#people change and if you do the maths as long as they’re doing a little better then it’s all little better right

[spicyicymeloncat]

Incoming ramble about general internet discourse…

I feel like accepting that you were wrong is seen as a punishment when really it should be seen as an acknowledgment of a fact. People treat discourse as some sort of game and the more problematic you are, the more you’ve lost the game, and the more morally right you are than other people means you’re winning. But not how it works. Internet culture treats discourse like it’s a fight against cancel culture and big internet celebs, and there’s no regard for the nuance of who’s actually right or who’s actually been hurt in this.

Imo discourse and internet squabbles should be about informing people of what they have done wrong and how they can make it better. And being informed that you can make mistakes and hurt people, and doing your best to amend that. There’s this weird notion that nothing on the internet can be changed because people will remember and dig up forever and that apologies only exist to get something back from. Some people only make apologies just to win back fans and some people can never accept apologies or attempts to do better bc it’s hard to know when something is genuine. And people don’t seem to know how to make mistakes and make up for those mistakes or to accept when someone else has made a mistake. It’s like we’re allergic to flaws even though we know everyone has them and so we spend pointless time arguing whether those flaws even exist when they do. Because we also don’t seem to know change and growth also exist

I think people should try to apologise and support others anyways and should focus on bettering themselves for themselves and whilst it’s hard if large parts of your life is intwined with media, even reliant, on the internet the only person who’s mind you can change is your own.

Internet mobs will be like "why doesnt anyone just ADMIT when theyre WRONG anymore??!!" and then treat someone like they deserve the death penalty because they said something off-colour on twitter when they were 14

No one will admit that they were wrong if you treat being wrong like its an eternal indictment against them with no chance for rehabilitation

[cusimmrbrightside]

I have always liked the idea of the school for mutants being very literally a school, and I know yes it is but I mean in the sense of if you want to be an X-men, you have to be a teacher. They have exams at the end of years, they have Ofsted checks (for those who don’t know what they are, it’s essentially people coming to check that the school is good at being a school) and they have teachers for every subject, which brings me to my next point;

“I’m Right You’re Wrong, Here’s What The X-Men (‘97 specifically) Would Teach As Subjects”.

(Also this is based off of UK school system but I use American terms like “seniors” and “AP” and “Midterms”)

Maths Teacher Gambit is surprising, for a guy most assume to not being entirely smart, an idiot goof off who’s the comedic relief. But you need to know numbers to gamble, and that he does with being very well versed in mathematics way past an AP level. He’s made the promise for every senior class that he will teach them to play blackjack on the final day, and has only ever lost once. Which is when the rule of “no betting real money” came into place.

English teacher Jean reminds me of the kind of teacher who would let the social outcasts into her class for their lunch breaks. The kids more likely to be bullied and she will fight tooth and nail to make sure those kids bullies don’t come into that classroom. they’re loud and shout and shouldn’t really be in there but no one has to know and she certainly won’t be telling them to leave any time soon.

Physics teacher Magneto is very specific to my highschool experience I’ll be honest. I had a physics teacher who was an actual Dr with a PHD and he hated being there. His classroom has (well, had since the building was knocked down about 5 years ago now) this one cabinet that was never fully shut, it was always open just about an inch or two, and he’d stand with his foot hovering just above it and then slam down on it whenever we got too loud so the noise would shut us up. That’s very magneto coded. Erik Lehnsherr would purposefully make the cabinet always a little open so he can do that.

Biology teacher morph is just a funny concept, a person whose physical form and change and morph into just about anything. They are considered one of the “fun” teachers, you could easily convince them to let you watch a movie all class as long as it was biology centred, but with classics like Osmosis Jones, you’re not stuck watching a documentary about animals giving birth.

Chemistry teacher Storm does not fuck about with children’s education. She is not strict by any means whatsoever, she just will not bend to someone saying they want to watch a film or should do a practical instead of theory. She has a set curriculum. She knows what she will be doing by the first week of the summer holidays and already has the room set up all pretty and organised.

Geography teacher Scott has the unfortunate job of telling his students that, they just won’t be looking at memorising country flags and politics. But hey!! Rocks are cool!! Beach shores are cool! Lake formations are cool! He’s the vice principal and designated nerd teacher. He once beat the elite four for a student on their copy of Pokémon Red because the student promised they’d do well in their midterms. Yes, he was in his 30s when the game came out, he doesn’t care.

History teacher Logan is a walking fun facts book. He’s exhausted, goes on smoke breaks on every gap of time he has, dislikes his job and will randomly get passionate about one specific topic, and will then dedicate his next 4 classes to that topic. Having been through a lot of modern history with personal experiences, he’s able to bring a lot of souvenirs to show his classes. Bullets, helmets, clothes he once wore hundreds of years ago, his personal memories of basic inventions like the vaccine.

PE (physical education) teacher Rogue is full of fun sports games, you can join any kind of sports team you can imagine and if you ask nicely enough, she’ll put Just Dance on a projector in the sports hall so you can just play that instead of actually play an actual sport. As long as you leave her class exhausted and without time to have a shower before your next class then she’s succeeded in making whoever your next teacher is absolutely miserable (bonus points if it’s Logan with his enhanced sense of smell).

Art teacher jubilee does believe that there is a right way to critique art. And she can be a little in your face about it. She does think you can have wrong opinions especially when it comes to your own art. If she overhears you saying you didn’t something wrong, she’ll scream into a megaphone “adapt, improvise, overcome!”. There are no mistakes! She’s eccentric, bubbly, creative and brilliant, the only one suited for the job.

It wouldn’t be a school without budget cuts. That’s why Nightcrawler is both the languages and religions teacher and he’s beloved at both. He comes up with roleplay scenarios the students can play to help learn their chosen languages, he has varied religious texts in his room and when he says to the students “I’ll pray for toy during exam season” he’s not actually joking.

(I forgot about Hank I’m actually going to cry he’s one of my favourites and I forgot about him. He’ll be in pt two or smth.)

[hybridirl]

so pretty.

18+ only, please!

abby x f!reader

a/n: hi everyone!! i’m sorry that this is an abby fic cuz i’ve been getting ellie reqs!! so i’m sorry if i disappoint but i rlly needed to scratch this itch

brief summary: your dad’s co-worker is sooo cute! you hadn’t seen her in so long! tonight, a dinner is happening with his team! you just have to hurry up and get dressed, because she just caught you nakeyyyy.

tw / worship, age gap (it’s not pronounced), pet names, praise, pure smut(?), cunnilingus, cheating, slight mommy kink, rushed sex, reader gets referred to as “daddy’s little girl,” use of y/n, AU

⋆⭒˚☾⋆.˚

you let out a quick sigh as you tugged your dress up, slipping your shoulders into the straps and taking a glance at your clock.

fuck, you thought to yourself, dad’s gonna be pissed. you were late downstairs for a very important dinner your dad was hosting! this was your first ever dinner you’ve been invited - no, well, forced to go to. all the other times, your whole time growing up, they’ve been at restaurants which your dad told you you couldn’t go to. well, now they’re here. and now you have to make a good impression and have spectacular manners for these people. uh oh.

you looked at your outfit, a tight-fitted, wine red dress. it was appropriate enough, but it was definitely showing your body off. you didn’t have time to change, though, so, a quick spray of your dior perfume would be your final touch. spritz, spritz, and you’re hurriedly rushing down the steps. you don’t have to peek around the corner to know who’s there: your dad, isaac, manny, owen, mel and… was that abby? you gulped. you hadn’t seen abby in so long, yet she’d been on your mind all that time. suddenly you were self conscious, adjusting your dress and adjusting your hair if you could. you peeked around the corner, and almost squeaked at the sight. she was there. she wore a skin-tight, long-sleeve dress.

why are you covering up those pretty arms? was the first thing you thought. those arms had kept you up at night as you fantasized about them holding you, worshiping you, and vice versa for you. your cheeks were heated, flushed with blood as you became entranced by her body. your eyes trailed down to take in the rest of her, her muscular back, legs, stomach. oh, god. you might have to go back to your room.

“y/n!” your dad called, making your head perk up and the rest of his team turn to look at you. they greeted you with friendly faces, having not scene “daddy’s little girl,” as your dad would say, in a hot minute. you stood up straight, giving a stiff wave as you rushed to go sit down by your dad’s side.

everyone was staring at you. you couldn’t tell if it was the dress, or that they hadn’t seen you. you tried your damndest to never even glance at abby and you did pretty well, barely even uttering a word to her whilst you talked pretty chattily to the rest. yes, that probably hurt her feelings, but your sanity was slightly more important.

you continued to eat, your mind now focused.

“so, y/n,” abby called whilst the others chatted, “how’s school going?” you glanced up, giving an awkward smile as you swallowed your food.

“it’s, uh, going,” you replied with heated cheeks. “it’s going.” she smirked a knowing smile and brought her hand to yours. your gaze didn’t falter as it continued it’s strenuous stare at her face. you tried to hide a growing grin,

“you can always ask me for help,” she offered, “i’m pretty good at math, y’know.” you felt your lips twitching to a small smile and you nodded.

“yeah,” you said with a nod, pulling your hand away slowly. “thanks, mrs. anderson.” she gave you a small smile, her eyes so briefly flickering downward to your chest that you hadn’t noticed.

the night went on, slowly coming to an end while you dismissed yourself upstairs. it was late and you had things to do tomorrow. a quick shower was what you needed while you hurried to the bathroom. everyone had left except for a few stragglers, who you had assumed were going to leave pretty soon.

you quietly entered the bathroom and shut the door behind you. you stepped toward the mirror, giving a lopsided smile at your slightly disheveled state. you slipped out of your dress then stepped out the pool of your cloth. you stepped toward the bath, running it whilst you plugged the drain. you sat on the tub, taking off your shoes and socks to flex your feet.

you jumped, hearing a crack of lightning outside the window.

jesus, you thought. you didn’t realize the fan would be so bad. you groaned silently, turning the water off and pulling the plug on the drain. you were slipping back into your dress, the straps just above your waist before the door swings open. you yelped, covering your chest quickly.

“i didn’t know,” the smooth voice stated. your jaw was slack, staring abby in. “sorry.” but she didn’t turn away. her eyes flickered down to your chest, taking in what she could see. “…sorry,” she said once more before beginning to turn away. you didn’t know she was still here, you thought she’d left.

“well, wait,” you called before you could realize what you were doing. her gaze fell back on you, her brows raised. “i… um…” you felt your arms begin to relax, and your eyes widened as they fell to your sides, uncensoring your body for her.

“y/n,” she breathed. “your dad’s downstairs. so’s owen.” you both gazed at each other as a silence emerged. your eyes flicked down her body, especially the muscles that covered her arms.

“…i don’t care,” you spoke softly. you watched her slowly shut the door behind her as she entered. doe-eyed, you watched her approach you. she took a hold of the dress that hung around your waist, pulling it so you were close.

“daddy’s little girl ain’t so little anymore, huh?” your eyelids fluttered, gasping as her lips touched your neck. you hummed a “no” in response and your hand gripped her braid, tugging it as she bite into your neck. she let out a groan at your hair-tugs, which only fueled you. “mm, the boys would be so upset, huh? but, look how pretty you are. how’s a woman like me gonna resist a pretty girl like you?” she paused to pull away from you, “…can i touch you?” you nodded your head and her huge hands went to massage your breasts, eliciting a moan from your lips. “shhh. don’t get loud, baby, don’t get loud. just let mama touch your body.” they moved from your breasts and down to your sides and she spoke once more, “can i pull your dress down, baby girl?” you nodded, and the dress with down, down, down. her hands cupped your ass as you stood and she kneeled. “look at that,” she sighed and kissed your naval. “spread your legs for me, sweet thing, let me take a look at you.” you adjusted, spreading your legs just a tad to let her get a view of your inner lips, wet and needy.

“abby,” you huffed, slightly impatient. she smirked and squeezed your butt hard. you whined, writhing slightly.

“hush up,” she demanded lowly, kissing down your stomach. she sighed as she inhaled your scent, nostrils flaring. “mm, fuck you smell good.” your cheeks heated with embarrassment and your hand went for her hair again, pulling her closer to your throbbing pussy. “so impatient, sweetheart. you’re lucky the boys are downstairs… if they weren’t, i’d be bending you over my knee. god, look at this body…” her hands trailed back up your sides, squeezing your breasts once more. you could feel yourself drip as she began to kiss your thighs. “oh, baby,” she groaned into your thigh, bringing her hands back down. she licked right to your vulva, leaving a trail of saliva on your thighs. “should i tongue this needy pussy?”

“yes,” you gasped, nudging your hips forward. “abby, please.” you’d been waiting for this for so long, you needed her rough tongue on you. she leaned in to give your cunt a sloppy kiss, gently sucking on your clit. you hunched over, pulling her head closer to you. her hands grabbed your ass as she began to lick at you. “abby.” she smiled into your pussy while her tongue flicked against your clit, then dipped into you. “fuck…” she guided your hips along her tongue, each time her tongue found your sensitive little bud, curving right at the end to give you so much pleasure.

“it’s alright, baby, ride mama’s tongue,” she said quickly, opening her mouth wide for you. you obliged, hurriedly running yourself along her tongue.

“abby, abby,” you whined, gripping her hair to pump her head. she kept staring at you, her blue eyes boring into yours. “a-abby.” her hands soothingly ran up and down your thighs and her mouth closed slightly, suckling back onto your clit. “please!” you whimpered, the grip on her hair tightening. she groaned, the vibrations hitting your pussy so perfectly.

“shh.” she kissed your clit a few times before her fingers slipped into you. your jaw fell open and your head tilted back. you moaned her name quietly, heavy breaths filling the air. you could feel yourself, how close you were.

“please let me cum on your tongue,” you pleaded, your eyes locked on hers. she chuckled into your cunt, nodding whilst slurping up your juices. your legs trembled as you approached the edge of your orgasm. whimpers left your throat before you bit your lip, coming undone right on her tongue. she eagerly licked your nectar up, your hips rocking and grinding.

eventually coming down, you slowly pushed her head away. her face was drenched with your essence, a smug smile plastered on her face.

“that good, sweetheart?” she asked with a small kiss on your thigh. you nodded slowly, your breath heavy.

“yes,” you managed to say between labored breaths.

“let’s hope the boys didn’t hear, huh?” she stood up and guided your dress back on before speaking once more, “we’ll be doing this again.”

you bit back a smirk.

[nimbusghoul]

The Nice Soap-Viktor x Bimbo!Reader

Pairing:Viktor x Reader

Type: Fluff TO smut for the entirety

Fandom:Arcane/LoL(more Arcane Vik than LoL Vik, let me have my twink, okay?)

WC:1337 This is just a sneak peek, if you want more, I'll continue to provide, Don't hate me!

Viktor was never one to catch feelings easily, but when you came into his life from being a good friend of Jayce, he began to feel something new.

When Jayce introduced you to him, he didn’t know how to react to your bubbly air headed nature, it was new. Sure, Jayce is charismatic, but he didn’t shine as bright as you did, you could light up the whole room with a personality like that.

Maybe you weren’t the smartest, but you were an amazing listener, and things didn’t seem to get to you very often. Usually just in one ear and out the other, but when you were interested, your body language changed, anyone could tell you were paying attention, even if you usually didn’t fully understand.

You’d turn yourself towards him and lean in again or prop your elbows on the table and put your chin in your hands, kicking your feet a bit, and it was when you would ask most of the questions.

“What’s that?”

“What, a Hex Core?”

“Mhm! I dunno what that is, Sorry.”

“No need to apologize, I understand not everyone has the same knowledge. Ehh, a Hex Core is an adaptive rune matrix with Hextech in the middle…the potential for ultimate advancements in technology!”

“ohhh!… what?? I dunno what that stuff is either, i mean, i know what runes are but…what’s…all the other stuff??”

Viktor took a minute, how would he explain this without making you feel like you had less and less knowledge? He would never want to hurt your feelings, you were too pretty to be sad.

“Hextech uses magic to create artifacts, it’s made up of a special crystal. It can do all kinds of things, not just for me and the hexcore is full of hextech, which means it has all kinds of that magic.”

“Sounds like a lot of math, which i’m not good at. I think I’ll stick to less complex things and let you handle all of that genius people stuff”

You were really the only person who could distract him from his work. He had completely forgotten about the papers in front of him, his focus was on you, even if the papers were the thing you asked about. He realized he doesn’t ever really ask any questions that he had for you

“May I ask you an…odd question?”

“hm, of course! just make sure it’s not too complicated of a question? really big words get me all confused…”

“Of course of course. Those nails of yours, are they real? like, your actual nail? they’re quite long.”

“What? god no, these are made with powder polymethylmethacrylate and a monomer liquid!”

You turned over you hand and tapped on the underside of your nails, Viktor was a little shocked from that long word you managed to string out describing the acrylic powder

“So…they are plastic?”

“Nope! You gotta put the liquid with a bit of the monomer and then put it on top of a guide, sometimes plastic? but I like to use my silicone one because it peels better, and thennn you put the whole thing under UV light for it to harden and they’re so much better than fake plastic nails! fake nails that are plastic feel so icky and come off WAYYY too easy. plus nail glue can fuck up your skin soooo bad!”

“ah, i see, so you know a lot about this topic?”

“Of course! if i’m gonna look pretty I have to be healthy and to be healthy i have to know what Im doing to my body! That’s why I like hate cOsMeTiC sUrGuRiEs cause like everyone is beautiful in their own way and the fact that people think they have to pay to be beautiful is really disgusting! everyone was made to grow differently, just because you don’t look like your neighbor or your pretty classmate doesn’t mean you aren’t pretty or attractive or perfect! But like Botox for headaches is fine, it helps with migraines!”

“I see you feel very strongly about these things, Is there a reason why? Perhaps a connection to memories in which it makes you upset about this topic?”

“Well…I just want everyone to be happy, you know? and if you hate yourself because you don’t look like everyone else…that’s not happy. The only thing that’s truly ugly or unattractive is the way we treat some people, and the awful things we say and do. Ugly doesn’t exist *on* people, it exists *in* people.”

You turned to Viktor after finishing a sentence, a small smile, the first real one you’ve seen, but you decided not to say anything, having an internal celebration instead of external. Celebratory of small victories(or should i say Viktories, okay yeah i’ll see myself out sorry), it was rare to see Viktor smile from what Jayce has told you.

“You are very different from me, and yet i enjoy the company you provide, it’s quite odd, with how different our knowledge is you’d think I would be annoyed with all your questions, but you also have knowledge I don’t. I do not look into what I wear or the lotions, soaps and sanitizers I put on my hands-”

You were quick to accidentally cut him off, suddenly remembering why you came to the lab in the first place, even when it slipped out on the way from your home to the lab.

“OHMYGOODNESS!! I tOTALLY forgot about that! Sorry, I didn’t mean to cut you off, but I wanted to say I got you some new soap because i was reading the ingredients and yours contained formaldehyde!! that’s probably why your hands are always so dry, that is so bad for your skin! I also got you some lotion because they’re so dry from that awful soap…”

You quickly dug through your purse, pulling out a large bottle of moisturizing hand soap and some hand lotion with aloe, quickly placing them on the desk

“I literally went to the market at like 8 this morning because I knew that’s when they first set up so like they weren’t all gone when I got there!”

“You did this for me?”

“pshhh, yeah! and i got my pet some more of those cute special treats, they only get sold like twice during the week and they’re all gone in like an hour. it’s so terrible if I can’t get my sleepy butt up in time to get some!”

“Are they truly that important?”

“Well, my pets are like…my family! they’re like my little babies and I would literally assault whoever the hell runs this universe for my babies?”

“I apologize, I was speaking about the soap.”

“Oh, oops! Yeah, I wanted to get you something nice, plus, all the really nice ones sell out so fast! Especially like when this huuuuge group of wives come through and buy like literally everything nice.”

"Group of...wives?"

"Yeah, like, you know, middle aged women who don't need so much damn soap?"

"Ah..."

he seemed to take a pause to think

"Why...for me? Why not for Jayce?" He asked, looking up at you

"What? Your hands are dry, Jayce doesn't have...all that as an issue...you know?"

He seemed surprised as he thought before laughing quietly

"How are you so sure what my hands feel like? I'm sure Jayce is very touchy...but you know, I am not."

You felt your face heat quickly

"Well, I- they sound dry! You know, when you rub your hands together and it sounds...dry, like you can't hear my hands unless I rub them together really hard!"

He chuckled softly at your embarrassment before standing

"I find it cute that you care. Thank you, Солнышко(sólnyshka)"

-CUTOFF FOR PREVIEW-

[jamethinks]

One type of fanfic i just cannot read is future Anya fics because they always get her wrong. And i get it this is just how future fics work but i feel it's important to remember that Anya is only the way she is currently because she is a child and to me on of the most important parts of the story is how much being adopted by Twilight changed her life and put her on the trajectory for growth that she otherwise would have been denied.

Anya is only stupid today. She is going to grow into a brilliant girl regardless of what happens. It always feels so regressive seeing her be portrayed as childish and clueless even after living with a spy and attending Eden for 10+ years.

To understand why Anya is going to become smart you have to understand why she is stupid first.

(note: i am not referring to academic intellect but rather social skills, logic, reasoning and general awareness. Whether or not Anya spends the rest of her life failing maths and writing like she's having a stroke is beyond me and completely irrelevant to my point)

One of the major issues with the computer science world is AI and Data Analytics because for decades people have been pouring time and money into developing these sophisticated computers that are able to accurately emulate the human mind and intelligence to be used in automation and data processing. They’re now left with 2 issues: Big data (so much unprocessed data that has been gathered and sat uninterpreted) and human-dependent AI (AI systems that are overly reliant on human interaction they become more of a hassle than an aid). In other words the computers are very smart but they just don’t know what to do with all the information and in the end just return garbage.

Anya has a similar dilemma. She is very capable. Her mind reading abilities enable her to gather information like no other the problem is she doesn’t actually know how to use that information in a meaningful way. Throughout the manga we see her attempting (and even succeeding) to use her powers for her own advantage. But because of her age and lack of education the ways she can use her powers are limited.

Anya shows great attention to detail and clearly has good hindsight. She’s somewhat reactive but it’s obvious she still considers what impact her actions may have in the long term, she’s always trying to make the best move she just doesn’t know that many moves and her imagination is juvenile. We regular see Anya trying to gain intel on Damian so that she can use it to get closer to him and progress on plan B.

One example is with the dogs, she thinks if Damian sees she has a dog that they will have something to talk about and hopefully he’ll want to spend more time with her. The problems comes with Anya’s thinking and it hinders her approach. Rather than view it as an opportunity to find commonality she sees at a chance to impress him, and in the end it fails because Damian sees her as just trying to brag and show off rather than trying to make a genuine connection. Anya acts this way because she’s 5 and doesn’t really know how to socialize or relate to people.

In this situation she had two important pieces of information: 1) Damian has a dog that he likes and 2) Damian struggles with making friends and thinks everyone is just trying to exploit him. It’s that second part she fumbles and ends up making Damian feel even more guarded around her. She doesn’t have the fully developed emotional intelligence to understand and relate with Damian in a way that’s actually beneficial. But the thing is she can learn.

And so when you write future fics of Anya and she’s still the same erratic braggadocios little girl you’re effectively overlooking on her best traits, her awareness. Anya isn’t stupid she just doesn’t know how to be smart and that’s what makes her act so stupid.

For me, when writing future Anya, I think of all the people in her life, their specific skills and strengths and how Anya can use those to become a better more well rounded person. Specifically, Twilight and Handler. The Handler thing is more of a hc but Twilight has shown interest in Anya beyond the mission.

One of my favourite scenes is when they’re looking out the window and he asks to try and guess which person so most likely to be a spy, she assumes it’s the person who looks the strangest but he explains that a good spy is able to blend it and stand out the least. This changes Anya’s understanding of human behavior, it teaches a good trick to going unnoticed and gives her a detail to look out for when trying to find a mole/spy. It’s a small moment but it provides a lot of information that she can use later on in her life. Although nothing like that really happens again we can assume he continues to give her little tidbits of advice and information on espionage work as well as her seeing him in action (not really in a mission but just the way he operates) will teach her how to interpret situations in a way that can actually help her.

So not only does Anya have access to a lot of information, she knows the value of the information and she’s learning how to use that information. And that’s why I’m always confused when people write her in the future and she still can’t figure out that Damian likes her. ITS NOT REALISTIC.

And I’m not saying she’s gonna become all cool and suave when she grows up. I don’t think her personality is going to change much. In fact I think she’s going to deliberately avoid changing her personality, or at least her public persona. Anya will use people’s perception of her as childish and stupid to make herself less suspicious and trustworthy. (Also I don’t think she’s gonna change that much anyways bc that’s not how people work) but when thinking for her perspective she’s gonna be more aware and observant.

This rant is gotta long and it’s kinda nonsensical so I’m gonna stop here but please stop writing Anya as a stupid adult. It’s annoying and so boring.

But in the end it’s your fanfic do what you want 🥰❤️

[psiroller]

My Boy (We Don't See Each Other Much)

a third fic request from unkat has reached me for some gamer au shenanigans. cool, i thought, nice low stakes goofin off fun time au. lets put some military industrial complex in there

cw: institutionalized homophobia, vague references to USAmerican military operations in the 2000's, gamer lingo

The raid was a resounding success by their guild's lax standards. Chilchuck managed to pull a rare light armor piece he'd been looking for, finally catching him up to the modern game; he was surprised by how much damage the standard grinding mobs were doing to him now, even if his defense was always going to be lower than the tanks and fighters he partied with. Laios landed the biggest critical hit he'd ever seen; the broadsword Chilchuck nabbed for him off the Auction House was working well for him. He was clearly still riding the high, humming the victory fanfare under his breath as he took inventory and milled about with Senshi, comparing the ingredients they’d collected, trading amongst themselves. It was late, though, close to Senshi’s prep hours. Marcille was fighting against the cozy lethargy that followed a glass of wine and swiftly losing. Falin had already logged out to take a shower and head to bed, stopping by Laios’ door for a hug goodnight.

Laios went right back to the desktop after he shut the door. He pulled his headset back on and heard the familiar sound of Chilchuck’s raspy inhale and then a long, satisfied exhale.

“Chilchuck!” Laios said, too eagerly. “You’re still up?”

“No, I’m fast asleep,” Chilchuck drawled. Laios snorted and threw a rock at Chilchuck’s head. It passed through harmlessly; neither of them wanted the hassle of dedicated PVP. Maybe Laios wasn’t as keen on roleplaying as Marcille and Falin were, but the roleplaying server had been a lot kinder to him than the standard ones he usually played on.

“You were right about the sword,” Laios tittered. “I really have to start doing the math instead of just looking at bigger numbers—uh, focusing on how sharp the blade is, I mean.”

Chilchuck coughed through a laugh, leaning away from the mic so that it didn’t blow Laios’ eardrums out. “I think some of the guides are a little out of date,” Chilchuck said, relaxed enough to drop character. Marcille was still nearby, though the AFK symbol appeared under her name; the elf she played nodded off, ears drooping.  “Critical chance used to be calculated with this really convoluted system that also included timers, so there were only so many crits you could get in the span of a few minutes,” he went on. “They updated it recently so that you roll for a critical every hit.”

“Oh, thank God,” Laios said. “On a timer? How long did raids use to take?”

“Oh, upwards of four hours.” Chilchuck said casually. Laios sputtered. “I know, I know. I guess people had more free time back then… though with how people run multiple raids a night now, I guess it’s down to how committed you are.”

“So critical hit percentage is the thing I should focus on, then.”

“For your build, yeah.”

“Why does everyone recommend focusing on damage per second?”

“It’s a recent change, I think it got pushed out just before you signed up. They’ve tweaked it a lot, so people tend to get confused on how it works now, as it gets buffed and nerfed. Attack and attack speed used to be connected to the same value, so there are other ways you can focus on dealing damage instead of just right clicking the dragon and watching one of twelve timers tick down.” Chilchuck smiled and took another drag. “I think they’re trying to freshen things up a little. I like the changes.”

“Really? Everyone in the forums talks about how much they hate it.”

“If they’re old enough to be using the forums, they’re old enough to hate their favorite thing changing,” Chilchuck laughed.

“But not you,” said Laios. There was a warmth there that Chilchuck didn’t see a reason for.

“Eh.” Chilchuck’s ears burned under his headset. “Maybe a little bit. They don’t make shooters like they used to.” There was a pause. “Oh, right, you don’t like those.”

“Just the super hoo-rah military ones,” Laios breathed. “I can do Team Fortress 2. That one’s pretty fun.”

“Oh! I play that with—a friend, sometimes,” Chilchuck stammered. “Do you… I’m still kind of wired. I got a day off tomorrow. Do you—”

“Yeah!” His mic clipped. “Yeah. Sounds good.”

“Wait, you don’t have a test tomorrow or anything, do you?”

“… No.”

“I don’t like that hesitation.”

Laios huffed and puffed and logged out of Dungeon Divers with little warning, but usernames were exchanged and soon Laios’ avatar (a dragon, what else) popped up in Chilchuck’s scant friend list, nestled between Dan and May.

“I didn’t think you’d be cool enough to play TF2,” Laios teased.

“Cool people play TF2? I thought it was all screaming toddlers.”

“There are a few of those, yeah,” Laios admitted.

“I played the original game. It was a lot different. I don’t really keep up with it these days, but…”

“No worries,” Laios chirped. “I’ll take care of you.”

Chilchuck felt something zip down his spine. “I’m not that bad.”

They played three matches with the usual late night crowd, and it was a miracle if Chilchuck could stay alive for longer than a minute or two, let alone get a kill. Laios, on the other hand, clawed up every scoreboard and sat at the top. He started with Sniper; Chilchuck followed him while waiting for his respawn timer to run out, flicking between first and third person views. He watched as opponents’ heads would pop like grapes the moment they touched Laios’ reticle, faster than Chilchuck’s eyes could tell his brain to move his fingers.

“Okay, maybe I’m pretty bad,” Chilchuck admitted. “Compared to you.”

Laios missed a shot and sputtered. “I’m concentrating…!” A Spy knifed him, and Chilchuck could hear Laios whack his mouse against the table in frustration. Chilchuck laughed.

“Relax, that’s your first one this round,” he teased. “Your reflexes are crazy. Maybe I’m getting too old for twitchy games like this.”

“The mechanics have changed a lot and all the tryhards are on,” Laios conceded, breathing out the annoyance. “I’ll switch to Heavy. Wanna be my Medic? I can keep more of an eye on you.”

Chilchuck sniffed at his demotion to pocket healer, but then at least he’d be getting assist kills. “Alright, fine.”

Many assist kills were had, and all was well. It was fun to watch Laios’ brain work, bobbing and weaving and jumping around. He played like May did, hyperfocused on the movement mechanics; Chuck’s wrists weren’t any good for that anymore, so he usually hung back to support anyway.

“So why TF2 and not Call of Duty?” Chilchuck asked between matches, lighting another cigarette in search of the now-elusive nicotine buzz. “Seems like you’re really good. You could probably go pro if you wanted.”

Chuck heard a rustling against the mic. Sounded like Laios fiddling with the thing, maybe rubbing his face. He heard a scratch of stubble.

“Eh. I just—don’t like the military aesthetic very much, or something,” Laios mumbled. “I, uh. I served, and it’s a little…”

Chilchuck coughed. “You served? As in, served in the army?”

“Yeah.” There was a chuckle from the other line. “What? Is it that surprising?”

“Well, you just never…” Chuck scratched at the nape of his neck. “You never said anything that made me think… I don’t know what I thought. You didn’t seem like the type.”

“That’s because I’m not,” Laios snorted. “I was a good shot, but not a good soldier, if that makes any sense?”

Chuck wet his dry lips and leaned back in his chair. He didn’t lock into the next game, and the queue dumped them out. Laios didn’t reset it.

“So you objected? Conscientious objection? Is that what it’s called?”

“That’s what it’s called, but uh… it takes a while to get that done if you enlisted voluntarily. You have to plead your case for it. I thought about it, but I didn’t get the chance.”

Chilchuck swallowed dryly, then tapped some ash out into the ceramic tray Patty made for him many Father’s Days ago. “So you were kicked out?”

“Discharged, yeah,” Laios sighed. His chair creaked as he leaned back, too. “Other than honorable.”

Chuck winced. “What did you do?”

There was that rustling again. “I, um. If you don’t ask, I don’t have to tell you.”

“Oh, uh. Sorry, I”—Chilchuck’s eyes went wide—"ohhh.”

“Yeah.”

“Seriously? They booted you over a thing like that?”

Laios laughed weakly. “It’s in the regulations.”

“Still? When there’s, like, five wars going on?”

“Yep. I got a little pamphlet about it and everything. It’s rarer these days, and most people now get let off with an honorable, but…” Laios sighed. “My case was a whole thing. I didn’t fit in great with the rest of my platoon to begin with, and I maybe… I maybe misread some signals. You get bored out there, you know. Lonely. Got a little too close to my bunky…” Laios cleared his throat. “He let me down easy, but I guess he said something to somebody. I don’t think he’d go straight to the brass, he told me he wouldn’t, but someone must have overheard and that counts as credible evidence, so…”

Laios popped his lips with a click of his tongue. Chilchuck was frozen, ashes falling from the end of his cigarette into the crevices of his already dirty keyboard. The cigarette had almost burned down to the filter; money burning up in unsmoked nicotine. “I was probably going to leave anyway,” Laios said, to fill the silence. “I didn’t like being out there. If anything it kept me from being stupid and going AWOL. But if you talk to the VA—or my dad, heh—I  might as well have.”

Laios wheezed. Chilchuck blinked some smoke out of his eyes and stubbed out his cigarette.

“Hang on, you were on active duty and they’re hassling you at the VA over healthcare?”

“Oh yeah. Anything less than a general discharge is going to get you some hassle. I’m still on general health insurance, lowest tier. I’m not on TRICARE.”

Chilchuck pinched the pressure point between his eyebrows. “There’s gotta be a way to appeal that.”

“There might be. But I’ve spent about 40 hours of my life on the phone with them since I got back, and I’m not keen on spending anymore.” Laios made a blech sort of noise, disgusted, a little childish. “I hate phone calls. Besides, they gave me some money for college, so it wasn’t a complete wash.”

“Small miracles,” Chilchuck mumbled.

“Yup,” Laios breathed. He drummed his fingers on his desk, loud enough to reach the mic. Then there were a couple rhythmic bongo slaps against the table, nervous. “Ready for another game?”

Chuck looked at his watch. It was 4:32 AM.

“Sure. Night’s still young,” he said, for lack of anything comforting to say. “Play Heavy again.”

“Okay,” Laios said, and there was a smile in his voice. So that was something.

[alphajocklover]

Hey bro, I have a bit of a strange situation going on. You see, I’m a big nerd, like playing dnd, good at math, into card games nerds. And I never really questioned it. But recently, I’ve found myself wanting to be more active, I’ve been wanting to become something I am not, a big strong guy. And it all stared when I rediscovered the Xmen through the show and upcoming movie. Could you, I mean, would you mind helping me become like my ideal man, Wolverine?

I want to be the small hunky and hairy beats he is, oozing with libido and sex appeal.

It's a little strange, but I’ve been getting a lot of superhero requests recently! Not that I’m complaining, I love writing about superheros. They’re interesting characters who have long histories and decades of lore to use. Plus they’re usually hot as fuck. And Wolverine is one of the hottest. Muscular, with a thick layer of hair, and gruff as can be. He’s traditionally a loner, but he has a certain rough charm to him. There’s a reason he’s been a part of almost every superhero team at one time or another. People can’t get enough of the guy. It could be his inventive power set, his ability to change with the times and still remain interesting and relevant. Or it could be that he’s an incredibly manly hunk whose animalistic nature makes people weak in the knees. He’s everything you ever wanted to be, or at least everything you’ve wanted to be since you saw those new X-Men cartoons. When you watched them, something awakened in you. And now… you’re becoming just like him.

You’re not becoming him, if that’s what you’re thinking. Whatever is happening to you can’t give you claws like Wolverine or coat your skeleton in adamantium. I mean, in our world adamantium doesn’t really exist, and even though some transformation methods could turn you into a perfect replica of wolverine or add onto the periodic table, this one won’t do that. It’s more fun to be a stud without the responsibility of being a superhero anyways, especially since one of his main powers is to survive incredibly painful situations. Now you get all the pleasure, none of the pain, and an absolutely studly body.

One common fun fact that people like to bring up about Wolverine is the fact that he’s… while he’s short. Really short. Since Hugh Jackman is over 6 feet tall, people tend to forget that in the comics Wolverine is a complete shortstack, standing at 5’3”. So, I’m afraid to say that you’re going to shrink quite a bit. Luckily, being shorter just makes your new muscles look even bigger and better. Your biceps are enormous, your pecs are amazing, and your abs are almost inhuman. That, plus a heavy layer of manly, thick hair, and you look like you walked right off the pages of a comic book. Or out of a very suggestive movie. Of course you don’t want to just look like Wolverine. You want to be like Wolverine. Which means a few… adjustments to your personality.

That might seem daunting or scary at first, the idea that your personality is going to change. But you won’t feel that way very long. Nothing is going to faze you anymore. Just like Wolverine You’re tough as nails and you act like it. Literally nothing throws you. You’re a certified badass. Yes, you have a sensitive side like the real Wolverine, but most people aren’t gonna see that. Most people, from your manly new friends to the girls you hook up with, are going to see the manly man, the strong warrior, the beast.

There are some small differences between you and Wolverine of course. The main one being that the guy in the comics doesn’t hook up with people very often. Too busy saving the world. And when he does get a love interest, the feelings between them are pretty serious. You don’t have the same patterns. You’re the type of guy who has a new girl every night and is constantly looking for more pussy. You can’t help it, with a massive cock and an even bigger libido. You’re the best at what you do, and what you do is fuck.

**Hey guys! Hope I did Wolverine justice. He’s a super hot character and I had a lot of fun writing a tf inspired by him. Hope you enjoyed!**

[austinkleon]

The Little Nun strip by Mark Newgarden

These were strips Newgarden drew in the late 80s/early 90s for The New York Press. Here's what he said about them in an interview with The Comics Journal:

I was really trying to work with a lot of self-imposed limitations: No dialogue, pantomime strips with no close-ups, or very few close-ups. No “camera” moves. They were influenced a lot by [Ernie] Bushmiller, [Otto] Soglow too, who did The little King. It was always pantomime, the Little King character, anyway. He would only have the other characters talk. But in The Little Nun, no one’s allowed to talk. It’s all pantomime. You rarely see that stuff anymore. It’s a relatively hard thing to do. It’s not an easy thing at all.   You almost have to draw like Bushmiller or Soglow, you have to be crystal clear and ultra simple in your drawings to make them read. A lot of people still have trouble reading pantomime strips. They are not used to looking at the pictures that closely. They’re used to reading it from balloon to balloon and then going on to the next thing.

They were hard. They took a long time. I did all The Little Nuns on gridded graph paper and it was like a lot of math. Slavishly making minute changes—the kind of stuff Bushmiller did as second nature. But it was a lot of slow work with rulers and Rapidographs and drafting stuff. 

I have loved these strips ever since I saw them in the Chris Ware-edited McSweeney's 13.

[thelunarbar]

How romantic sex on a school bus. Well ig just making out but my point still stands. And Ik it’s a dream but she’s all like ooh ok and I’m just like girl no. Make him take you to a bed at least. 

I love watching the way stiles opinion of Derek changes over time esp given that Derek doesn’t make a great first impression(not that stiles really did either but Derek’s was worse)

“Ate it?”

“Raw?”

“No you stopped to bake in a little werewolf oven.”

Scott’s hair is sooooooooo bad 😭

Also forgot how much I hate this teacher(biology or math maybe? Idk) he’s annoying

This may very well be the only time stiles tells Scott not to cancel a date. 

Danny deserves more love 

Lydia’s thing of acting dumb is really annoying like if he doesn’t want you unless you’re stupid you’re better off without him girl

Stiles reaction to Scott asking Allison about their hanging out with Jackson and Lydia

Jackson is such an asshole but Ik I end up liking him more later on

Of all things to lie about; your bowling skills???

Gotta love stiles needing to know if he’s attractive to gay guys(the answer is yes. Just ask Derek 😜)

Ngl I’ve never been sure how I feel abt deaton bc he’s like kinda helpful sometimes but also super weird more often than not

I fucking adore Melissa McCall 

Dude I tried for literal months(tho without rewatching bc I didn’t wanna do that at the time) to figure out where the pic of Derek standing behind broken glass came from and it’s from ep three when the police officer and then Scott show up the hale house 

I feel like rains too much for this show being set in California 

Derek is so nonchalant about Scott’s freak out I love it

“Why is this starting to feel like you’re Batman and I’m Robin? I don’t wanna be Robin all the time.”

“Nobody’s Batman and Robin any of the time.”

“Not even some of the time?” I love this lil convo and esp this last line bc stiles sounds so sad abt it 

Seriously why is the lighting so damn dark all the time even when I have the brightness on my screen turned all the way up and to my recollection it only gets worse

Scott and his fucking one track mind 

Yikes Allison’s closet is so bad all like boho chic and sequiny

Again a parent walking in without knocking 

I mean at least he acknowledged he forgot to knock but like teenage girl who could’ve been like changing or smth jeez

Love that he’s clearly getting ready to go out and they decide to sneak out before he leaves 

Man I wanna go bowling I haven’t bowled in so long (related even if it doesn’t seem like it, Jackson Lydia Allison and Scott go bowling)

Jackson’s laugh is so obviously fake and it’s so obnoxious 🤮

I can appreciate that being werewolf didn’t make him good at everything(just most things) 

I love love love Derek’s car 

Why does Chris argent wash Derek’s windshield for him??? Oh yes very intimidating good job Chris 

I can’t wait for argent to grow a beard he looks so much better with it 

Breaking the window on Derek’s car was so unnecessary and rude 

Ofc now Scott is great at bowling 

Lydia using Scott to make Jackson jealous is so annoying 

Ah innuendo 

“How do you cheat at bowling?”

“I don’t know, but you did.” But for real Jackson how does someone cheat at bowling 

And Derek’s being a creep again cmon man no wonder people don’t like you when this is the impression you always give 

Call a code? You have to specify which one Melissa. I’m not even a nurse and I know that 

Yay another cringey make out scene 

“Do either of you even play baseball?”

I love that they’re both super honest and just say no when she asks if they care there’s a police enforced curfew

Scott’s angry voice is not great 

Derek’s echoy voice thing wtf is that?

Love that Scott’s first thought is to try to get Derek arrested, again, for smth he didn’t do 

Ooh jump the whole staircase he’s so cool guys you don’t even know 

Ooh he’s losing the jacket things are getting serious 

The noise while he shifted was gross and not necessary 

Also I’m pretty sure they change his shifted makeup look later on bc he doesn’t look how I remember 

Love the choice of Destroya by MCR for this totally pointless fight between Scott and Derek tho 

I mean I say fight but it’s more like Derek beating the snot out of Scott 

and now we have the rational conversation after punching each other 

Oh now you give him answers after you beat the crap out of him

How come we never really discuss the fact that Scott is part of Peter’s pack? At least until he becomes an alpha himself

[noah-liketheboat]

I’ve recently begun using a wheelchair. Here’s the scoop.

I also started using forearm crutches even more recently but we’ll get to that in a second post bc this one got too long

I got my chair for $325 on OfferUp. It’s a motion composites Helio A6, and it has some fancy cushions on it. All in all I got it like 88% off of original price and it’s in pristine condition. Well, it was, until I brought it home and within 24 hours my cat scratched the (pink!!) paint job and put holes in the cushions. Thanks Misty. It now lives in the back of the car for its protection.

I put a clip-on cup holder on it and purple/white spoke covers. It’s pretty sick.

I use my wheelchair instead of walking/standing probably 30-40% of the time.

Personally

Oh my god it’s helped so much. I have so much more energy. I don’t flinch when I stand or walk. I can wait in line for food. I’m not dizzy, embarrassingly sweaty, and spacey just from standing in line anymore.

Because the previous owner spent literally $1,000 on special cushions (seat and back), I have the comfiest seat in any room 96% of the time. 10/10 would recommend. It helps with the back pain too obvi but first and foremost it’s so comfy.

I can go to the zoo. I get into the zoo for free because college but I can’t ever go because I can’t tolerate walking and standing for so long. But now I can go to the zoo!

I have more energy at the end of the day to participate in household chores and life. Before this, all my time was spent either in school or trying to recover enough to go to school again. Even doing my homework was difficult because of the fatigue, let alone date nights, hobbies, cooking dinner, sweeping the floors… it caused a lot of tension between me and my partner as well as my general being miserable.

Very steep learning curve. Very steep strength curve.

The ramp to my math class isn’t a steep grade but it’s long. When I started using it, I had to wheel up backwards. I got out of breath very easily and my shoulders were always aching something awful after going between classes. Now that hill is quite manageable and I only have sore shoulders if I’m going really fast or really far.

Wheelies. An unexpected but important skill. One that I am not good at. It took me weeks to get my wheels off the ground at all, but once I did I had a huge improvement and quickly was able to get my wheels ~6 or 8 inches off the ground. I still can’t sustain it though. I use them to go over bumps and get started up awkward ramps sometimes.

It’s been an amazing improvement to my life. I’m more independent, in less pain, happier, and more energetic. I should’ve done it earlier.

Observations:

People are weird. They talk to me more. Like, strangers ask me how my day is going in the elevator, people make small talk when they hold the door. This isn’t necessarily negative, but it is weird.

Kids stare. Adults also stare but they try to hide it. I don’t mind when kids stare though. They’re just curious and unaware.

I’m always a little nervous to ever stand up or walk out in public in case someone either thinks it’s a miracle and starts praising the lord or like hate-crimes me for “faking.”

When I wheeled in to all my classes after spring break, my teachers and seat mates were all instantly “oh my god what happened are you ok???” It’s a little awkward to explain that it’s just nerve damage that’s been getting worse.

People usually say “I’m so sorry” or “I hope you get/feel better soon!” And it’s like. I know their intentions are good, of course, but I don’t want people to be sorry! This has been an amazing life change for me! Also I’m not getting better, certainly not any time soon, and conversation gets awkward after that.

I think when I tell people it’s not really a “get better” thing, I think they at least subconsciously think it’s terminal or something?? Like. I’m not dying of nerve damage. I had nerve damage before spring break too. It’s just I finally decided to do something besides suck it up and hope I can make it through the day.

My campus is not as accessible as I once thought. The main culprit? UNLEVEL SIDEWALKS. They are the bane of my existence. My right arm will be pumping like my life depends on it and my left will be almost doing nothing. And then later when I’m doing the other way it’ll be the opposite.

There’s no ramp on the other side of one of the buildings I walk through to get to class. That was awkward.

There’s also a lot of cobblestone-type walking areas. Not only are they hella bumpy to wheel on, but they’re old and not well maintained. The cracks between slabs and the potholes can and will eject me from my chair if I’m not careful.

Funny story #1:

I rolled into the disability center on campus to take a test, as per usual (extended time and testing environment accommodations) and they had me wait while they got everyone else seated, which was weird, and then the testing coordinator came over to me and sat down next to me and was like “heyy how are you?” And I was like “I’m good, I’m good! Ah, well—*gestures to chair* yknow.” And she goes “Yeahh of course… so is this… new?”

Is it new??? Ma’am you see me every three weeks on the dot for tests, and every time for the past two years I’ve walked in on my own two feet, and today I come rolling in as I’ve transgendered into a vehicle. Yeah it’s new!!

Don’t worry I didn’t say that. I said “yeah, well, kind of. The chair is new, but the reasons aren’t. It’s just helping me a lot and my life is easier with it.” or smthn like that and she was like “oh ok good cool great”

Anyways, she just needed to tell me essentially that she would have me take my test at a height-adjustable table. Same room, same everything. Just instead of sitting in a test cubby I’d be at what’s essentially one of those standing desks. I was all nervous just for her to sit me at a table I can crank up and down like an old car window.

Funny Story #2

I’m rolling across the courtyard(??) in front of the library where they were having one of those random college of business things with tents everywhere. You’re aware. Just trying to get to class.

I hear “Hey! Excuse me, hey!” from behind me and I turn my head to see a girl frantically waving me down running across the grass. Naturally I’m intrigued.

She gets to me, a little out of breath, and then goes “Would you be interested in playing tennis?”

I look down at my chair. I look back up at her. “Ah… no…”

She was talking about adaptive tennis. Which I could’ve guessed probably but I was caught so off-guard and I was real confused.

She invited me to join the adaptive sports program/club thing, which is headed by a disabled professor but run entirely by able-bodied students (who get a class credit for volunteering with the organization, essentially). I told her I was really new so probably not, but I was willing to look into it. She gave me the professor’s email and I sent him an email like “hey one of your students flagged me down to talk abt adaptive sports but I’m shit at wheelchairing so probably not but I’d love to meet up and chat and get to know more about the program and stuff.”

It’s been a month. I haven’t gotten a reply or acknowledgement or anything.

All the stuff I can find about the program is obviously directed towards able-bodied students wanting them to volunteer or take the class. The Instagram has a post with each student in the class getting a slide with their lil intro and stuff. The professor only appears in group shots. At any rate I’m not that invested.

Personal Relations

Abled ppl when I told them I’m getting a wheelchair: oh no!! I’m so sorry!! What’s wrong!! That’s awful!! :((((

Disabled ppl when I told them I’m getting a wheelchair: omg that’s amazing I’m so happy for u :)

One exception to the able bodied trope: my youth group Bible study, surprisingly. I was sharing that I was really feeling a lot of turmoil about my decision and all that jazz and they were like “just do it. you already know it’s the right choice, and ur strong enough to do it” and they all “oohed” and “ahhed” when I rolled up with it next week. 10/10 queens.

My wheelchair has caused so many personal relationship issues in my life. So many.

Suddenly everyone’s a medical expert in me specifically. Everyone besides me knows what’s best, and what’s best is not a wheelchair. People who used to ask me what was wrong with them when they had a tickle in their throat or fell on their foot funny have apparently become scholars on complex hashimotos, nerve damage, neuropathy, and any and all suspected other conditions I may have. I wonder when they had time to do that, since they still don’t know how to care for a simple kitchen injury.

When I point out that the alternative to the wheelchair is constant+worsening pain and ask them if that’s what they think is best, these overnight medical experts get all huffy and don’t have an answer.

I have done extensive research about all my diagnosed conditions and possible ones over the course of many years. I’ve been in and out (mostly out) of at least a dozen doctor’s offices and done several rounds of different types of PT. I also live in my body 24/7. One of my earliest memories is of waking up my aunt at night during a sleepover because my nerve pain wouldn’t let me sleep. I wasn’t any older than 4. Back then the only words I had were leg cramps and growing pains.

I didn’t know my pain was abnormal for a long time. I’m good at hiding it. I’m good at “pushing through.” I experienced severe medical neglect, to the point of it being life-threatening, for nearly 2 years in the TTI and I was punished any time I tried to advocate for myself and my needs or really even talked about how I wasn’t physically well.

Basically I gave up trying to truly tell people how bad my quality of life was when I was about 16 because I wasn’t believed and I was often punished and/or had it used against me.

Nevertheless, everyone (read: my partner, my parents, and my partner’s parents) in my life thinks that I’m terrible awful wrong bad lying etc. for using the chair.

I’ve been using it for ~2 months and this is the first week my partner hasn’t argued with me about it or made an unnecessary comment. #1 worst thing they’ve said is that I’m “neglecting half of my body” by not walking 24/7. Oooh that made me mad. I do my PT almost every day, I stretch every day, I know exactly what almost every ache and pain originates from, I check in with my body constantly throughout the day. But I’m “neglecting it.” Not to mention that after my second appointment my Doctor specifically said he wants me using the chair until at least June.

My partner was originally very supportive, but then they talked to their mom and suddenly everything changed and they are borderline vindictive about my chair. Their mother is a Doctor, true, but most of her career she was a PICU nurse and also knows exactly nothing about my medical history except that I’m allergic to pecans and walnuts. Oh, and their dad has a friend who cured hashimotos by going gluten free, so obviously I’m just not trying hard enough or smthn. ((I’ve been almost gluten free before. No change.))

I cried every week about their attitude towards/comments about my chair except for this one. Every time I felt confident about it I would remember everything they said and my shoulders would physically slump. But no matter how many times I brought up how hurt and uncared for I was feeling, it ended up with me crying and them being either the same or more solid in their beliefs.

My therapist is a saint.

On the brightish side, my family and partner have finally begun taking my health and chronic issues seriously. I went to the Doctor two weeks after I got the chair and got started on a new medicine (a loop diuretic if anyone’s curious).

My mom keeps asking if I’m “better yet” and it’s really hurtful for some reason? She wants to know all my improvements, but when I start to say how my chair has helped so much, she cuts me off and says “no I mean the medicine.”

I am on the lowest dose they make, and I only take it every other day. I haven’t lost any weight since starting it (loop diuretics work by flushing excess water out of your body via peeing every twelve seconds, and this leads to weight loss. It’s estimated I’m carrying ~30lbs in water weight). Again, it’s been nearly two months. I’m the pissmaster 9000 every other day.

My mom at some point said she just “can’t accept that I’m in a wheelchair at 20.” My brother in Christ, what does that even mean? I’m not even using it full-time, or even the majority of the time.

I’ve had a follow up with my Doctor since I started but he kept me on the same dose even though I told him I haven’t lost any weight. Cest la vie.

He did tell me he wants me using the chair until at least June, and if all goes well he’ll start me in (another round of) PT, and it sounded like he wanted me doing decently intensive PT because he asked if I was in school in June and said it was good I wasn’t. If I go to PT, the chair usage advice will be passed on to them.

This post got far too long. I’ll split my crutches experience into a separate post and link it here once it’s up.

The chair herself. Yeah it’s in a bathroom don’t worry about it.

[spiderculechronicals]

Peter 3 goes on patrol with the air tag on his butt since he doesn't have a phone yet, then meets up with Wade after.

___

Peter 3 let out a joyful whoop as he swung through the city, doing flips at the peak of his arcs and turns, enjoying the rush of the free fall. He felt his Spidey-Sense prickle up a low-level alert and changed course to investigate. As he drew near enough to perch on the roof of one of the buildings near the alley in question, the warning ramped up hot and he instinctively shot a web into the dark, then dropped down, having knocked a knife out of a mugger’s hand and startled him back into a stack of pallets. He put himself in front of the victim, arms fanned out protectively.

“What the- who the hell are you??” the mugger asked.

“Who the…” Peter 3 cocked his head, “Are you serious? I’m Spiderman.” He turned to the victim, “Are you okay? Did he take anything?”

“No, uh- I mean, I’m okay, uh… thank you! You look taller in person!” the near-victim hurried off back to the main street area.

“Um!... Thanks?” Peter 3 shook his head, then shot another web without looking, sticking the mugger to the street before he could run off. “Okay man, come on, that’s not how this works.” He turned to face him and crossed his arms. The mugger fumbled in his pockets and Peter 3 huffed in annoyance, webbing his hands tied. “No.” He sighed. “Look, I’m just… I’m gonna go get someone to call the cops and pick you up. I’ll stick close in case someone else tries to pull an uno reverse and mug you, then you’re on your own.”

“You’re not Spiderman, Spiderman’s a kid…”

“Dude! That was almost four years ago when that story came out! Do math! Not a kid!”

“I heard he was like, fourteen back then… So that’s still a minor…”

“Oh my God…” Peter 3 threw his hands up and walked out of the alley and peeked around, looking for a likely person to call it in. A couple onlookers lifted up their phones to take a picture and he zeroed in on them with a little wave. “Uh, hey! Hi…” He hopped up on a streetlight and stuck to it. “Are you taking picture or video right now? … could you just please call 911 or the non-emergency line and leave a tip about this alley? … I don’t have my phone on me at the moment.”

“You should put pockets in your suit!”

“… I have pockets!” Peter 3 said, sliding a hand down his thigh into the concealed pocket there and wiggling his fingers. This got him a couple giggles.

“Before I call the cops, uh, is the guy in the alley black?” One of the less-drunk group members spoke up.

Peter 3 pointed a finger. “That is a sadly relevant question. No, not a black guy, please tell the dispatch that info. Not too sure more specific than that. Also he’s fine, just immobilized.”

“ACAB!” one of the other people in the group called out.

“Hey! Look, I agree! But this guy was gonna literally stab someone, this isn’t a slap on the wrist and let go kinda deal. What do you want me to do, beat him up myself? Nuh-uh. I’ll stick around to make sure nothing happens until he’s in custody.” Peter 3 relaxed into an upside-down crouch.

“Uh, I guess someone already called it in! They’re on their way.”

“Okay, Thanks!” Peter 3 swung himself up and leapt off the streetlight onto the building, then scrambled back to the alley to wait out of sight.

“… I know you’re up there!” the mugger called up into the dark.

“Dude, I said I would be. Calm your tits.” Peter 3 snorted, settling into the shadows high on the wall, sticking with his back and feet. He wondered how long it would take before Wade noticed he’d stopped traveling and come to investigate. The arrival of flashing red and blue lights at the entrance to the alley signaled the authorities’ arrival. “Alright, pumpkin, your ride is here. I’ll make sure you get on the bus safe and sound, then I don’t want to catch you out here again, got it?” Flashlights swept down the alley, spotlighting the webbed-up mugger. One broke off and went high, catching Peter 3’s reflective eye shields. He put a hand up to shade them, then walked himself up backwards quickly out of sight before jumping higher on the next building. He grinned to himself as he heard the mugger insist to the cops that that wasn’t Spiderman.

“I mean he looked like Spiderman to me? You saw him sticking to the wall… and these look like webs… what else would you call that?”

“Dude but Spiderman’s a kid, that guy was for sure older… like… mid… twenties at least?”

“Whatever. This your knife?”

“… No.”

“I’m pretty sure Spiderman’s college age now. That expose came out four years ago and I think he was a high-school senior then…”

Peter 3 chuckled, satisfied that there wouldn’t be any police violence, and took a running start before web-slinging away again.

--

“BabyBoy!!” Wade squeaked cheerfully as Peter 3 came in for a landing on the agreed upon rooftop, holding up a bag. “I brought tacos!”

Peter 3 remembered that Wade had been looking for him for two years. “Babe, you’re the best.” He sat down on the edge of the roof and dangled his feet down. Wade plopped next to him, his expressive mask almost giving heart-eyes. Peter 3 tugged his own mask off and grinned. “You gonna gimmie kiss?”

Wade gasped, “Spiderman! What are you doing with your mask off?”

“Wade… nobody knows this face.” Peter 3 snorted, then remembered his doppelganger and paused. “Well…”

“Oh shit you saw a picture of Andrew Garfield, huh?”

“Oh My God Thank You!! Petey and Dr Parker were all just, oh I see a resemblance, but…! Then we figured out he’s like, mirror-image with his features? I mean it’s subtle, but…”

“No, I got that right away. I mean, I did a hard double-take the first time he popped up on my screen, but that was because I knew it wasn’t you, and I kinda thought maybe the TVA had pulled a fast one or just fucked up and like… this was all I was gonna get and… weeelll anyway…” Wade kicked his feet and looked down for something to change the subject. “Taco?”

Peter 3 huffed softly, not missing that veiled admission. “Yes, please.”

“I only did it once here. I wasn’t going to give up, it just… felt like the rug had been swept out and… I was gonna find you no matter what, Babyboy, promise.”

“And you did. We made it.” Peter 3 leaned in and kissed Wade’s jaw where he’d pulled his mask up to eat. Wade turned to face him, then tugged his mask up all the way and smiled softly, leaning in for a proper kiss.

“We did.” Wade sighed happily. “Want rooftop head?”

“Wade, no…” Peter 3 snorted. “Not tonight. Actually I might put the mask back on… we’re on Petey’s turf still, we haven’t really discussed the intricacies of like… how we’re gonna manage the Spiderman image. But public indecency is a no-go for sure.”

“Booo. But fair, I guess.”

Peter 3 picked his mask up and put it back on, rolling it up just enough to eat. “Like old times, eh?”

“Did you help some folks out tonight? I saw you stop and camp for a bit, I was almost gonna head over but… like there wasn’t enough action to suggest you’d been fighting, so…”

“You stalker,” Peter 3 teased. “Yeah, I stopped a mugger? He had a knife. And he fucking clocked me! Like- absolutely did not believe I was Spiderman! With my webs all over him, jumping down from the roof, the whole thing. Because he thinks Spiderman is still a kid. Apparently some people were saying Petey was 14 when his identity got blown up, and… anyway. I was kinda prepared to keep running into that kind of reaction but, nah… Then I caught a car from pulling out too fast into traffic when some idiot flew by that would’ve hit ‘em, and then I kinda stood out in the street and held up the oncoming cars so they could get out. Got flipped off and honked at while someone else called out I love you Spiderman! So yanno. Pretty quiet overall. Caught someone’s phone they dropped off a rooftop party railing.”

“I threatened a couple creeps that were lewding on some young ladies having a nice night out, they went home early.” Wade offered.

“Just threatened?” Peter 3 probed, munching one of the tacos.

“It did not take much! I’ve been out and about enough. They had to walk home of course, no uber is gonna pick you up with that mess in your pants.”

“Ha! Nice.”

“We need to get you a phone. And Dr Parker. Phone store tomorrow?”

“Agreed.”

[cookingwithroxy]

I found these reviews on this book written by this person under the pseudonym The Last Psychiatrist. The scroll bar makes them look long, but most of the bulk comes from the comment section. One review is longer than the others in a way, but only by half. I highly recommend you read through them all by maybe putting them in a text-to-speech program to run in the background to understand my question's context because I really need an informed opinion. There will be a popup to subscribe to the website but in reality, it isn't really required to read the whole review, so you can just close out the popup:

Article 1 (longest)

Article 2

Article 3 (shortest)

My question is, what do you think of the author's message? Is his message that "all media is porn" have any fruitful meaning or understanding that can be gleaned, alongside his other opinions? I feel like he's very misanthropic and due to my personally stemming distrust of anyone in the psychology field and anyone who reads self-help or "[concept/topic] is mentally destroying you and it's your fault" books, I can't really answer them myself without feeling biased. Everyone is hailing this book as a mirror held up to yourself, but I just don't get it.

TL:DR? I TL:DR'ed the review because the excerpts it used were too painful to read. 'All Media is Porn' is a concept that is nothing new, but it works it's best to note that this is to show there's nothing unnatural or corruptive about porn itself, and any faults it has can be shown in anything else. Using that concept to condemn all media is the mindset of a toddler.

You want to share my suffering, read past.

just reading the first review and honestly having to actually skim at times and I'm stuck with the takeaway of 'this is an intentionally pretentious book by an excessively pretentious narcissist written for extremely pretentious philosophy students'.

And that's before we even get to the concept of 'all media is porn' which... what does that even mean? 'Everything done for enjoyment is of equal value as things consumed for sexual gratification'? Congratulations, dipshit, you've reduced the entirety of the human experience to a binary equation that frames all the good things as form of utilitarian state that even you don't live up to.

Can I see that this book would be seen of as 'a mirror held up to yourself'? Yes, in that from what little I did read is so blatantly and obviously self-important and absolute horseshit that the people who'd actively seek it out are as equally self-important and bullshit.

I mean fuck, let me just excerpt an excerpt and you'll see what I mean:

'"Why so many footnotes???” Which is the same question as, “why are your sentences so long, why so many commas, what the hell is with you and semicolons?” It’s all on purpose, to get rid of readers. You’re stumped by the physical layout? This book is not for you, your brain is already set in concrete, it can never change, only crumble as it ages. Which is fine if your plan was to be a foundation for the next generation, but it isn’t; you’re the rotting walls that they have to knock down while you play the flute and pretend to give freedom to everyone else. If you look forward to TV, if you think “the problem with the youth today is that they’re entitled,” if you think, “damn all the partisanship, I wish someone in government would take charge and do the right thing — you are a true Athenian democrat. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” Yeah. I’m not saying you are necessarily a bad person, I’m just saying your kids would benefit from a more hands off approach to parenting. And a math tutor. Most of you should not read this book, the Disclaimer represents all the justification you deserve, I did everything I could to exclude everyone, including adding the porn story at the beginning, a Beware Of Dog sign written in cat.'

Is this pretentious? Oh fuck yes, but here's the thing that puts it further into context: The reviewer explaining what leads to it:

'Because this book is . . . what even is this book? The first page has an eight-page long footnote at the bottom, which covers the Delphic Oracle, the Salem Witch Trials, and the movie Fast Times At Ridgemont High, and ends up concluding that you (yes, you) are incapable of having desires. Immediately afterwards, the narrative breaks off for a thirty page cuckold porn story, which sounds like the sort of thing you do in order to discuss later, except that it never does. Then it’s back to more seemingly-crazy assertions and multi-dozen page footnotes. Footnote 35 is half a page of the author screaming at a hypothetical reader who wants fewer footnotes:'

So that whole screed about how you're some form of stodgy mind-blind stick in the mud...

If you recognize that his shit page layouts and bad annotations are shit and bad.

Seriously, I don't need to go further and this is so fucking stupid I really should put a fucking read more and tldr at the start rather than make you suffer what little I let myself suffer.

More detailed TL:DR? Anyone who hails this book to you needs to be checked out for dark triad traits more like than not.

[onewmin]

the perfume on the shelf. pt. 2 | bangchan

Pairing: Bang Chan x Fem!reader

Summary: Falling in love with your best friend was never a part of the plan. So you end it up. But does he want to put a stop to it, too?

Warnings: AU, mentions of cheating, profanity, Chan being completely oblivious, a cliffhanger in the end

Author’s note: this is Chan’s POV; the change from “she” to “you” seems very poetic to me as the story progresses lmao. There are a lot of flashbacks, they are highlighted so that you don’t get lost. hope you enjoy! Tell me what you think!

Disclaimer: the names and appearances of real people are used for inspiration and writing purposes only. I do not claim anything, everything belongs to its owners.

Part 1 | Part 3

The first time Chan ever saw your face was at a book fair six years ago.

He attended with his friends and girlfriend at the time; she was keen on adult novels so much, that she could never miss the opportunity to buy and read something new.

You were exactly were the girlfriend wanted you: at the “18+ novels” stand. Telling people about books, suggesting different stories to buy, and laughing at even improper jokes some customers were making.

His ex-girlfriend got an invisible hold on you, becoming the customer who seized your attention for the next twenty minutes. Every book was described in such details, that even Chris got involved and bought one. Not that he ever read it, though — he was more a fan of detective stories.

But his girlfriend? Bought a copy of each book. She spent so much money at the fair, and had to ask her parents send a little bit just so she wouldn’t die of starvation. Yeah, being a student was his favourite time, surely.

The book fairs at the campus happened every six months, so in a half year he was there again, that time volunteering at the children’s section. Only then he found out fifty percent of story collections and books were written by the students themselves. He didn’t see you at the fair that time, but he definitely saw an opportunity.

Three days later he was at the writers’ club gathering, having collected all his poems in a green binder. Chan was never socially anxious, making friends and new acquaintances anywhere he went, but that time was different. He felt out of place, thinking everyone was (or at least, looked like) really smart and he? He never felt that way. His, by that moment already ex, girlfriend had always been making fun of him for almost failing his maths classes. She used to say, “If someone is failing maths, they’re not good at anything”. Weird shot, but okay. It’s not like he was a genius, he reminded her and himself, and maths was pretty hard, too.

Was Chan’s not being a maths genius the main reason she cheated on him? Who knows, she blocked him right after he found out about her affair. Good for him. Good.

The breakup rediscovered his long-forgotten talent — writing poems. He had so much of them he didn’t know what to do. Before the writers’ club. Maybe here he’d find a way to show his true self to the world.

As he sat down in the corner of the room, at the back of the hall, he noticed just how many people were apart of the club. And they were all friends, too. “I’m not here to make friends”, Chan shook his head, “I’m here to get published”.

Suddenly the seat near him was taken. A girl with a pink binder, who, as Chan noticed only by a quick look at her face, was displeased with something. Maybe her book or story idea got rejected?

“Hey”, Chan started, slightly turning his torso in the girl’s direction, “d’you know how to get published?”

The girl’s eyebrows raised, eyes darted to him. “Shit, what did I even do?”, the wave of panic rose from his feet right to his head the moment he saw the look in her eyes. Dark, full of anger.

“You came here just to get published?”, despite the way she presented herself, her voice sounded pretty nice. “You have to get through professor Martins first”.

“Literature professor, yeah?”

She nodded. For some reason, Chris found her features… mesmerizing? No, that was too much for a person he’d just met. “He put me through nine circles of hell before even considering publishing. Change this, rewrite that, the characters are too unrealistic — yeah, like, he would know, how real teenagers communicate”, she wanted to say something else, but quickly covered her mouth with her palm. “Anyways, he knows if your work is worth it”.

“Did you get published?”

“Yup. I literally had to die and come back to life for this to happen”.

Chris raised an eyebrow. “Literally?”

“Literally, dude. Everyone here has done it, at least once”.

Later that night he carried two binders in his hands — the girl was kind enough to share her works with him. Professor Martins absolutely destroyed Chan’s poems (and will to live as well), stating,

“They lack in grammar. It’s too simple”.

And it was the nicest thing he said. Chan had never, even years after graduating, felt another sudden urge to weep in his car like it was that evening.

“Is he always like this?” he asked the girl, back at his seat.

“Did he brutally murder your dream of becoming a writer?”

Chris nodded, letting out a shaky sigh. The girl’s lips curved into a soft smile, and she patted his shoulder, a sympathetic look in her eyes. “Yeah, I know. You’ll ignore the next few meetings, but will come back, eventually. Martins’ like that horrible ex you keep coming back to, y’know?”

Such a pretty smile. It was somehow similar to his, Chan admitted, while staring at the ceiling of his dorm room: dimples on full display, and her left one deeper than the other, mirroring his prominent right dimple. Chan didn’t realize that a smile, so similar to his, would be as magnificent as it was.

And he’s been thinking about it since then. Only for her dimples to be shown more rarely the further the time went on; he hadn’t seen mush of them recently. Just her regular, half-smile to whatever jokes he was telling — even her favourite ones didn’t do the trick.

“A man walks into his home to find out all his lamps were stolen. D’you know what happened to him?”

“What?” If he had paid more attention, he would have noticed the flatness in her voice, the shaky breaths and head pressed into the pillow.

“He was delighted”, Chris giggled, expecting the same reaction from her. Dad jokes were her thing, something she snorted to whenever the chance was given. But then it was nothing. Just her humming to him in response.

“Goodnight, Chan”.

He didn’t say anything. She had told him previously she had some problems at work, so he assumed it was the reason for her putting distance between them.

“You should get more sleep, tiger”, Chan put the strand of hair behind her ear, his hand staying on her cheek, gently caressing her under eye by his thumb. She leaned into the touch, but he didn’t notice. He never did.

“I hate that nickname”, she mumbled.

“I also hate being called “shawty”, but it never stops you”, the corners of her mouth quirked up, her lips uttering yet another nonsense.

“It’s ‘cause you’re short”. The first time she said that Chan’s jaw dropped in disbelief. Six years later it was just a regular thing to hear from her. Being 4 centimeters taller than him, as she firmly believed, gave her a right to point out their height difference on every occasion.

“And you still have that ridiculous tiger costume”.

“Like it’s a crime”. She huffed and left his soft embrace, marching into the kitchen. “We all make mistakes when we’re young, you know that, right?”

“Mistakes don’t get engraved into a memory of twenty people. People trying to striptease in a tiger costume do”.

A flush creeped across her cheeks, and Chan couldn’t help but smile. Making her embarrassed about something was his ultimate favourite thing. She cleared her throat, trying to reply, but instead Chris only heard the buzzing. Shutting and opening his eyes twice to check if it was real, and the sound only intensified.

The reality hit him immediately. Jumping on his bed, taking the phone from the nightstand — failing miserably, as it slipped from his hands and fell on the floor — “Shit, shit, shit”, picking it up in panic (the screen wasn’t damaged) and sliding across to answer the call.

“Chan, we need you at the studio. See you in an hour”. Lee Know ended the call before Chris could even open his mouth. Great. Another day off ruined.

Chan laid back in the bed, his head hitting the headboard. “Ugh, shit”, he winced, rubbing the back of the head. What’s next? He’s going to get up and break his leg?

His idea to scroll through the news was interrupted by a text. From her, three hours ago. Did he forget something at her place?

“I’m tired of this bullshit. We r not a thing anymore”.

“Oh and yeah. What’s this between us? This bullshit? It’s no friendship. We stopped being friends the moment you decided to fuck me. You know I have feelings for you, all these months you knew. And you didn’t give a fuck about it. So why should I? So yeah, that’s it. Leave the spare keys under the rug. Never call me. Because whenever I hear your voice or see you face… Whenever you’re around, I just feel more alone. Bye, Chan”.

And he jumped from the bed.

“Hey, your button”, Chan took her pants in his hands and observed the troubled area carefully.

“Yeah, it’s barely holding. Every time I sit, I think it’s gon’ fall”.

“Why haven’t you fixed it?”

“Argh”, she scratched the back of her head, looking everywhere but at him. “Don’t have the time”.

“Bring me the needle and a thread”, he sat down on the bed. She went though all stages of something that time: scratched her ear, rubbed her rosy-colored cheeks, sighed and moved onto rubbing her neck.

“You don’t have to…”

“Now”.

“Okay, boss”, she mumbled, almost flying from the room.

“I can do it myself, y’know”, she was observing him sewing the button too carefully. Her standing right in front of him — overshadowing the light — didn’t help at all.

“Sit down, Bob the Builder”.

She complied, but with a heavy sigh and a violent plop on the bed, which made Chris jump involuntarily; if he hadn’t been holding her pants and the needle as tightly as possible, it all would have been on the floor.

“Every time you say ‘I can do it myself’, you end up breaking something. The nail, the shelf, the hand”. She groaned in response. “Stop bouncing your leg, it’s distracting”.

“Jeez! Stop bossing me around, Miranda Priestly”.

“I thought you like it when I tell you what to do”. He was too concentrated on fixing her button to see, but he knew. Her ears turned red as she covered her face, and then — bam! — smacked his shoulder. The regular routine of embarrassment.

“Ouch”, a little blood spot on his finger — the needle went into his skin right through the fabric of the pants.

“Oh shit”, she almost fell down from the bed, but ran to the kitchen to get her fist-aid bag. Chan smirked; it wasn’t like he’d been in pain — worst things happened to him during dance practices — but to watch her nervously going through the bag, to see her look for everything she needed.

And there she was. Sitting on her knees in front of Chan, applying something on his tiny wound. A pinched expression on her face — as if it was his fault — and her touch, half aggressive, half gentle. And in this last half, Chan swore on everything he had, in this half of tenderness he could drown, voluntarily jump from the cliff just to lose himself in the soft silk of her feelings. It was always so difficult to read her emotions, no matter how hard he tried or what he said — it seemed impossible.

She never said anything either. The fact, that Chan caught her crying in his bed, startled him so much he couldn’t even bring it up. Sometimes he was convinced she wasn’t able to feel anything except for positive emotions; and what’s worse, even the good ones were expressed rarely. In the six years he’d known her, he kept asking himself, when did she ever speak about her feelings?

Something about her dad’s emotional unavailability becoming her trait, too, as she blurted out once. And that was it — no other explanation. She spoke in actions, Chris knew that too well; however, hearing something about her feelings, at least once, would be a great idea. But she never did. And whenever he got in trouble, she scolded him, drove her car, sighing annoyingly too often, and then treated his bruises and scratches on the couch; or let him fix his broken heart by crying in her embrace. Her words were awkward (to her), but to Chan, hearing her utter under her breath, “I’m here with you, and for you, and… And I’m just here. I’ll always be”, was the only thing he needed.

“But when she showed her feelings, when she cried into your pillow, with your hand on her waist — were you there? Did you tell her that?”

“That’s it”, she put a bandaid with small pictures of Iron Man on his fingertip and blew on the covered wound. “Shouldn’t hurt you anymore”.

“It didn’t”, Chan cleared his throat for some reason. And when she got up from the floor and sat down next to him on the bed, his throat was dry again.

She looked at him — so… Lovingly? He couldn’t quite read the glance; not because of the usual reasons, but ‘cause it was the first time he noticed it. He didn’t quite know what to do. Bang Chan, the chief manager in the Affection Department, what would he do?

The palm of his hand slowly landed on her cheek, moving her face closer to his. His nose brushed hers in a swift touch, lips leaving a peck on her forehead. If she was saying something, the sound of the heartbeat, drumming in his chest, deafened Chan completely.

Chan touched her forehead with his, eyes locked on her eyes, dazzling in the dim light of the bedroom. Were they always this peerless? Or was he just blind his entire life, his blurry vision cured by her shining?

“Thank you”, he whispered, still focused on her eyes and unsteady breathing.

“You palm is sweaty”, she mumbled under her breath, and he chuckled, expecting to hear this kind of nonsense from her.

Staring into the wall in front of him, Chan wiped a tear from his cheek.

“I have feelings for you”. And you’re saying it through a text? A fucking breakup text?

Maybe, just maybe, consider asking about his feelings too, huh?

Yeah, and what would he say?

Chan didn’t quite know. He couldn’t wrap his head around the strange tingling in his chest whenever you were near, whenever you were laughing at his lame jokes, whenever you played with his hair. Whenever you did fucking anything. He ignored the feeling, putting it into a cage deep inside of his heart. You were his best friend, after all, a person he confided in. Wouldn’t it be wrong to fall in love with you?

“Whenever you’re around, I just feel more alone”.

That’s the reason for crying? That was it this entire time? Did he really make you feel this way?

Too many thoughts were spinning in his head, and he wasn’t able to catch at least one by the tail — they were slipping away, only to circle around your name and face, and hands, and smile, and fingers intertwined with his, and cold feet attacking his warm ones under the covers, and… Only you.

To never call you? To stop seeing you? Did you really think he would listen to your commands?

Throwing whatever clothes he found on the floor, putting on mismatched socks and sneakers, he ran down the stairs, calling Lee Know simultaneously.

“You’re on your way, I hope”.

“Answer one question”.

“What’s with the voice? Are you jogging or something?”

“D’you think I’m in love with her?”

‘Her’? Minho knew right away. “You dumb fuck. Took you long enough”.

“It’s that obvious?”

Minho rubbed his eyes with extra annoyance at that moment. “If I see you two staring at each other and then denying it one more time, I swear to god, I will kill you both. Romeo and Juliet style. Shut up and come to the studio already”.

“I’m gon’ be late”. Chan knew exactly what Minho’s next words were — not that he was willing to listen to them.

Shit, he panted on the street, the car keys were on the kitchen table. Running back would be too long, Chan thought, so the taxi he jumped in should be perfect.

The windows were open, wind blowing in his face — and even the air outside was filled with your scent. Floral perfume, that always reminded him of late spring nights spent with you.

“You don’t mind if I change the route?”, the driver asked. “To overtake the traffic?”

“Yeah, no problem”.

Five minutes later they were on the empty highway, going round the city to get to the neighborhood you were living in. Chan ignored the driver’s occasional texting — not his first rodeo with such people. It’d be better if he didn’t, though.

The next thing Chan remembered was his head hitting the back of the passenger seat.

Taglist:

@heylookwhoitis

[il-predestinato]

the car is shit because it doesn’t have a strong front (like the f1-75 did @ the start of 2022), and they can’t change the chassis because of the cost cap. it’s too expensive. so we’re stuck with the chassis binotto & co. designed to suit carlos’ driving style (re: understeer). i know they’ve tried to add some aero-related pieces to strengthen the front in their development (e.g., new diffuser, front flap, etc.). which is why charles was feeling a little more like his old self yesterday and carlos fell off a bit. i’m so ready for the 2024 car since they’ve said they’re designing it toward charles’ driving style (oversteer, fast). hope they can deliver for him. 🙏🏼🙏🏼🙏🏼 he deserves a great car!

I truly have no words...

Charles did a great Q3 lap. Drove on the edge a few times in sector 2, and then the rear just... doesn't respond in sector 3. And his lap time is nowhere as a result. He really could have done nothing more. The SF-23 truly belongs in the trash. Absolutely disgrace of a car.

What's worse is this disgrace of a team, who developed the fast pointy F1-75 into an understeer tractor AND stopped development early to focus on the SF-23 (LMAO), an even worse understeer tractor that they now can't develop out of a wet paper bag. They need to bin their organizational philosophy, bin a perpetually feckless strategy team (notice how this season Merc always finishes where they deserve by just ... you know, behaving normally?), bin their useless second driver who at best gives bad data (Silverstone tire wear) and at worst does everything to undermine their fastest driver (Silverstone quali, Austria race, Monaco quali, Australia quali, Saudi race - weaving, Silverstone 2021 race - shoving off the track, etc. I can't even keep tabs anymore, it's actually getting comical) while politicking car development into the midfield.

I'm constantly mind blown this team cannot do simple math. To win WDC/WCC, you don't need both drivers to be comfortable, you don't need your drivers to finish 1-2, YOU NEED YOUR FASTEST DRIVER TO FINISH P1. The points difference between P1 and P2 is fucking enormous. As long as you make a car that CHARLES can win in, it doesn't matter if his teammate is P3, P4, etc. (or if you're special like Perez, DNF in FP1 and then P9).

There's talent in the team. Charles is generational. I think Vasseur is trying to do right, but dear god - there's a reason Schumacher was so successful. He had the political sway and brought in his own people to absolutely GUT Ferrari over several years and turned it into something unrecognizable. To win with Ferrari, you must first disrespect and destroy Ferrari.

[nanowrimo]

The Art of the Pitch

When submitting your manuscript to an agent, your pitch letter is the first thing they read. But with hundreds of emails pouring into agents’ inboxes every day, how do you get yours to stand out? Author Jeff Herman has some tips:

On any given day, there’s a massive surplus of desperate manuscripts clamoring to fill way too few opportunities. It resembles hordes of famished zombies ripping at the walls and doors where a remnant of agents and editors have found sanctuary. This helps explain why the barriers to your success seem to be unreasonably extreme, not to mention insensitive and discourteous. The harsh process is a form of self-preservation for the gatekeepers. However, access is possible; sometimes you just have to reframe what you’re seeing.

Countless manuscripts that merit publication will spend eternity in the clouds because the authors failed to get agents and editors to read them. From the perspective of the gatekeepers, unsolicited manuscripts are a burden until proven otherwise; they’re an ever-accumulating digital landfill that’s humanly impossible to process and cope with, or even think about. But it’s within every writer’s power to change the math for themselves. 

The following guidance doesn’t promise to be the cure, but it does promise to meaningfully elevate the odds that your manuscript will be requested and read. My advice is the consequence of reading more than one-million pitches covering everything you can imagine.

1. Don’t be boring. Boredom causes attention to shut down. The letter should be as entertaining, compelling, and alluring as the body of work you want to read. Too many writers treat their pitch letters like job applications; imagine having to read hundreds of those a day.  

2. Don’t waste space. Avoid filler. Keep to a single page with short paragraphs (eyes detest densely packed sections). 

3. Use lively and relatable descriptions. Make descriptive lines count with language that transmits visceral and dynamic images. Imagine movie trailers.

4. Get to the point by the second line. Don’t wander into the weeds or try to be a pen pal. 

5. Say exciting things about yourself. For example, “I’m a third-generation serial killer.” Or, “I’m a former President of the United States.” (However, only share things that are true!)

6. Don’t compare your work to bestsellers. It might make you appear arrogant or grandiose. Do a little research to find the titles that best match your work. 

7. Don’t reveal how many years you’ve been trying to get someone to read your pitch, let alone your work. Don’t reveal how many thousands of times you’ve been rejected so far. Don’t expect strangers to care about your aspirations from the goodness of their hearts.  

8. Be softly immodest. Show you're a winner in ways that say it for you. Highlight your accomplishments, don’t hide them. Success tends to gravitate to people who know how to personify a successful image. 

9. Don’t stereotype yourself in ways that could undermine your chances. For instance, there’s no reason to say your age unless it’s germane to the book. (Ageism is frequently an elephant in the room, and unfortunately, publishing isn’t an exception.)

10. Keep trying. Consistently showing up and doing the work regardless of how you feel will get you far. Writing and publishing is a game of long ball that rewards tenacity and resilience. 

Jeff Herman is the author of Jeff Herman’s Guide to Book Publishers, Editors & Literary Agents, 29th Edition and coauthor of the acclaimed Write the Perfect Proposal. He has presented hundreds of workshops about writing and publishing and has been interviewed for dozens of publications and programs. His literary agency has ushered nearly 1,000 books into publication, including many bestsellers. He lives in Stockbridge, MA. His website is www.JeffHerman.com.

Based on the book Jeff Herman’s Guide to Book Publishers, Editors & Literary Agents, 29th Edition. Copyright ©2023 by Jeff Herman. Published by New World Library — www.newworldlibrary.com.

Top photo by Andrew Dunstan on Unsplash.

[sabraeal]

don't speak boyshit, Chapter 10

[Read on AO3]

It’s not that Kamitami waits around for Kashima. People get that shit twisted all the time, thinking that they’re joined at the hip just because they’re in the same club a couple days a week, or have stupid kid brothers that like to run around together, or because he acted like some sort of emotional support dog for the first few months after that kid came to the academy. But that’s not why he lingers at the bike rack after practice, fussing at the gears as Kashima herds the skinny little bean sprout that passes for Kotaro out the school doors.

No, it’s because when he gets up, casually dusting off his uniform pants like this is all a happy accident, like he only just saw them wandering down the walkway with a purpose and not whole minutes ago, all he has to say is, “Heading out?” and Kashima replies, “Oh, Kamitani! I didn’t see you there! I guess if you don’t mind.”

He grunts at that, grumbles a bit, but that���s the thing— he doesn’t. Most people are effort, expecting him to do shit like talk and be nice— like he doesn’t have a dozen other things he’d rather be doing than shooting the shit with the boneheads in his class, or being cornered by a bunch of girls who think giggles are a good way to carry a conversation. But Kashima can keep one up all by himself, not expecting anything more than a grunt to tell him to keep going. All those nerds that study physics might say that perpetual motion is impossible, but that’s only because they’ve never seen Kashima on a real jag before midterms. Kid doesn’t even need air sometimes.

He’s quiet today though, letting Kotaro off his leash enough to scramble through some bushes. At least, as long as they stand there, staring at the quivering branches like they have any idea what that kid is up to in there. Which is fine with him; if he can’t count kids then he won’t feel that weird missed-step pitch and roll in his stomach, like something’s missing. Like it’s weird that Taka isn’t in orbit around him, some puny little moon determined to crash right into his planet’s surface, instead of the only thing he’d wanted for the last five years.

Kashima shifts like he might feel it too, like he’s done the mental math and come up one body short of normal. But he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t fill the air with chatter, telling him that it’s okay to have emotions, to mourn even the positive changes in his life. Doesn’t ask him stupid questions either— that’s what he likes about Kashima, honestly. The kid knows how to stay in his damn la—

“Kamitani?” His name sits high in Kashima’s mouth, strained even as he tries to look casual. “Are you avoiding Inomata-san?”

Well, there goes that. Time to find some new fucking friends.

“Kamitani?” Kashima cranes his huge eyes towards him, shock scrawled across every millimeter of white around them. “Are you?”

He’s not.

That’s the long and short of it. If that girl’s going around complaining that she can’t find him, well— that’s a skill issue. It’s not because he’s been making himself scarce whenever he hears the squeak of her school shoes rounding the corner, or because he’s been finding reasons to stay late at club just in case some nerd’s lurking around the bike rack, waiting to shake him down over her stupid questions. Kamitani isn’t just walking around, letting Inomata live rent-free in his head twenty-four-seven just because she wants to know what his type is.

At least, that’s what he should say. What he wants to, once he’s had some time to stew on it. But what he manages now is, “Shut up.”

A couple years ago that might have actually done it; might have made Kashima’s eyes get all big and watery and sent him scrambling for a safer kind of conversation. But tonight he only sighs, sending him the sort of look that makes Kamitani’s shoulders ache, begging to bow beneath the weight of his disappointment.

“If you don’t want to talk about it, you can just say so,” Kashima tells him, all prim, like shut up wasn’t clear enough. “But if you want my opinion—”

“I don’t.”

“—You should talk to her.” His gives the barest little shrug, like this is casual advice, something he probably hadn’t been working himself up to say all evening. “At least find out what she wants to tell you.”

“I already know what she wants.” What feature do you find most physically attractive in the opposite sex and why? “To annoy the shit out of me.”

“Kamitani.” There he goes again, giving him that look, like somehow he’s the wrong one here. “I’m sure it won’t be as bad as you think it will be.”

He’s right. It’ll be worse. “Easy for you to say.”

Kashima hums, unconvinced. “She’s a perfectly nice girl, if you’d just give her a chance. Which you’d know, if you’d just talk to her.”

Kid wouldn’t be so quick to say that if he was the one saddled with fifty short answer questions about what gets his dick hard. “Why should I? Because you think it’s the nice thing to do?”

 “Well, yes.” His head tilts, half-thoughtful, half-guilty. “That, and, er…Inomata-san isn’t exactly known for giving up…”

Ah, well. Kamitani grimaces. Kid does have a point. It’s just fifty questions, after all. No wrong answers. “I’ll think about it.”

*

Just fifty questions.

What traits besides the physical do you find desirable in the opposite sex?

Opinion shit, too. Simple stuff.

What would you consider the ‘perfect date?’

Easy as breathing.

Do you have a ‘type?’ If so, what is it?

Except it’s fucking impossible. Oh, sure, he’d given Kashima a metric ton of shit about letting some perfectly cute girl off because he didn’t know whether he liked her or not. Because he’d spent too much energy trying to figure it out, and he wanted to focus on being a good big brother, or whatever, but now—

Now he’s had two weeks to find out he doesn’t know shit about what he likes either. Just like back in first year, when Kashima cornered him with the sort of questions those stupid magazines asked idols, and all he’d been able to give him was his height and blood type. Only worse, because a third year should know his favorite food, or favorite color, or at least have a fucking opinion about whether he likes shy girls or sporty girls or whatever, and Kamitani—

Kamitani doesn’t. Even when he’s got his dick in his hand, it’s just whoever’s on the cover of the nearest magazines from the neck down. Nothing special, just breasts and butt and the idea of a warm body to make the whole thing go quicker. Real simple. Utilitarian, even. Reasonable.

It’s goddamn embarrassing, that’s what.

“I’m as bad as fucking Kashima,” he grunts, the heel of his hand the only thing keeping his forehead from meeting the desk. He’s half-tempted to let it go— a couple minutes of unconsciousness would be welcome with the way this day is going but—

“What’s up, Captain?” Saginuma’s grin can get him climbing walls on a good day, but right now one flash of it has him putting in real effort not to snap the arm resting between his seat and Kamitani’s desk. Be easy too; the kid doesn’t work out enough to give him more trouble than a toothpick. “Can’t figure out how to get the team to Koshien?”

“Shut up.” That gets his head up at least, even clears it a little. “I could win those games with my eyes closed.”

“Yeah, get real, Saginuma!” Hands clap down on his shoulders, shaking them the way Usokawa’s probably only seen through the TV screen. It takes a full count of ten for Kamitani to convince himself it’s not worth it to break his fingers too. “Kamitani’s got our season on lock. We’re going all the way to—”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it.” Saginuma waves him off, already bored. “But it begs that question doesn’t it? If our dear captain here isn’t biting his nails over plays, then just what has got him so stressed out?”

It’s bad enough that he has to suffer that idiot’s grin ratcheting wider, his stupid arm trespassing further into his personal bubble to support that shit-stirring lean— but it’s worse to see he’s got Usokawa doing the same thing, lenses flaring like some lame cartoon villain. Even Ebizawa’s half-turned in his seat.

“None of your business,” he snaps. Stupid move, since that only gets Ebizawa to turn the full way around, brows pitched high on his forehead. “I’m not stressed out.”

“Sure, of course. You’re just pulling your hair out for fun, like the rest of us.” Usokawa adjusts his glasses, too knowing. “Now come on, tell us what’s up.”

“Nothing.” It comes out too fast, too defensive. Might as well have put up a big sign saying, I’m hiding something. Bonehead move, since there’s no way he can asked these losers about—

Or maybe he could. Ebizawa’s had a string of girlfriends; nothing serious, just a few confessions that stretched into a handful of dates, petering out by the time they had to switch uniforms. Even Saginuma had a vague something over summer break second year, at least until the girl left him for the ghoul in 3-B’s haunted house during the culture festival. And Usokawa…

Well. Was Usokawa. Even if he’d never strung more than three words together in front of a girl, he had opinions about them. Not ones Kamitani cared to listen to, but he had them, at least. Unlike some people.

“Hey,” he grunts, scrubbing at the back of his head. “What’s your type?”

Kamitani’s not stupid— he expects the question to land like a bomb, devastating the conversation around it. He expects the silence, the glances that pass between Ebizawa and Saginuma, like there must be something wrong with their ears—

But he doesn’t expect Usokawa’s nearly instant, “B! Just like yours, right, Kamitani?”

It takes his brain a full ass minute to catch up. “I don’t care about your fucking blood type.”

Usokawa blinks. “But you said—?”

“He meant like with girls, idiot.” Ebizawa glances at him, like he can’t quite believe it himself. “Uh, right?”

His shoulders twitch, skin starting to itch right around his collar. “Whatever.”

“What? Really? Kamitani?” Sure, it’s not something he usually cares about, but there’s no reason for Usokawa to gape, pitch forward all slack-jawed like it’s some sort of shock. “Well, I like bookish girls with glasses and a soft side.”

Huh. F cups and a preference for bikinis would have been his guess for that perv, but that’s practically normal. Nice, almost.

“They always have the biggest breasts, after all,” Usokawa leers, and ah, there it is. The weird shit he’s been waiting for. “Plus they get all bashful during the beach chapters when they lose their—”

A well-timed cuff from Saginuma saves him from having to hear anymore about beach episodes. “He means three dimensional girls, idiot.”

“Hey, some of those games are fully rendered n—”

“The ones that aren’t programmed to take their tops off if you feed them enough cheesecake.”

“Oh, well, fine, I guess. In that case,” —Usokawa clears his throat, adjusting his tie for good measure— “my type is anyone who lets me touch them.”

“I said real girls,” Kamitani grunts. “Not non-existent.”

“I kind of like when they’re shy,” Saginuma offers, almost wistful. “Girls, I mean. Though I like them when they’re perky too. Energetic, you know. Or both, I guess.”

“They can’t be both shy and energetic,” Usokawa scoffs, like he’s some sort of expert. “Those are on two completely opposite sides of the same slider, like bookish and sporty—”

“I don’t know, some girls are shy until you get to know them.” Ebizawa shrugs, holding the only brain cell between the three of them. “And then they talk just as much as all the other girls. Sometimes even about the same stuff.”

“Yeah, Usokawa. Girls have layers.” Saginuma grins, adding, “At least the ones in 4D.”

“Hey, my waifus have layers too!” he insists, entirely too earnest. “Some of them even have seasonal outfits!”

Kamitani turns, putting both of those idiots at his back. “What about you?”

Ebizawa blinks. “Me?”

“You’re the only one out of these chucklefucks who’s managed to talk to more than one girl for ten minutes.” And have her keep his interest for longer than it takes the conversation to end. A superpower, as far as Kamitani’s concerned. “What’s your take?”

“Oh…er…” He runs a hand through the fluff of his hair. “I don’t really know. Ah…nice girls, I guess?”

“Nice girls?” Saginuma groans. “Really? All those girlfriends and that’s what you’re got? Girls that are nice to you?” He huffs, shaking his head. “Must be nice to be good looking.”

“T-they don’t have to be nice to me!” Ebizawa sputters, red splotching his cheeks. “Er, I mean…it’s nice, when they are. But I was thinking when they’re like…actually nice. The ones that are always supporting their friends, or uh…helping underclassmen with their work, or like…get chocolates for the whole class on Valentine’s Day—”

“Really?” Saginuma’s brows brush his hairline. “You want obligation chocolate?”

“I’m not saying that I—I want that! I just think it’s just nice that they’d think of everyone when—”

“Not everyone is too proud to take Kamitani’s seconds,” Usokawa sniffs. “Right, Ebizawa?”

“He doesn’t speak for me.” Ebizawa’s gaze cuts to him, desperate. “You know that, right? I don’t want any of your, er…ah….?”

“Actually, yeah.” Saginuma swings back around, forehead crumpled in disbelief. “What is with that, dude? Can’t you be at least a little grateful? Some of the ones you got last year were handmade.”

Annoyance itches up Kamitani’s spine, spiking his shoulders up around his ears. “I don’t like sweet shit. What’s hard to understand?”

“Yeah, but you could be nice about it.” Ebizawa flinches under his glare. “I’m just saying! Girls put in a lot of effort into that sort of stuff. It wouldn’t kill you to think about their feelings.”

“Why the hell do I care?” It’s not like any of those girls cared about his. None of them asked if they could shove their chocolates in his face; they just did it and hoped he’d think they were cute enough not to care that he couldn’t even put a name to a face. Like it wasn’t weird to have upperclassmen corner him with some half-baked confession when they hadn’t even spoken two words to each other. “I’m not interested in any of that sort of shit.”

His life’s complicated enough; the last thing he needs is to add some girl’s tender feelings to the mix. The hag’s bad enough as it is.

“Really?” Saginuma blinks, all wide-eyed, like this is some revelation or something. Like he hasn’t spent the last four years dodging every doe-eyed classmate that tried to get him on the roof alone, or every enterprising senpai that brought him a bento. “You know, now that I’m thinking of it— just what do you like in a girl?”

“Oh, hey, yeah!” Usokawa whips around in his seat, practically vibrating. “You’ve asked all of us, but you haven’t said— what’s your type, cap?”

It’s just his luck that every conversation in this classroom reaches a fucking lull just in time for Usokawa to put his personal business on blast. There’s not one head that doesn’t snap to their corner, the weight of thirty stares boring into into him and—

And Kamitani scowls. This isn’t just a mistake, it’s a fucking disaster.

“None of your business,” he grunts, already halfway out of his chair. There’s no plan once he gets out of it, just a certainty that anywhere he goes will be better than staying here, but—

Bing-bong ding-dong.

“All right, students,” Kumatsuka-sensei hums, quiet voice carrying beneath the last tolling note of the bell. “Time to take your seats.”

*

The thing is: he really doesn’t care about this shit. Perfect dates and blood types and whether someone’s chocolates end up on his desk out of obligation or not— none of that matters. The other guys might waste their time thinking about which girl in class fills out the uniform best, or who would look the cutest in a yukata, or whether they have a chance of getting either of them to kiss them on the school roof before the end of the year, but that’s not his problem.

A girlfriend’s inevitable; the kind of thing that’ll happen to him one day no matter how he feels about it. Worrying over when or how is like tearing his hair out over earthquakes that’ll hit in his thirties— absolutely useless, and completely out of his control. It’ll either wreck his whole life or it won’t; he doesn’t need to have an opinion about whether it’ll have a B or C cup when it does.

Or at least he didn’t, until now. Because now it’s weird that he hasn’t.

“Kamitani-senpai?” Chain link rattles as Sato settles against the batting cage next to his, arms folded just under the name stitched onto her windbreaker. “Got something on your mind?”

None of your business sits at the tip of his tongue— a reflex, really, a rock he’s always ready to throw— but there’s no one else here on the pitch, and if he’s being fair, it’s a manager’s job to ask that sort of thing. “No.”

“Senpai.” It huffs out of her, as close to a laugh as he’s heard from her. “The machine stopped pitching balls two minutes ago.”

The bat dips in his fingers, scuffing dirt across the plate. “Huh? Re—?”

A ball whiffs past— the perfect one, a real potential out-of-the park pitch— the whole cage rattling as chain link catches it instead of aluminum. Sato simply says. “No.”

Kamitani’s cleats kick up clay as he shifts, abandoning his hitter’s stance to scowl. Another pitch whizzes through, hitting the chain a little lower, and she adds, “But you didn’t notice one way or another, did you?”

Kid’s got him there. He sighs, leaning back until metal crowds him, worn enough to bow out and cradle his shoulders. Her head cocks, bobbed hair settling against the line of her jaw. Makes it look strong, like she belongs here, part of the team rather than just a cheerleader on the sidelines.

“Sato.” This time the machine’s really out, gears clucking across the pitch, whining and whirring until it finally shuts off. “You’re a girl.”

She blinks— real slow, mouth rucking up all weird too, weight shifting until she goes from at rest to potential energy all at once. “Is that what you were thinking about, senpai?”

“What?” It’s not like he needs to meditate on her bone structure to figure it out; the bust-to-waist ratio kinda gives it away. “No. I’m saying that you know what girls are thinking. Because you are one.”

Kamitani’s not the type to give ground, but he will give the kid this: he’s earned the epic side-eye she slants him, both brows hiked up to hit her hairline. Or at least, he assumes they are after he loses line-of-sight over the event horizon of her bangs. “I know what I’m thinking, at least.”

Good enough. “If you were asking a guy about his type, what would you want him to tell you?”

Sato stares. “Is someone asking you that kind of stuff, senpai?”

“Hypothetically,” he grunts, shoulders hunched. “What would a girl be looking for?”

There’s a pause— a long one; strained, like she’s coming up with answers he’ll never have the clearance to hear— before she says, “A boyfriend?”

“Not happening.” Not when his only qualification for this whole survey business is that he’s best friends with the idiot Inomata actually likes. “What else.”

“I don’t know about that, senpai.” Her nose scrunches up, all dubious. “Are you sure she doesn’t want you to say she’s your type?”

“Hell no.” Inomata might not know much about this shit, but even she’s not stupid enough to expect ‘high-maintenance know-it-all’ to rank at the top of anyone’s list. “This is…informational. Data, or whatever.”

“O…kay.” She fixes him with this look, one that says then-what-the-hell-are-we-doing-here-senpai, and, god, he should have just kept his mouth shut. “Then why can’t you just tell her what you’re into?”

Kamitani might be shit with his feelings or whatever, but even he knows that it’s frustration that makes his neck knot up so much it aches, that makes his fingers so stiff they practically crack as he drags his hat down, covering his face. “Forget it. This is stupid.”

“W-wait! Senpai”— there’s chain link between them, but Sato half-reaches out anyway, eyes wide— “do you not…? I mean, with girls, don’t you—?”

“Girls are hot.” There’s some heat behind it when he says it, a different kind of frustration funneling right out of his mouth, the kind that hits him when school skirts slip a little too far up a thigh, or when his elbow brushes past something that certainly isn’t a shoulder, but he’d rather die than let more of it out. “I just don’t think about it all the time.”

Sato blinks. “Oh. Okay. So you don’t really have a, er…?”

“I just don’t get what people want to hear,” he grounds out, folding his arms to hide the way his hands clench. “Like, what? That tits are good? Or that I care about some hobby or whatever? I don’t.”

“Ah, I…see. I think.” Her head tilts again, but this time it’s assessing, like she’s trying to figure out his fucking problem. “Maybe you should think of it like…what’s the first thing you notice about a girl when you look at her?”

Easy. How annoying she’s going to be until he finds a reason to walk away. “Legs?”

Sato coughs, like something’s gone down the wrong pipe. “Well. That’s a start.”

He frowns. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

Her grimace is all the answer he needs. “Okay, what if you thought about it more as…if you were going to date someone, senpai, what would you want them to be like?”

Nothing like the old hag, for one. “Normal.”

Sato’s whole face furrows, like not only is his answer shitty, but it has a stank to it too. “Normal.”

“Like they don’t get weird or whatever.” It’s self-explanatory, really, but Sato keeps staring at him like he belongs beneath a microscope. Or maybe on the bottom of her shoe. “You know what I mean. Girls are fine, but then they become girlfriends and just hang off a guy until something shakes ‘em off.”

“And that’s”— she hesitates— “bad?”

“Yeah,” he huffs. “Because then they wanna go on dates. Get all picky over who a guy talks to, even if it’s just for school stuff. Want to call them by their first name.”

Kamitani hadn’t even known Ebizawa had a name, not until his last two-month wonder came in with a special bento just for her Arata-kun. He could have died happy never knowing.

Sato sighs, hand rubbing over her face. “Senpai, are you even sure you want a girlfriend?”

“I’m not talking about me,” he grunts. “This for data or whatever.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, senpai” — she glances up at him, shaking her head— “but I think you’re an outlier.”

*

Outlier — that’s a nice way to put it, one even Kashima would be hard put to argue over. He’d try, of course, say a bunch of things about opportunity and responsibilities and everyone taking things at their own pace, but it wouldn’t change the facts:

It’s fucking stupid that he can’t figure this out.

“Hayato!” The hag doesn’t so much shout his name as let it reverberate through the whole house, practically shaking the floorboards just to get attention. “Hurry up! I’m leaving in ten.”

Kamitani grunts, wrist-deep in his shirt drawer. The same place he’s been standing for the past five fucking minutes, thinking about this shit instead of picking between long sleeves and short ones. Because that’s apparently where this whole disaster has put him— not able to think and function at the same time. “Give me a minute, woman!”

It’s Inomata’s fault. He’d been just fine before he looked at her stupid questions, but one flip through them has him so twisted up he’s struggling to put his arms through the right holes, taking no less than three tries to get the damn thing buttoned the right way and—

“Hayato!” His teeth clack down so tight he nearly scrapes a layer off his tongue. “Let’s go!”

“I’m coming,” he growls, shoving his shirt down into his pants. “I’m coming.”

His hands fumble the belt— someone needs to put him out of his fucking misery already— and it’s with one last glance in the mirror that he sees red and white stripes balled up in the corner. A half-tied, hopeless mess that’s probably been there since April, when the old taskmaster that ran this school insisted that everyone had to wear their full uniform to the Entrance Ceremony, and—

There’s a tie in our dress code. Even now he can see that sour sneer she gave him, all superior, like being top-spot in the Advanced Class made her better than him. As a third year, you might bother to wear one.

It’s stupid. He couldn’t be paid enough to care about what Inomata thinks about him. And still—

Still he snatches that tie and sling it over his neck. Let her fucking choke on that.

*

Lunch bell’s hardly rung before Saginuma’s hanging over his seat, phone shoved right up under his nose. “You guys seen this yet?”

Kamitani’s neck cranes back, the black blur on the screen resolving into a blur with shit on it. “Maybe,” he grunts, knocking Saginuma’s arm wide. “If you didn’t just shove it in my face.”

Kid doesn’t even break stride, just lets his phone settle between the four of them as he plows on. “It’s Onibaba’s Curse 3: The Cure, the sequel to Onibaba’s Curse—”

“I know how numbers work,” Kamitani grunts, glaring down at the screen. Not that there’s much on it— just black and some white figure, no less blurry at this distance. “What’s it got to do with me?”

“It’s playing at the theater in town right now.” Ebizawa and Usokawa are crowding in now, and Saginuma puffs up as he says, “We should go see it. I heard it’s even scarier than the first one, and that—”

“Nearly had Kashima climbing out of his skin,” Usokawa reminds him. It’s gleeful, the way he says it, a feature rather than a warning. “Sounds perfect.”

Kamitani catches the empty seat to his side and frowns. “Where the hell is Kashima, anyway? Didn’t he bring lunch today?”

“He did.” Usokawa turns wistful, one cheek propped up on his hand. “Probably made by that butler of his. Think he’ll let me have a slice of his omelet if I give him one of my hot dog octopuses?”

“No deal. That guy makes a whole aquarium’s worth of those suckers,” Saginuma sighs. “And they’re made from the really fancy dogs too.”

“Aw, but—”

“I didn’t ask about his hot dogs.” It comes out of him like a whip crack, a roll of thunder right before lightning strikes, but neither one of them does so much as jump, too caught up in dreaming about Saikawa’s stupid sausages. “Where’s Kashima?”

“He got called out by another girl again.” Ebizawa shakes his head, huffing, “This is, what? The third one this month? It’s not even summer break.”

“It’s third year, I’m telling you.” Usokawa’s eyes blink wide behind his glasses. “It makes the girls crazy. All of them are looking for their high school romance, and they’re taking no prisoners.”

Kamitani snorts. “Seems like they’re taking plenty of prisoners, actually.”

“Hey.” Ebizawa shifts in his seat, pitching himself up on one knee. “If we’re gonna get bread, we should probably get going.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Kamitani gets to his feet, rolling his shoulders to work the stiffness out of them. “I’m—”

“You!” School shoes squeal as they skid to a stop right in front of him, and oh, he knows that stomp too well to even need to glance above the knee-highs. “Don’t move.”

It’s nothing to smirk down into Inomata’s scowl, to straighten from his slouch and loom every last inch over her, enjoying the way her mouth only furrows further into her cheeks. “And what are you going to do—?”

About it, that’s what he should be saying. Maybe even with a real aggressive lean, feet planted so she can’t haul him off like she did last time. But she wraps a whole hand around his tie and tugs instead, and the thought rattles right out of him, ideas as dried up as his mouth.

“Come with me,” she grunts, another good yank driving him two steps after her. He barely makes it; the room tilts as Inomata herds him out, knees suddenly jelly, trembling, and—

And she’s got to be choking the life out of him. That’s why everything’s gone all swimmy, breath ragged like he’s run four kilometers without stopping for air.

“Hey.” He digs in his heels, hauling her up short. “Cut it out.”

She scowls up at him, knuckles still blanched to match the red and white wrapped around them. It’d be nothing to knock her away, to squeeze that wrist until her fingers untangled themselves, but instead he just stands there, stupid, as she snaps, “We don’t have all day.”

Kashima’s the kind of idiot that would just take it, that would stand here, letting his mouth work— babbling, probably— until she hauled him off. But Kamitani— Kamitani waits until he’s sure his knees will hold him before he yanks the tie from her grip, demanding, “Just where are we going?”

Inomata blinks— all slow, like he’s the idiot— and says, “The courtyard.”

He frowns. “What? Why?”

“What do you mean why?” She lifts the bag in her hand— a nice cloth one, the kind the rich kids always had wrapped around their parent-packed bentos— and says, “It’s lunch time.”

*

That girl might not have him on a leash anymore, but she still bullies him right down onto one of the courtyard’s empty benches. One of the last ones, by the looks of it; everywhere else is covered in couples, making doe-eyes at each other, feeding each other from their nearly compartmentalized meals. Thankfully they’re all too wrapped up with each other to notice when Inomata shoves a bento in his lap, a single sheet of printed paper balanced on top.

“What the hell is this about?” Kamitani grunts, glaring as she drops down beside him, her own bento perched in her lap. “I was gonna get bread.”

“This is better than bread,” she informs him primly, breaking apart her chopsticks with the same precision as she arranges the pleats on her skirt, a sharp charcoal horizon cutting across her knees. “This is a balanced meal.”

He glares down at the metal lid, dubious. “Curry bread is balanced. There’s meat. Bread. Stuff.”

“It’s really not. Now hurry up and eat.” Her chopstick stabs toward the paper he’s snatched up between his fingers. “You’ll need time to fill out the rubric.”

“The…?” It’s a grid, he realizes, staring down at the sheet. Flavor, one square says, while another below it reads, Mouth Feel. There’s other squares beside them too— comments, the first one reads, while the one after says, score—

A grading rubric. She’s given him a grading rubric for lunch.

“There’s something wrong with you, you know that?” he grumbles, flicking open the latch. “Something real unbalanced.”

“Well, if you can’t answer some simple questions” — simple, she says, like it would take a real moron to get caught up on question two. Like a hot-blooded high school boy should know what he likes when it bends over right in front of him— “then I’ll have to resort to acquiring useful data through other means.”

He snorts. “Like making me choke down your cooking?”

“Don’t scoff when you haven’t even looked at it.” Her chin lifts, all prideful, but he can’t help but notice she hasn’t opened hers either. “Maybe I’ve struggled with some of the…er…finer points of pastry, but even I can make a bento.”

“We’ll see,” he hums, giving her rubric a pointed glance. She swallows at that, real thick, the nerves starting show in the way her fingers clench against her own tin, and, well, he might as well put her out of her misery—

“What?” It’s barely more than an exhale, breathy as she leans closer, glancing between the open bento and the look on his face. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s vegetables in this.” Bell peppers, broccoli, and the worst offender: carrots. Big, thick slices too, laid right on top of his rice. Gross.

Her forehead furrows, mouth rucked up with annoyance. “There’s vegetables in curry too.”

He grunts, rolling the chopsticks in his hand, trying to figure out how to get to the actual food underneath. “Not ones I can see.”

Inomata stares at him, real nasty-like, as if he’s the problem, and not the girl who put vegetables in his lunch. “How are you one of this school’s top athletes? You eat like a garbage bin.”

“I’m a growing boy.” That’s what the hag always says at least, before shoving more bok choy onto his plate. Chopsticks clacking, he excavates the rice beneath a strip of nori, stopping to pick up fish and pickled radish before shoveling the whole thing into his mouth.

Inomata pitches forward, eyes wide. “Well?”

He shrugs, picking out a slice of carrot. “It’s edible.”

“Edible.” He might as well have said disgusting from the way she groans, a useless heap collapsed over her completely untouched lunch. “I don’t want it to be edible.”

Kamitani shovels in another bite— this one with pickled lotus— and it’s…passable. Nutritious, if not exactly mouthwatering. He’d probably finish the whole thing, if she let him stop talking long enough. “Considering some of the other stuff you’ve made, you should be happy I’m not calling a dentist.”

“The point isn’t just to not cause physical harm,” she grits out, still not eating. “It’s supposed to display the sort of skills that would make me…girlfriend material.”

Inomata slumps, hair falling forward in a solid black sheet, hiding her face like she’s that girl from Ringu. Dejected, that’s how she looks. Mortified too, knowing her. Completely hopeless.

It doesn’t fit on her. Same way that case of nerves didn’t in his house, making her look all coltish and lost, like some little kid, and—

And maybe there is something wrong with this bento after all, since he gets that weird pit in his stomach again, the kind that can’t be filled with more rice and a hefty dose of curry bread. His mouth rumples, wrinkling as the words shove themselves out between his teeth. “It’s not bad.”

Her head rolls toward him across her shoulders, fixing him with a flat stare. “Do you want to date me now?”

Ha. Now that's fucking funny. “It’d take more than a bento to do that.”

“That’s what I thought.” She sighs, straightening her spine along with her skirt. Only one of them needs it. “Well, if there’s something you’d actually like to eat, just make a note of it somewhere on the rubric. I won’t make any promises, but…I can take it into consideration.”

He glances up at her, fingers stiff where they settle against the chopsticks. “So this what we’re doing now? Bento?”

Her palms smooth over her already pristine pleats. “It seems the most obvious skill for improvement. Yagi-san said—”

“Yagi.” He nearly spits out the fish in his mouth. “You’re taking advice from that pervert?”

Red flares over her cheeks, splotchy and uneven, but her shoulders take on a defensive hike. “Well, I wouldn’t be, if someone had given me something else to go off of. But if there’s anyone who knows what a bento should be like…”

It would be the prince of third year, who had his pick. “Why are you so worried about what he thinks anyway? Shouldn’t you be making stuff Kashima likes?”

“Well, ideally— yes. But…” Her shoulders twitch, a flinch rather than a shrug. “It’s not as if I have a natural way to ask. We don’t…hang out outside of school hours.”

“Does anybody?” he grunts, so dry he nearly scorches his mouth. But she glances up at him, all reproachful, like she doesn’t know if he’s teasing her or Kashima, and there it is, that stupid knot again, lodged right in his gut. “Listen. We’re going to a movie this weekend.”

Inomata glances up at him, brows furrowed. “Huh?”

“The guys. All of us together.” There’s an itch between his shoulders he can only scratch with a shrug. “Kashima’s coming too.”

Or at least he will be, once Kamitani’s done with him.

“Oh.” Her head tilts, wary. “That’s…nice?”

He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “What I’m trying to say is: it’d probably be fine if you came.”

“What?” She’s all eyes when she blinks, mouth falling slack. “You mean…really? And you wouldn’t mind?”

“Yeah.” He sets the chopsticks over the empty tin. “It’s fine or whatever.”

“Real—?”

“I said it’s fine, didn’t I?” he snaps. “Besides, I owe you for the lunch.”

“But…” Her mouth works, rounding over a half dozen words before she sits back, hands pressed flat against her untouched bento. “All right. Sure. I think I could make that work.”

She spares him the smallest, shyest glance. “T-thank—”

“Shut up,” he grunts. “Just eat your damn food already.”

*

“I-I don’t know.” Kashima’s pale when they finally corner him before homeroom, eyes darting all over like he’s looking for an exit. “I-I might have to look after Kotaro that day.”

“Kashima,” Saginuma groans, hands slapping to his face. “Come on. The headmistress can’t spare you for a day?”

“I mean, sure, but really…i-it’s fine.” He puts on that shaky little smile of his, and Kamitani knows: if he looked under the kid’s desk, his knees would be quivering. “B-besides, it’s not like those sorts of movies are, you know…my thing, really…”

Kamitani had assumed it would be him who had to lean in, him who had to put the nail in the coffin, but instead it’s Ebizawa, brows pitched to his hairline as he asked, “Oh, so you’re scared?”

“W-what? No.” He can’t tell whether Kashima is shaking his head or just having full body tremors. “I’d be perfectly happy to go, if it wasn’t for—”

“So you’re coming?” Kamitani doesn’t even flinch when the kid turns that betrayed look his way. He’ll thank him later. Probably. “The hag’s gonna have to get used to not having you around anyway. She won’t have all this free labor when you’ve got entrance exams.”

Or after, but he knows better than to say that. He’s not going to be the one that gets Kashima to chicken out of college just because it might be more than two doors down from his brother.

“I-I suppose so.” The kid straightens, nodding. “I’ll, ah, see what I can’t work out.”

“Hell yes!” Usokawa whoops. “The five of us, hitting the town—”

“About that.” Kamitani strives to keep his voice even as he says, “I’m bringing someone with me.”

Saginuma blinks. “Yeah, sure, man. Whatever. The more the merrier.”

“No problem at all!” Usokawa adds, as if he has any bearing on the answer. “Anyone you bring is sure to be cool!”

“Yeah.” Kamitani smothers a grimace. “We’ll see about that.”