would appear. But you are reminded that you don’t bring it with you everywhere anymore.

You don’t know how long you’ve been talking but the little world you found yourself in with Megan is suddenly interrupted by the door opening behind you two. You turn to see Lara, your resident, and two others girls whom you do not know but can only assume it’s the Dani and Manon the ginger girl was telling you about. Lara looks at you with a slight smirk on her face and it causes you to look away, your cheeks becoming red. The blonde one walks up to Megan, her expression written with amusement. 

“Dude! We’ve been looking for you everywhere!” She wraps her arm around Megan’s shoulders and rolls her eyes. She looks at you and extends her hand. “I’m Daniela.” You nod, reaching out to shake her hand. The gesture was a little awkward but you try not to read into it too much. Daniela lets go of your hand and looks back at Megan, patting her shoulder. “Come on! We have to show everyone what we learned from Dream Academy.” 

The other girl, who you assume is Manon, snorts at Daniela���s comment. “I actually don’t even know what I learned from Dream Academy…” Lara laughs loudly as Daniela rolls her eyes once again, pulling Megan along with her towards the entrance of the bar. Lara turns towards you and smiles softly. She says, “sorry for… All that.” You shake your head. 

“I didn’t mind, she’s… cool,” Lara is about to say something in response but Megan runs back up to you, managing to get out of Daniela’s grasp. She looks at you with a silly determined look in her eyes. “Come inside with us, you owe me a duet.” You quirk an eyebrow at her.

“I owe you one?”

“Yeah, I decided it just now.” She beams at you with that same twinkle in her eyes and you shake your head in amusement. You look away, a small smile playing at your lips. You watch as Daniela shakes her head and grabs the ginger’s hand, pulling her back inside the karaoke bar, but before she’s out of your sight she waves at you and you wave back.

A duet? That girl is insane.

a/n: reader is a sucker for pretty girls and i get it. anyway. enjoy the update, hope you had fun reading <3

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[hanibalistic]

I WISH YOU WERE NICER TO ME | BANG CHAN.

genre | minor fluff and angst / platonic au

synopsis | a con man and a computer addict make quite the freelance dream team.

word count | 6.1k+

warning | violence, drink spiking, smoking, alcohol / minor sexual themes, reader is mentioned to have small breasts / no attraction age gap (20!reader & 38!chan) / use of the nickname 'sweetheart' / mentions of dementia, criminal activities

note | chan's character seems tall because the oc version is 182cm. i will likely delete this here once i get the commission art back and switch the names out.

Chan waited until the nursing home was out of earshot to release your wrist. 

He yanked you forward and spun you around to face him. 

His eyes were red, like an uncured hangover, but a red eye has so many causes that you'd rather not narrow it so quickly. For all you knew, he could have been crying, if that was possible for a man like him.

You glanced at his accusing finger before returning your attention to his face. His hair was disheveled, and his face was bare, one less common than the other. He wore a suit, although the buttons barely clasped correctly, and his tie was loose.

He was unprepared enough for you to deduce that the phone call you asked the receptionist at the nursing home to give him was his alarm, and he woke up somewhere other than his home.

He rushed over. He must love his mother.

You knew he did. That's why you paid her a visit at the nursing home. You were curious about truths that would prove him a safe enough partner in crime, and the nursing home hadn't been a good sign when you first found out about it.

A man who cares so much about his mother wouldn't dump her in a nursing home, but a man who doesn't care wouldn't put her in one of the nation's most expensive senior care facilities either. 

There must be a bridge, or many bridges burned somewhere that required this level of security.

You needed to know what bridges they were. His mother wouldn't be the ideal candidate to seek that information from, considering her dementia. Still, you figured you could make a point showing up at a place he never told anyone about.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked, his words barely punching through his gritted teeth and clenched jaw. 

"To visit your mom," you replied. "We were having a decent conversation until you barged in and demanded that I leave."

"No–no. No." He closed his eyes and brought his clenched fist to them. His chest heaved up and down as he took a deep, readying breath, and then he relaxed and turned back to you. He licked his bottom lip to rid his mouth of dryness. When his tongue retreated inside, it pulled his lips into a smirk. "I meant what are you doing here?"

"Why did you put your mom here?" you asked. "Why didn't you hire a caretaker and keep her at home?"

His lip twitched. "You can't figure that out on your own?"

"I can make a deduction, but until you tell me the truth, it will remain an educated guess," you said. "Since you are already here, I figured you'd be a good samaritan and tell me the truth."

"How does that information help you?" Chan asked. "You can't possibly use that to screw me over."

"I know where your mom lives. What do you think?"

"You little shit–" he grabbed your shirt collar and yanked you toward him, breathing down your face–"I swear to God if you try anything."

You stared at him. 

He wondered if your indifference to violence was a byproduct of abuse. But he didn't think you've ever looked at him or anything else any other way. Those bland eyes could cross the galaxy and crash onto Earth like a meteorite without making the news. So he thought you must be some version of a sociopath to never feel or express anything.

It wasn't enjoyable to meet someone he couldn't easily read for once, and it wasn't so much an ego destruction but rather discomfort.

Being able to read the room and the mood was what kept him alive. You wouldn't kill him yourself, but you could get other people to do it. A proxy, a hand, a conscience. That's what he was to you, too. Someone to do something.

"If you don't give me a reason to, I won't," you said. "Now, let me go before I scream assault."

Looking around the area, nobody was walking around at this time, but houses were everywhere inside this gated community. If you scream loud enough, some big-headed vice president might come running to your rescue.

He dropped you and wiped his hand on his pants. You pushed your glasses and adjusted them further by scrunching your nose, watching quietly as he struggled with his thoughts.

"What do you want?" he asked.

The nature of his job, or whatever businesses he dips his full weight in, forced him to impermanence.

He switches his phone number periodically, at unpredictable times, and always has more than three numbers under his belt. 

You could access the contacts and messages in the phones he currently owns but not the disabled numbers, so you were here to ask about that.

"Jesus, that's it?" 

He rubbed his eyes and stepped aside to lean his weight against the brick wall next to you. Reaching into his blazer, he pulled out a cigarette pack and crumbled it up after taking the last one out. He dumped it on the floor, and you watched it roll off the slope.

Your nose itched when he blew the first buff. You figured he was a chain smoker. He always smelt like a gross mix of smoke and perfume. 

Through the smoke and squinted eyes, you found his exhausted features. "I didn't think you smoked cigarettes."

He chuckled through his nose. "This will blow your mind. I drink, too."

"An alcoholic?"

"Not enough."

"Then who cares." You shrugged. "I thought you would be more of a cigar person."

"They're the same. One just has a better packaging and reputation," he said. "But yes, I am more of a cigar person."

"I'm learning a lot today."

"Yeah, well." He cleared his throat. "I don't usually talk to my clients this much. Most of them don't show up at my mother's nursing home."

"Most of them think you're an orphan," you pointed out. "You do a good job fabricating your past, but I suppose it'll be a hassle to get a gated community to welcome an outsider without credible wealth and even harder to get a multinational bank to cover your tracks."

He furrowed his brows. "You looked into my bank accounts?" 

"Just the statements."

"That's basically everything," he said.

"Hmm." Your hum was a disagreement, and you tilted your head. "Not really.”

You knew he manages four bank accounts, two of them being savings accounts with a questionable difference in amount, one of them being a regular checking account, and the last one was an account dedicated to his mother's medicine and life expenses.

He has two credit cards and uses them regularly—based on deals and percentages. Other transactions are done through bills to leave no records.

"That's more than the statements!" he exclaimed.

You hummed again; this time, it was in thoughts, and then you nodded. "I suppose."

He took a drag of the cigarette and sighed. 

He knew a minor scope of your capabilities based on the jobs you've paid him to do previously. Intel collection and anonymity were your specialty. It didn't make much difference that you decided to meet him in public, considering he has no records of what you have done nor the evidence to prove it.

It didn't make much sense for you to have the kind of money you do, but he was a man of no questions. He never asked about the businesses you dabble in or how you do what you do. As long as the envelope is thick, frankly, you could be a mass murderer, and he wouldn't care.

This discovery of you loitering around his financial secrets was only a decent surprise. You did it all on your own, too.

"You didn't need to come all the way here to find out who I worked with," he said. "You could have just asked me."

"I wasn't here only for you. I also came here to meet your mother," you said after nudging your head toward the nursing home. Ignoring his eye roll, you returned to the subject at hand. "Anyway, I didn't think you'll give away information just like that."

"You're right. I will lie to you," he said. "But there is always some truth in a lie. That's what makes them credible enough to be believed in. The rest is up for you to figure out."

You raised your brows at the mention of unnecessary hoops you must go through for some basic information. It wasn't as if you could do anything with them. Knowing whoever he ended on bad terms with wouldn't benefit you now, considering you have no alternative to his role in your operations.

You only wanted to know to take precautions or build a silent network. Whatever was suitable for your cause.

"You can give it to me straight," you suggested. "Cut to the chase."

"I can't think of one person working in this business who would do that." He laughed before peering at you. "Even you lie."

"I try not to," you said, not to defend yourself but to tell the truth.

"You should start getting comfortable with it," he said.

"I'll try my best."

"Mmhm." Pushing himself off the wall, he dropped the cigarette on the floor and stepped on it, cutting off its air as smoke released from his mouth.

You looked up at him once he neared, and you watched each other in a moment of dull silence before he reached a hand up to place it on your head. 

He didn't move, awkwardly keeping his hand in place as his body reminded him that he never knew how to be gentle with someone else, and it took over the wrongful instinct.

"You do whatever you have to do," he said. "As will I."

You blinked, glanced down in thoughts, then back up at him. Your movements were precise and observable, sometimes resembling a robot. 

Chan never knew people's facial features could move this way. It was mildly eerie, with the middle of the scale being a generosity granted thanks to your pretty face and young age. If you had been ugly and old, you would just be eerie.

"I already do whatever I have to," you said.

He shifted his weight and tried to feel for the cigarette under his feet. 

"That's great, sweetheart."

He shouldn't have thrown the cigarette away. 

You have never seen Chan in a simple shirt and sweatpants before. 

The existence of a dull attire propelled you to believe that he had a life outside of being a con man, which he must have, but you suspected that it was a seventy-dollar t-shirt and not an off-brand top.

You asked him to dress normally for today’s meeting, and he met the goal a little too perfectly. Even the foundation and minor contour were gone from his face, and his lips were more chapped than usual. 

"You look like you can be my neighbor," you commented.

“You live in a hellhole. Your apartment is four hundred square feet,” he said. “I would never.”

"You used to live in an apartment of that size," you said. "Back when you were still a child."

He rolled his eyes. "What else do you know about me?" 

"Nothing more than what I told you last time," you said. "Your mother mentioned an apartment estate. I assumed that was where you grew up."

He ignored you, but you were correct. He did grow up in a hellhole. The roof leaked whenever it stormed, the fuse sometimes blew if they turned on two electrical appliances simultaneously, and the walls were thin. 

At least the sex noises were arousing for him as a teenage boy, but the marital arguments and children screaming were the worst.

The environment was made somewhere tolerable by his mother being there. He loves her even though she has been callous, stressed, and overworked since his father’s dramatic departure. 

Chan never understood why his father had to be so dramatic about his romantic feelings. That man should have lied about falling out of love and cheating instead of actively pursuing a more desired life. 

"What are we doing here?" he asked.

"I have a job offer," you replied curtly before stopping him by tapping his arm.

A cold breeze brushed over his skin when you opened the locker. Several bags of frozen food landed in the shopping cart under his hands. He looked down and grimaced. 

The variety of your meal choices was mind-boggling—orange chicken, sweet and sour chicken, teriyaki chicken, and General Tso chicken. The whole coop. The last time he was in your apartment, he saw unfinished cup noodles and opened bags of cream cakes that should be refrigerated if not consumed.

You were intellectually well put together, but good heavens, you live like a toddler spoiled by a disastrous uncle.

"This isn't healthy," he commented as he began pushing the cart to follow you.

"I know," you said. 

"You have money. Why don't you order takeout from restaurants?" 

You pursed your lips in thought.

It was convenient, you liked to think. They were effort with a reasonable portion and were easy to consume with something else because they take up such little space. A full meal wouldn’t fit on your desk, and they’d require more attention to eat, so you would miss out on what was happening on the screen.

You were also making up for eighteen years worth of a strict diet your controlling mother imposed on you. It has been two years since you were free from the horrendously stale meals, and you did it by forcing your parents to cut contact by disappearing.

They never looked for you. Last time you checked, they had a newborn child.

Theoretically, you feared for that replacement, but you have never feared for anyone but yourself. You weren't sure if you could.

"I wonder why," you replied with a solemn tap to your chin, mimicking a thinking motion without forcing your face to move an inch. You then pointed down the aisle. "Hey, you might want to close your eyes when we get to the chips section."

Chan scoffed as he leaned his forearms against the cart handle. "Fine, don't tell me."

"I wasn't planning to." 

He rolled his eyes. "What is the job?" 

"A dirty cop," you said, reaching an arm up for a bag of chips on the top shelf. "Or, more accurately, his son."

"You don't mean to ask me to make conversations with a cop, do you?" He whistled softly as he went over your head to grab it for you. He grimaced at the packaging but threw it in the cart anyway. "Horrible flavor."

“It’s sour cream and onion. It’s a widely accepted flavor,” you retorted, focusing entirely on the row of crackers. “Also, I don’t need you to talk to him. I’ll do that. I just need an entrance pass to a club you frequent.”

"Which one?"

"The Inferno Lounge."

"There's a cop in there?"

“Multiple, but they don’t care,” you said. “They don’t record their reservations online; their guest lists are handwritten. I couldn’t change anything if I tried, so I need you to help me sneak inside.”

While the guest list was logged physically, the nightclub would upload its expenses and customers online at the end of the day. You spent several nights scrolling through the lists with chip crumbs at your fingertips, checking out anyone worthy of your interest.

Against your assumptions, most law enforcement officers who frequented the nightclub were old and experienced. Alcohol and private rooms were boldly (or carelessly) purchased with credit cards. As for drugs, even if they wanted to, you doubted the provider took smart payment.

When you passed the candy section, you picked up a cherry lollipop and unwrapped it, popping it in your mouth. You kept the wrapper in your jacket pocket, saving it for the register later.

Chan sucked on his front teeth, his lips jutted out in thoughts. 

You didn’t suggest letting him bring you as a plus one because that would create an association. If one of you gets in trouble, the other will get involved indirectly. It was good to take that precaution.

Turning his head to eye you up and down, he asked, "How old are you?"

"Twenty."

“Tell them you just turned twenty-one, and this is your first night out drinking. For good measure, ask them where the bar is, he said with a snap of his fingers. “They’ll let you in just like that. You don’t even need me there.”

"Dress skimpy but casual," he added with a chuckle. "Kind of like how you are now."

You glanced at your feet. You buy all your clothes based on comfort. The ideal items could be worn outside and to sleep, so you wouldn’t have to change.

"So, pajamas."

"Yeah." He nodded. "What do you plan to do?"

"Find the guy and take his phone," you said. "I just need to transfer some data."

"You don't need me for that," he pointed out.

"I don't," you said.

"Right." He smacked his lips softly. "Again, this could have been a text."

"It could have, but I wanted to ask you something," you said after pushing the lollipop to the side of your mouth. You shoved your hands in your pockets and turned to face him fully. "Your mom said something about a clinical trial the other day. What is that?"

He pursed his lips and felt them twitch upward into a smirk. He didn’t think about it too much at first, but a nurse at the senior home put him up to it. 

With the help of a selected group of patients, a famous brain surgeon at a metropolitan hospital was trying to find a way around a nearly impossible disease. He didn’t care too much about the cure, but rather, he’d like his mother monitored and checked on periodically, so he took her to the screening test.

She wasn't selected. He wasn't too upset about that.

Lowering his head, he ruffled his hair and stood up, sniffing, shaking the jitters out of his body. “It’s no big deal.”

 “It’s for her dementia.” You peered at him, biting on the hard candy. “I didn’t know they were doing research on the disease.”

"It doesn't concern you," he said. 

You wiggled your nose to rid of the oily glasses. You were biting down just a stick now, and you played with it using your teeth. "Fine, don't tell me."

You'll find out on your own.

The rest of the shopping trip was silent. Chan did not excuse himself and continued to walk the shopping cart around the store as you pushed more unhealthy food into the basket. He went ahead when you were at the cash register to buy a packet of cigarettes at the corner area. You waited for him by the automatic doors, stepping close to trigger its sensor whenever it closed, and walked out when you noticed he was paying.

“Are you going to be okay?” he asked, stuffing his thin wallet inside his pocket. 

“I hope so,” you replied. “I’ll probably live.”

“It’s a nightclub. When it comes to people your age, they don’t tend to kill you,” he said. “They do something else.”

You hummed in acknowledgment. Reaching into your shorts pocket, you took out another lollipop and unwrapped it, popping it into your mouth. Chan furrowed his brows when you pulled it past your lips and a soft pop. He was sure you stole that.

“Why don’t you old folks sleep with people your age?” you asked.

He noticed your tongue was red. He scratched the back of his ear with a grimace. “Is that a genuine question?” 

“All my questions are genuine.” 

“Then I don’t know,” he replied. “Haven’t had any trouble with women my age.”

“Yet.” You glanced at his appalled expression as you pushed yourself off the wall. 

Approaching him with a waving lollipop, you brought it up to his face and pressed it past his lips. He parted his mouth to welcome the sweet cherry taste, his teeth clamping down on the stick to keep it from sliding out. 

“Try this for a change,” you said. “It’s better than smoke.”

He hummed. He didn’t think so.

Your drink was spiked. It wasn't a surprise. Why else would they let a nobody inside an esteemed nightclub if not to take advantage of them?

The man who put the pill inside your drink did a horrible job of hiding it, or you were more perceptive. The dimmed atmosphere, loud music, and flashy disco lights would have made it impossible for anyone else to notice, but you did, almost too clearly.

However, holding onto the intention of not bringing attention to yourself, when the man questioned why you weren't drinking from the glass, you took a sip to get him off your back.

None of your observation skills mattered because you put yourself in the same position as those who would fall victim to such tricks.

If anything, you were in far worse shape.

Since the man continued to chase you down, which hindered your task to find the dirty cop, you talked him down over the loud music. The last you heard of him was a string of cuss words as his friends held him back from making an even bigger scene.

That alerted people of your presence, but you managed to fade into the background again until you finally came across your target.

You realized how terrible you were at pickpocketing. Even the drunk air couldn’t save you from being a suspect in thievery. 

You quickly became the center of attention again, except this time, it was to be arrested and not to sleep with. Or perhaps it'd be both. You never know at places like this.

The thirty minutes (for the drug to kick in) counted down while you stumbled around corners and through hallways. You suspected you were walking deeper into the nightclub rather than out of it, but at least the confusing layout must be as disadvantageous to you as it was to your pursuers.

"There they are!"

"Shit," you muttered and picked up your pace.

The hallways looked identical. They were decorated with a dark color scheme and stained with sensual lights flashing through tiny door windows. Bad vocals, cheers, chair creaks, and screechy moans all sounded like forks on a plate. 

Looking behind your shoulder when you heard rapid footsteps approaching, you turned back to face a dead end a few rooms ahead of you. If you turned back, you would only be met with your demise, so it has to be one of the few rooms present. You have to choose. Choose quickly.

"Aggressive much–" Chan paused. His eyes widened when he saw you. "It's you."

You clenched your fist and released the tension. Immediately, you reached for the switch by the door and dimmed the ceiling lights. Ignoring Chan’s confused questions, you brought the gadgets from your jacket before taking it off and throwing it aside. The next fabric to go was your tank, and you threw that somewhere on the table instead of the floor.

"Woah–slow down?" He laughed when you shoved him onto the couch and got on top of him, your legs straddling his thighs and your hands gripping his shoulders. He instinctively held onto your waist, his big hands warm against your skin. "Jesus, sweetheart. Are you into me?"

"Help me," you said quietly. "They're looking for me."

He raised a brow. The initial shock died down gradually, and he checked his surroundings. 

Two phones were lodged where your bottoms met; yours and the cop's, he suspected. Your skin was cold as ice, and goosebumps lined up your shivering arms, which he wondered if it was from the cold or fear. Looking higher up where your nipples perked, he realized he never noticed your chest was so flat.

Behind your shoulder was the hallway light. Chan barely had the chance to hear the commotion before the door bursts open. He didn’t need an explanation to piece the problem together. There wasn’t much that could happen in a nightclub besides the usual.

You squeezed your eyes shut and his shoulders tighter. Just as you were about to lean forward, hoping to hide your face somewhere in the crook of his neck, he slid his hands up your side and pressed his thumbs against the side of your breasts, pushing them together. 

Your back straightened into a soft arch, and a surprised gasp broke out of your lips. Chan peeked over your head at the intruder, one brow raised and his smirk almost condescending. “Are you staying for the show or?” 

Flabbergasted, the man apologized and slammed the door. You didn’t say anything at the sound of the door clicking shut. Instead, you picked up the phone and attached one end of the black cable to it. You grabbed the other phone, the one with a dirty screen, and attempted the same thing. 

Chan watched you miss the charging port several times before he took them from you, getting it right on the first try.

You turned his hand to show yourself the screen and tapped on it, your barely opened eyes darting around, trying to read the tiny words on each pop-up. 

"You're here," you mumbled. 

"I am." He shrugged. "I frequent this place."

"Pervert." He didn’t say anything back.

Your chest heaved with difficulty, and you were clumsier than usual. Chan tried to catch your eyes, but you were too focused on the task. Once he noticed a significant difference in your behavior, he touched your forehead with the back of his palm.

"Lightweight?" he asked.

You grumbled, "Drugged."

His hand dropped from your forehead, and he chuckled. “Tough luck.”

Once the phone showed that the transferring process had started, you sighed and dropped it on the side. You felt horrible, and trying to make sense of your bodily reaction made you feel even worse. Your brain was fighting too hard with your body just trying to relax.

"You're shaking a little," Chan pointed out. "It can't be the drug. It's supposed to relax you.” He poked your abdomen. “You’re not cold either.” 

You glared at him through your lashes. The ringing in your ears grew louder the more you fought the drowsiness. He watched you nonchalantly, without a smile or a frown. This wasn't too amusing to him, you supposed. He hasn't pushed you off either. If anything, he kept steadying you by the waist whenever you dozed off.

You couldn’t sleep before when you were on your feet, still running from the cops. But now that Chan was here, you figured you could take a breather. 

“I panicked," you said. “I feel fear.”

"That's alarming," he said. "You don't seem to feel anything at all."

You lowered your head, blackness fading in and out of your eyes. "Contrary to your belief, I'm not some sociopath without feelings."

"Lots of talking for someone so sleepy," he mused slowly, squeezing your cheek before he reached inside his coat pocket. 

He pulled out an old wooden box and opened it with a faint squeak. Inside were three cigar sticks. He took one out and carefully placed the box next to his leg on the couch. You watched with mild curiosity as he lit up the end of it before putting it between his lips, taking a long drag.

"Have you tried smoking before?” he asked. “This should help you calm down.”

You grimaced and shook your head. He smiled; somehow, this fact was amusing. Tipping your head up gently, with his fingers wrapped over your chin and jaw, he muttered for you to take a huff after he brought the cigar to your face. 

You sniffed, trapped on top of him, and lacked the inhibition to reject the suggestion, parted your lips for him to put the tip in. You inhaled, feeling the hotness spread over your mouth.

He released your face to let you exhale, his fingers grazing a line down your bare chest to your belly. You shivered at the feeling, puffs of smoke coming out in shock, and he recalled the way you reacted when he barely touched your breasts. 

Either you were correct that you do feel emotions, or your feelings were limited to how you biologically react to physical touch.

He has to admit the latter made you so much more tolerable.

"There you go, sweetheart. Good job," he said, pulling the cigar away. "But next time, maybe more smoke in your lungs and less in your cheeks."

You frowned. You reckoned if you had let it travel to your lungs, you would’ve gotten the harsh awakening you needed. But you didn’t; you kept the smoke in your cheeks, and it did almost nothing but make you drowsier. 

Blinking slowly, you looked up at Chan, who hadn’t tried anything inappropriate. You knew he had no ill intentions despite not avoiding your naked torso because if he had them, you would have felt it underneath you, and you would just have to bet that it keeps being that way.

Wiggling forward to get closer to him and find a better position for your numbing legs, you dropped your head on his shoulder and closed your eyes. You relaxed against him; the buttons on his shirt might leave a faint mark up your chest.

"Hey," he whispered as he peered down. "You're not sleeping on me, are you?”

“I want to sleep,” you muttered. 

“I already paid for this room.”

“You can have sex some other time,” you said. “I have to sleep now.”

“Can you at least sleep on the other side of the couch?” 

You didn’t respond and he knew he wouldn’t get you to even if you were awake. He rolled his eyes and threw his head back on the couch. If he wasn’t sitting on his coat, he might have taken it off for you to use as a blanket. He doubted you were cold, though. Your skin has grown warm, and your breathing regulated itself. 

Leaving the room with all the security cameras would be a hassle. You’d have to figure out how to hide your face to avoid getting him in trouble. As for the man who barged into the room, he was willing to take a bet that he could lie about your presence in the room. Plenty of people loitered the nightclub. You couldn’t be the only person with your hairstyle and body size.

Inhaling a puff of smoke, he watched them go up the ceiling after he released it. 

Flashes of his conversation with his mother after you left the nursing home captured his attention. He tried to deter her from talking about you, which he did, but it wasn’t after she mentioned that you seemed like a good person and told him to be nice to you. 

That’s how he maintains friendships, she nagged. But you weren’t his friend. You weren’t anything to each other.

You breathed softly atop Chan. He brought his hand up to your hair, hot air boiling out of his mouth into a tragic exhale when he couldn’t will himself to do something comforting. His hand slid down to your arm, where he squeezed gently, and finally, it stayed at your waist to keep you close and steady.

"You owe me, kid," he muttered.

When a woman came by to provide him services, he shooed her away.

The back of an alley was the last place Chan expected to find you. Seeing you beaten and bruised was less surprising, considering your inability to socialize.

“I thought I heard something,” he said, crouching before you. 

He scanned your face briefly—a pair of cracked lips, a nosebleed, a bed of grabbed hair, and spots of purple and yellow developing around your eye. You were holding onto your abdomen, too.

"Karma came and bit you in the ass or what?" he asked.

“Maybe,” you mumbled. “I met them when I was at the nightclub. One of them was the man who drugged me. I chewed him out in public, so I’m guessing that’s what he was mad about.”

"Mm," he hummed with intrigue. "You shouldn't have done that."

You rolled your eyes. The pain has gradually faded from being noticeable, but you continued to feel wrong somewhere, like a misplaced bone or a sprained joint. It felt heavy as the hit but not like a weight. You have never been beaten before, so you had difficulty explaining it to yourself, and the lack of knowledge agitated you.

"This wasn't my fault," you said. 

"That's not the point," he argued.

"Then what is?"

"Why would I know?" Chan shrugged. "I didn't get physically assaulted. You did. What did you learn?”

Nothing. You have learned nothing because there was no lesson to learn from events that otherwise shouldn't have happened. 

You could learn about natural phenomena, a dessert recipe, or even the making of a pharmaceutical drug. 

A petty man choosing to retaliate against a trivial matter has no value and isn’t natural. It has no reason to exist. It just did for some incalculable reason. Therefore, it was not worth even you, someone who must make sense of everything, to try to understand it.

The only thing the event shed light upon was that you were better than him, not because you put yourself above physical violence but because you wouldn’t be bothered by something so minuscule in the first place. 

You being better wasn't a learning lesson. You already knew that.

"Take me home," you said. "I will pay you the gas money."

"I have an electric car right now. Maybe later."

He scoffed light-heartedly as he grabbed your wrist and threw your arm over his shoulder. You pushed your weight up with his help and exhaled through the discomfort. Chan peered down your shirt and raised a brow.

"They just beat you up?" he asked. "They didn't try to touch you or anything?”

You pursed your lips. There was an attempt, but you couldn’t shut your nasty mouth up for so long that they decided they didn’t like you enough anymore. Whether that was a miracle was debatable; you thought you would be left with fewer bruises if you had stopped talking.

"No."

"Sweet," he whistled, "virginity preserved."

You clicked your tongue and pushed your palm to his face. The velocity wasn't enough, so you gave him a proper slap before a round of random violence ensued.

He tried to stop you verbally, insincere apologies leaving his lips. However, the more he spoke, the worse you felt. Suddenly, you understood your perpetrator's urge to beat you up. 

"Hey, stop it! Stop it!" He shielded his face for a while before reaching for your shoulder and harshly throwing you toward the wall. "What is wrong with you?"

Your back whined in pain when it hit the wall. Once you dropped to the ground, you lay there and did nothing more to stress your body out. 

Turned out you weren't so much better, after all. If anything, you were so much worse than everyone else.

Chan tidied and dusted his clothes with short strings of curses leaving his lips, complaining about his good deeds going to waste on you. Glancing at your lifeless body, he sighed and shook his head. You could do whatever you want. 

Stepping over you, he walked to leave the alley when his phone rang. He paused to pick it up. 

"Hello?"

The voice on the other side was feminine and firm. She introduced herself as a doctor, apologized for a mix-up in some examination results, and congratulated him on his mother’s acceptance into the clinical trial.

"Yes, no problem. I will bring her over next week as scheduled," he said. "Thank you so much, doctor."

The line cut without static. He pulled the phone away from his ear and squeezed it to ground his thoughts. 

There was only one person he knew who not only knew about his mother’s condition but could also switch around digital information like that—you.

Putting his phone away, he sighed and turned back around. He knelt by you and carefully slipped his arms under your side, adjusting his hands on your shoulder and hip.

"She was nice to me." You peered up meekly. "Your mom was nice to me."

No hospital, no police station. You were heading home, he knew. He swallowed a knot before hoisting you up into his arms. Your glasses were broken. He left it there.

He was warm, like last time, and safe, if you’d call him that. 

"I bet she was."

[camp-mithril-lake]

“Megatron, on board the Lost Light? On board me? Megatron?” sputtered Rodimus. He rebooted his holoform’s audial sensors a few times, just to ensure he was hearing Ratchet correctly.

“It was either you or Metroplex,” said Ratchet. He was still staring at the new “Rodpod” in the hangar, aghast.

“What, did Metroplex say no already?”

Ratchet sighed. “We can lock him up if he steps out of line. But Prime wants to give him a bit of rope, and some responsibility, to see if he’s really on the level.”

“He wants Megatron running loose in me? Not even in my brig?”

“Well, we’re not going to tell him about your ‘condition.’ Like most of the crew, he’ll just think you’re a neutral that avoided the whole war and didn’t want to return to Cybertron.”

“Ah yes. Megatron: famous for getting along with neutrals,” He pointed at Ratchet, “I’ve heard stories from Drift, you know.”

“And if anything, Drift probably toned down those stories. Still, as a precaution, we’re dosing him with Fool’s Energon.”

Rodimus fumed, crossing his arms.

Ratchet sighed, “Look, nobody’s going to make you bring along anyone you don’t want along. Especially after the debacle with Prowl.”

Rodimus winced, “About that. Could I get some advice?”

“Oh, Primus, you don’t have someone else locked up, do you? Who is it, Killmaster?

“No! Nothing like that, it’s just- here, take this.” Rodimus materialized a datapad and handed it to Ratchet.

Ratchet looked at it and frowned, “Is this from the ‘anonymous’ vote you took to see who wanted you removed as captain? I see there’s a list of names attached.”

“Well,” Rodimus scratched the back of his head. “I was thinking of using it to see who to kick off the mission, but…”

“But you realized that would be petty, especially since most of the crew doesn’t even know that would be possible.”

“Pretty much.”

“If I were Ultra Magnus, I’d be reminding you that Cybertronian laws still apply to you, even though you’re not an Autobot.”

“And trying to coerce me into another lecture.”

“Coerce,” Ratchet scoffed. “He’s been nothing but soft with you.”

Rodimus made a face.

“I’m serious. Ask one of the wreckers if you don’t believe me. Besides, this list is wrong.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m not on it.”

“You voted against-” Rodimus sputtered, “But you know that’s impossible!”

“You can’t leave the ship,” Ratchet shook his head. “But, you need to listen to Ultra Magnus’ advice more. He’s not going to make you do anything, but if he tells you to do something, you should still do it. Ancient titan or not, you’ve only got the memories- and personality- of a new spark. I know you’re excited about going wherever you’d like, but you can learn a lot from following someone else for once.”

“Fine. I’ll try and listen more. And if Ultra Magnus wants me to help Autobots, then I guess I can bring along Megatron. I’m still captain, though.” Rodimus leaned against the railing. He froze. “Wait, what did you mean by Optimus giving Megatron more responsibility?”

“Well,” said Ratchet. “I suppose nobody would ever accuse Megatron of being soft-”

***

(For context, I'm thinking Ultra Magnus was sent along as a mentor a la TFA or to see if he'd be a suitable cityspeaker. However, he feels too awkward to order around someone who hasn't been able to make their own choices for millions of years and isn't an "official" autobot, either.)

Oh, I love ALL of this. Ultra Magnus as a potential cityspeaker and being soft on Rodimus is lovely. Especially given the fact Rodimus isn't an Autobot plus Magnus isn't exactly being open about his identity as well. All on top of the fact Rodimus has only had free will for maybe a thousand years so he's sensitive about any authority he didn't specifically select.

Ratchet and Rodimus's relationship is fun!

The use of the holoform is perfect and the fact it is a secret from the crew is 100/100. You perfectly captured the vibes I have for this AU.

[forgettable-au]

FORGETTABLE-AU (page 82-85)

THAT LAZYBONES!!

[BEGINNING] [PREVIOUS] [CONTINUE]

[preggomancer]

once again thinking about how sillygoofy it is that my brain must separate my kink and non kink interests so completely because my favorite character of all time is a classic complicated fucked up trans (TO ME) bisexual man who canonically has a child due to magical circumstances against his will and is repeatedly described as extremely attractive but if I think about him in any sexual way whatsoever makes me viscerally uncomfortable

[just-sp-in-inginthevoid]

We always see the Yotsurugi siblings wear formal attires – Kongo's funerals shows that more than the other scenes since, well, it's a funeral

Except Hibaru – for reasons we know – they're all well-dressed, Shikaba aside that is. Even Kuran and Taira, whom we see later mostly dress comfortably, have their tie up and their suit properly on.

Shikaba? Nope. He doesn't have a tie, his jacket is not on, he's not sitting right, he's probably wearing his sandals for all we know. They all made an effort but him.

(+he's the only one sitting during these introductions. And the only one not having his back straight. He's just enjoying the breeze)

But the eldest they are, the more they dress properly at all time. The youngest seem less enclined to (that being said, Kou and Terasu do keep wearing buttoned-up shirts, Kou even keeps his tie on, even as a kid)(– and Kuran wears a proper suit both when meeting with his siblings and when attending Kongo's funerals!!)(– that being said, he's still not present on the 'diamond bond' panel)

But as I pointed out some time ago, Hibaru and Terasu make themselves presentable before going to see Kongo. Despite him being in critical condition and about to say his last words - they take the time to properly button up their shirt and jacket.

There is a way to behave around Kongo. You have to be proper. Perhaps, Hibaru and Terasu didn't want to appear 'wrong' when visiting their father on his deathbed, but then again, if they're so worried and want to talk to him as quick as possible (when they're already late) why take the time to be proper before opening the door?

All the other siblings we see in the hospital are in the same position – that being said, for this theory of Shikaba not caring, or being allowed not to care, about his clothes and behavior, we would need to see how he was near Kongo when he was alive.

So far, the only other scene we see them with Kongo is during Terasu's welcome to the family. Once again, they're wearing suits, the atmosphere is cold if not impersonal. Terasu wearing a hoodie and sweatpants plus snickers isolates him even more (as if the white chairs among the black ones didn't). Interesting how he was allowed to wear that at his biological father's funeral but wore a formal suit to Kongo's (albeit that's probably because he was so young. But then again. Was it only that.)

Knowing Kou is here and is already wearing his clothes with '11' on it (one thick line=10, one thin line=1; both=11), Taira and Shikaba must have been already adopted despite us not seeing them (and by such, we can't tell if Taira is wearing formal clothes or not and if Shikaba still don't care)

As for the family picture; only Hibaru and Shikaba stand out clothes-wise. Hibaru because his top is open, and Shikaba because he has an additional jacket. (There's also Reri bc she isn't wearing the gi properly but I'm not sure what that's about yet)

The whole point of this post was to point out that Shikaba (beside Hibaru – perhaps(see hospital scene)) is the only one allowed to wear casual clothes and act less stiffly than his siblings around Kongo (or at his funerals). Or not caring to follow the rest acting so formal.

+

Same when it's just them — they're all nicely dressed and then there's Shikaba not caring much (looking at the 'diamond bond' panel, Taira is probably wearing his shirt not buttoned all the way up here too, and his jacket must be open as well)

[buttercupshands]

I'm getting increasingly more and more rambling-essay-like in the tags every passing day

....well at least people won't think of me as intimidating now!

[unproduciblesmackdown]

among the boundless billions zaniness like laugh track as it definitely has that moment of expressing "rolling my eyes as The Left makes a kerfuffle of Acting like they have a stance as a veneer over the true belief that [xyz] is cool & chill actually" like what, approximate 0.000% chance wendy isn't, as usual, given the Objective Stance of "yeah yeah ohh we are cancelling involved parties talking about how we Don't watch this But. we all love this damn epic movie & already have it memorized so shut the fuck up, kids today" like. don't wanna really delve into how much billions thinks taylor or anyone is "really" trans / nonbinary like not too much benefit of the doubt in this material including what does provide info abt that specifically

& the general like [head in hands. what do you think any of this could possibly be about (you're the one that made your show at all about Power)] of "yes, it's bad/wrong to be someone that someone has done something to / victim of something" like that to be anti misogyny All Women Must Be Epic Winners b/c there's something to be proved: that they don't Deserve to be victims (of misogyny), not taken as a Given. while when we see some epic winner men stepping on other men (who need not all be guaranteed Winners so as to say misogyny is wrong), that's often Good, well beyond any assumption that various forms of basic disrespect / violation / patterns of emergent/entrenched power difference as Bad (for being things done to people, not for there being people they're being done to), & generally billions has to take an extra step when ppl get shitted on & tell us the Specific Cases when it was undeserved actually & someone was being mean to a specific person who didn't deserve that. & the specific cases when hey guess it wasn't that bad(tm) or when hey It's Okay that you're someone something was done to, in this case. & tell us what we were supposed to know all along like when someone who something was being done to (wrong Of Them, whether b/c they inherently deserve it no matter what, &/or b/c they failed to be someone who could make it Impossible to do anything to them, which, how do you do that besides being The Authority / Superior yourself, exactly? nonrhetorically? what if the in group vs out group / fascism / authoritarianism protected Me?) was actually being treated Too Well b/c ah well the abuse meant you were getting any attention, maybe it meant you were claimed as any superior's property, maybe it meant you weren't Already disposed of, as all Losers were in the end, You're Welcome.

obviously referring to winston where it's spelled out all the abuse towards him was deserved, & More than he deserved in the case of rian having more access & taking advantage of that, all for billions' enjoying its own sendoff there of, again, maximizing violation & violence short of [real violence is physical & leaves bruises / draws blood / Literally kills] which would be distasteful in general But doesn't it make wags look like the winner & winston the loser is that the former's completely unrelated completely impersonal ego blow gets way amplified taken out on winston, the most vulnerable recurring character when spyros as [first & ultimate Everyone Hates Him role] is more entrenched in there & billions still magnanimously pities tuk, as it does winston too, just not quite as much. again that like completely surface level realized power fantasy of forcing the mirror up to the Inferior so they're like nooo my inferiorityyyy & in doing so like, the projection in that lmao, we get it re: the valuing of & need(tm) for such Power Tripping & Reaffirming My Superiority & My Ego Restored; Everyone Claps like good god. & then for all ben & tuk are the slightly softer Two Too Nice Boys duo to the rian & winston quant duo, also like too nice i guess but not as much, ben is in charge of tuk but Any instance of rian being in charge of winston outstrips them in that "yay interpersonal abuse" dynamic, like then in the end billions may be like "yeah it's possible to be mean to them unlike how being mean to winston is actually Nice b/c he deserves everything he gets, we only vicariously enjoy it vs Feeling Bad for tuk & ben sometimes (still magnanimously & it's Not That Bad / just goofin)" like ben & tuk still Fail by not being people it's impossible to do anything to. & not Exceptions who anyone is really being Too Mean to. like if they were women, in which case, no problem surely with a "positive" kind of victim blaming where there is something Inherent that Will be victimized so hey how about to cancel that out there's this special Paternal Protection you Need always, Or Else? :) but instead they are men who are asian & is ben gay & w/tuk & winston nobody mentions glasses or fatness but billions doesn't really do much or very in depth textual mentioning of Anything, even w/nonzero mention that there may be gender & race in this world. a gay man, once. no disability. we just Know who are the inferiors who deserve it when they're treated inferiorly, or if they don't, they start deserving it when they fail to stop/avoid it, but if you start mentioning the factors behind who we all totally agree is inferior like whoa nobody was Saying any of that? being the real agent of oppression on the basis of the factors only You spelled out, much? nonbinary? i never say anything about the Gender Binary when i'm subscribing to it, sounds like You've created & enforced it. obfuscation & deflection onto [so Just Normal nobody has to label, explain, or argue it] couldn't serve a purpose & protect the existing power differences as they are. maybe You're the problem? perhaps you brought it upon yourself & now you're causing too much trouble standing up for yourself while everyone else's criticism is laser focused on you as the prior & continuing negative actions done to you are taken as a given / unquestioned / covertly protected to overtly encouraged?

anyway so wild if the Completely Normal(tm) Victim Blaming is uncritically recreated & oft embraced for "if you're watching this & don't wish you were axe / find him appealing" [billions as a sequence of vicarious power trips] purposes in this series....but a bit wild considering like this is your multiseason show that wasn't just purporting to be those power trips for [enough demographic & apparently specific personal tastes overlap w/creators] & was at all purporting to question the matters of power at play in the material, or yknow, at least to not be completely superficial material while said material is textually & thematically all about power difference being leveraged, how, the consequences, & so on. thus i will have to intermittently talk about it forever like this like lord unbelievable. & the funny little & sometimes less funny less little characters it has trapped in there so that those of us who were never meant to be in the audience can be cursed with this knowledge. like i have some feedback. "imagine not victim blaming" & "imagine adjusting your perspective can go beyond superficial layers added to politely defer to some other ppl while they're present but really like cmon do they deserve that. am i not just saying what we're allll thinking"

[memewife]

a couple of spreads i did for a zine abt some of the reminders when i make art

[tei-to-tei]

*crawls back onto social media looking like a disheveled goblin*

ok so my 24-hr social media avoidance kiiinda turned into a two week avoidance i'm very sorry, my personality is clinically ✨ disordered ✨

good news: i did manage to draw a little bit almost every day, so...

hoping to have a massive art post ready before midnight ;u;

[hectickazz]

working at those roblox customer service job games is insane. because last night there was some guy who kept being a smartass and the way he was ordering made me want to pull my hair out and run into the woods. "You want a bacon burger without pork.. so.. a normal burger?" "no. bacon burger with no pork" "but bacon is pork." "N o."

(i just gave him a normal bacon burger, i really have no clue. you ask for a bacon burger, you're getting the freakinf bacon burger)

"Do you want your ice cream in a cup or a cone?" "yes."

this guy was at my register for a total of maybe 20 or 30 minutes i have no CLUE

he was right on the edge of what counted as trolling. like, teetering off a cliffside. I was very close to calling a moderator at some point.

These people put you through hell and back. they make you growl like a wild animal at the screen. they drain you of every ounce of whimsy and life you have. and then, out of nowhere, they tip you 500 freaking robux for what im assuming is the big finale. an unexpected plot twist. (and compensation,) and then they leave.

god

[yaekiss]

NO WAY BLACK BUTLER IS COMING BACK W A SEASON 4?????????

[al-mayriti]

ALSO on the topic of ships in ot. now that we have the finalists for ot 2023, it's been confirmed that at least one ship always makes it to the final:

OT 2017: almaia (alfred & amaia)

OT 2018: albalia (alba & natalia)

OT 2020: flamanta (flavio & samantha), evugo (eva & hugo)

OT 2023: juantin (juanjo & martin)

[yessignificantharassment]

Just re-watched Howl's Moving Castle...

I now understand why I hated Howl so much when I was a child:

Why must you (sometimes) act so stupid while being so gender???

[scientia-rex]

When I was in ninth grade I wanted to challenge what I saw as a very stupid dress code policy (not being allowed to wear spikes regardless of the size or sharpness of the spikes). My dad said to me, “What is your objective?”

He said it over and over. I contemplated that. I wanted to change an unfair dress code. What did I stand to gain? What did I stand to lose? If what I really wanted was to change the dress code, what would be my most effective potential approach? (He also gave me Discourses on the Fall of Rome by Titus Livius, Machiavelli’s magnum opus. Of course he’d already given me The Prince, Five Rings, and The Art of War.)

I ultimately printed out that phrase, coated it in Mod Podge, and clipped it to my bathroom mirror so I would look at it and think about it every day.

What is your objective?

Forget about how you feel. Ask yourself, what do you want to see happen? And then ask, how can you make it happen? Who needs to agree with you? Who has the power to implement this change? What are the points where you have leverage over them? If you use that leverage now, will you impair your ability to use it in the future? Getting what you want is about effectiveness. It is not about being an alpha or a sigma or whatever other bullshit the men’s right whiners are on about now. You won’t find any MRA talking points in Musashi, because they are not relevant.

I had no clear leverage on the dress code issue. My parents were not on the PTA; neither were any of my friend’s parents who liked me. The teachers did not care about this. Ultimately I just wore what I wanted, my patent leather collar from Hot Topic with large but flattened spikes, and I had guessed correctly—the teachers also did not care enough to discipline me.

I often see people on tumblr, mostly the very young, flail around in discourse. They don’t have an objective. They don’t know what they want to achieve, and they have never thought about strategizing and interpersonal effectiveness. No one can get everything they want by being an asshole. You must be able to work with other people, and that includes smiling when you hate them.

Read Machiavelli. Start with The Prince, but then move on to Discourses. Read Musashi’s Five Rings. Read The Art of War. They’re classics for a reason. They can’t cover all situations, but they can do more for how you think about strategizing than anything you’re getting in middle school and high school curricula.

Don’t vote third party unless you can tell me not only what your objective is but also why this action stands a meaningful chance of accomplishing it. Otherwise, back up and approach your strategy from a new angle. I don’t care how angry you are with Biden right now. He knows about it, and he is both trying to do something and not doing enough. I care about what will happen to millions of people if we have another Trump presidency. Look up Ross Perot, and learn from our past. Find your objective. If it is to stop the genocide in Palestine now, call your elected representatives now. They don’t care about emails; they care about phone calls, because they live in the past. I know this because I shadowed a lobbyist, because knowing how power works is critical to using it.

How do you think I have gotten two clinics to start including gender care in their planning?

Start small. Chip away. Keep working. Find your leverage; figure out how and when to effectively use it. Choose your battles, so that you can concentrate on the battle at hand instead of wasting your resources in many directions. Learn from the accumulated wisdom of people who spent their lives learning by doing, by making mistakes, by watching the mistakes of their enemies.

Don’t be a dickhead. Be smarter than I was at 14. Ask yourself: what is your objective?

[oflgtfol]

like i still dont know if i feel anything romantic for him but like i guess at this point it’s not really platonic either since like we’re kissing and holding hands but like. idk. i guess i just dont know what romantic feelings… feel like? in my mind it’s still just hanging out just like, different 😭😭😭 like i know everyone always says ur partner should be ur friend first but like. we’re literally just hanging out. like it doesn’t feel any deeper or anything like that, it just feels. different. bc we are doing different things with different expectations. so even though i mean like well i have a. God i cant even say the word rn. even though im dating someone now i still feel incredibly aromantic about it. and luckily he knows and he took it well and he knew it from the get go so it’s fine but i also can’t help but feel like ahhh i’m aromantic though