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hanibalistic · 2 months

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#DEBAD7 | CHOI THEO.

genre | fluff, ambiguous romantic attraction / roommate au,

word count | 2929

warning | (should be) none

note | good morning, i'm going to sit at a café!

a peculiar roommate trumps a disastrous roommate. compared to his previous roommate, who never took their clothes out of the washer and felt entitled to use his hygiene products, theo thought you were leagues better than them.

it has been nearly a year since theo moved into the apartment. so far, the only thing he could safely conclude was that you were eccentric. that was if traits that were potentially gained from unfortunate experiences and should require professional examination could be described as such. he never updated himself on the ever-changing terminology for those things. perhaps 'eccentric' has become an offensive term? he wouldn't know it.

the apartment was clean when he first arrived. it was an observation and not a gathering of facts about you. you always maintained the upkeep of apartment cleanliness, and he took part in chores, such as mopping floors and wiping bathroom mirrors whenever necessary. the apartment was clean—you were not.

your room has a disheveled organization. it was messy precisely the way your routine required, meaning it wasn't definitionally messy. everything has its place, and every place has its purpose, from the water bottle on your nightstand to your work bag on the left corner of your clothing rack. you calmly explained it to him after breaking down in hyperventilating tears because he took the liberty to remove the trash scattered around your room.

it wasn’t how it was supposed to be, he remembered you had sobbed. he never came to terms with your sorrows. he didn’t do a bad thing. he would never think he did. there was no way scrunched-up water bottles and empty soda cans served any purpose other than an illusional constant. it could have been a marker of something severe, but the fact was that your room was dirty. he tried to make better an observation and he wouldn’t apologize for that.

but, still, he's never been more sorry listening to you cry in a locked bedroom, woeful sounds corrupting his mind as he tried to focus on other tasks in the kitchen. he never moved your things again, even if they were outside your usual place.

your peculiarity extended beyond your private space through a children’s carpet set out in the living room a few inches off the side of the couch. it has a single pillow on it, with a cartoon cover that never once changed and is always on the middle of the right edge.

the unsaid rule was that nobody was allowed on it when you were. he noticed that rule from how you fidgeted when he invited a few friends over one night. jiung had decided to sit on the floor to be closer to the sunflower seeds on the coffee table. whenever he laughed his boisterous laugh, he would lean back and touch the carpet. you’d glare at his back, with more muted discomfort than malice. theo had urged jiung away from the rug with an ambiguous redirection, and he respected that you allowed his friends mishaps like that.

you sat on the carpet more than you did on the couch. you bought the mat specifically for sitting, lying, and sleeping on. he understood that. a floor nap with the window open on a breezy summer day reminded him of a childhood never returned. but the mat was much more dear to you than an afternoon nap. that much he never conceptualized, at least not to the point of reaching an understanding with you.

he didn't need to, though. you two weren’t fighting, and the carpet wasn't bothering anyone.

theo was merely curious. sometimes, when he returned home from night shifts, he would find you laying on your side with your eyes wide, unblinking eyeballs eerily catching him by the door whenever he returned. he ignored you the first few times, debating his decision to move in with you. it became less alarming after a while.

once you became a constant in his life, nothing about it was alarming. he only wondered what you were thinking about. were there specific thoughts that were impossible to conjure without the presence of the dirty ground and bloodshot eyes? would you blink if he tried to poke toothpicks into your eyes? should he put a blanket on you if you accidentally fell asleep?

he knew all the answers—yes, yes, and yes, but only use the blanket on your bed. he's spent enough time with you to know all the answers.

"not again," he muttered inaudibly once he noticed the trail of water droplets on the floor.

theo didn't care too much about your habits. you've kept to yourself so well that almost none of them bothered him. all besides one: your unwillingness to take care of yourself.

it was a very familiar sight. over these past few months of living together, he has never seen you blow dry your hair. typically, people would at least wipe their hair down with a towel or wrap it in one. you never did that. once you get out of the shower, without shaking your head to rid it of any wetness, you prepare yourself below the neck and walk straight out of the bathroom, leaving bothersome drops behind.

theo wasn't anal about that. some people don't dry their hair, and that's fine. he wasn't bothered by that and didn't mind the headaches you'd get later. but leaving wet trails behind and forcing him to step on them whenever he forgot to wear slippers was foul!

following the water out to the living room, he froze when he immediately felt your gaze on him by the turn of the corner. a timid strain in all his joints washed over him, the way he assumed an old body would hurt. his presence interrupted your personal activity in the living room, which was only a fact and not an offense.

shrugging the freeze response away, he continued into the communal space. he crouched by the carpet, his feet clumsily barging through the edge. his fingers dangled over his parted knees, and he raised a brow when your eyes finally reached his.

"how are we feeling tonight, hmm?" he asked, his voice boastful in a way that's only to lighten the mood and not loud. never loud; he knew you didn't like loud.

"are you getting any carpet burns yet?"

"no."

"you should pick up the pace then."

"i'll try."

he pursed his lips once you closed your eyes and left him outside your head space by averting your attention to the end of the wall across you.

you were always tricky to talk to on the carpet. the sequence goes as this, from easiest to hardest: sitting up, sitting up with a phone, laying down with a phone, laying down on your back, laying on the side with your eyes closed, laying on the side with eyes wide opened, and laying on the side while going through a verbal shutdown.

he hasn't figured out how to properly bring you out of those states yet. He wasn't sure if he should, not because of any specific moral obligation to accommodate your mental needs, but because it wasn't necessary to. it hasn’t caused him enough hardships to spawn the need for change.

if anything, theo enjoyed the special characteristic of your relationship. it was a humorous arrangement only the two of you have—you lying on the carpet and him crouching next to it. nobody should understand it the way he did.

“can you dry your hair?”

“no."

“i’m not asking then,” he hummed as he poked your shoulder. “you need to dry your hair.”

"you'll get headaches again,” he said when you didn’t respond.

you pulled a face. it was done so delicately that he almost missed it. “so I will."

theo dropped his neck with a successfully suppressed groan that eventually escaped as a low, heavy sigh. his thumbs fiddled, turning in circles around each other and flicking under the uncut nails.

at this point, in any situation, he would walk away.

dead end is the sign to turn back. unlike some of his more impressionable friends, you’re a bolted dead end, with no fence to climb over, no barbed wire to navigate, and no ‘don’t trespass’ sign. it was always a sign to turn around and leave you alone; theo has been excellent at that.

he has left you alone for months, turning away from the dust on your bedroom floor, the piling up of dirty laundry already in the basket, and your third bag of chips as a convenient dinner. but he struggled greatly with it because beneath the surface of his emotionless face was a bank of nags and insults directed at your lifestyle, and crawling lower under his sharp tongue was unprecedented and, he supposed, obligatory affection.

proximity nurtures feelings, and time nurtures the relationship they influence. you and theo have all of them. you and theo have everything under the sun. out of all, he wanted you to be well the most.

it couldn’t be helped, unlearned, or unseen. you have breakfast together, you brush your teeth in one bathroom, you watch the same show and eat from the same snack bow. a constant, an unchanging proximity. he could walk the path of water birthed by the end of your hair like clearing a familiar childhood puzzle game. the outline of your figure was always on the carpet.

you never went anywhere but around his mind.

at some point, it became that way. at this point, in this particular situation, a trivial situation in your shared home, theo remained.

standing up to depart from the living room, you heard a blatant ruckus in the bathroom before he turned up again with a blowdryer. he untangled the cable as he marched purposefully over to you. it didn’t take many steps; his legs were long. once he was near, he stepped over your torso to get behind you and plugged the dryer into the wall socket.

you frowned at his pointed gaze when you turned around to see what he was doing, and then he leaned down to pull you up by your shoulder while his legs extended over the side of your uprightly curled figure.

“you don’t have to dry your hair,” he said. “i will.”

“i don’t let strangers blow dry my hair, theo,” you said.

“i don’t think a stranger would do that for you either.”

your lips curled to the side in a pursed frown as you moved your head to the side to look at him. his deadpan eyes stared at you impatiently, failing to deter your distaste.

you didn’t speak to him when he started drying your hair. you couldn’t do it anyway because of how loud the dryer was. it didn’t sound to be at its breaking point, but considering the negative correlation between its loudness and efficiency, it might as well retire soon. but it couldn’t because neither you nor theo would commit to gadget investment.

you killed bugs with slippers instead of vacuums, and he still used a mop and a broom. if the washer goes next, you already agreed on a laundromat.

his hand was gentle but clumsy, much unlike your mother’s, which was gentle and skillful. perhaps blaming the age of the blowdryer for the low efficiency of drying hair was a mistake. perhaps it was all theo’s fault. or it was nobody’s and nothing’s fault, only that you were getting so bored sitting on the same spot that you’ve begun to hop around theories and conclusions never meant to come alive.

the blowdryer was breaking. theo should never be a hairstylist. theo's touch was soft. your mother’s hands must have gotten older since you last saw her. theo’s fingers were calloused because he’s a guitarist. the blowdryer was getting louder because theo moved it around too much.

"is there something you want to tell me?"

the heat stopped patterning around your face when he suddenly turned off the dyer. you perked up sleepily at his question, faintly alarmed that he figured that out without an indication.

"how did you know?" you asked.

"intuition. now spill."

"oh, um," you squirmed into yourself, "i only let my mom blow dry my hair. i haven’t done it since she stopped.”

theo raised a brow. he didn't know why you decided to tell him that and what purpose it served to have that knowledge.

“i’m your mom then,” he blurted after a while. “now turn around and stop wasting my time!”

the silence continued. he focused on making sure at least the top of your head was dry; if he felt like it, he would deal with the ends, too.

"our parents stopped coddling us at some point,” he said when he was able to lower the dryer level. “she can't dry your hair forever."

"i didn't expect her to,” you returned. "i just thought maybe if she's still around, she would still do it for me from time to time. that's all."

he leaned back at your word choices and abruptly turned the hairdryer off. you rarely spoke of your parents to him, and he returned that effort. but more times than not, when he absentmindedly asked you about the recipient of your frantic messages, you replied your mother.

"i didn't know your mom died," he said.

"that's because she didn't," you clarified. "she's alive. she should be. i don't know? i haven't seen her since she left me. the only thing i remember is her blowdrying my hair. that's why i wanted to tell you."

his lips briefly arched downward, "aren't you literally texting her?"

"yeah, but she never responds to my life updates," you said with a shrug.

"that sounds–" he quickly swallowed the criticism and started the dryer again–"nothing. i never said anything."

his restraint was a pleasant surprise you welcomed. it has become more common for him—this abrupt and unexpected kindness plucked from his heartstrings. he must have seen through you; you might have subconsciously allowed him to.

slowly turning around, he powered off the dryer again when your back hit the inside of his leg. you leaned against it, your knees pulled to your chest, and a face chalked up with bitter humor. you leaned close to him suddenly, chuckling through your nose.

"it sounds pathetic," you whispered.

he hummed. "i didn't say it."

"i know. i said it," you exhaled, then you turned to look at him. his gaze never falters, which you always thought was so off-putting about him. "she loved me once, i'm sure of it. i thought she might want to know i'm doing well."

your body ached. theo thought he could see it, but he couldn’t. you hid things well, even from his keen observations. there were imaginary flakes of pain spotted over your limbs and submerged into your bones. they were factual, unstoppable pain, like drizzles of rain he couldn’t stop, and your mother the unreachable sky.

he lowered the dryer to the ground in thought, and you weren’t in it as much as himself. comfort wasn’t his forte despite being around extroverts who were excellent at it. he couldn’t physically bring himself to reassure when optimism and hope were his only evidence. he never picked up that art, he never even looked at it. but drowning himself between the lines was easy. putting himself in the cracks of your head was easy, even if he sometimes placed himself incorrectly.

his mother never left the family, but he understood what it meant to lose someone.

“is that why you’re always on the carpet?” he asked. your wet hair stained the skin of his leg; he got used to the cold. “you’re thinking about her?”

“oh, pfff–no,” you said through a snort as you waved your hand. “i think about her sometimes. just sometimes.”

if he could stop the drizzle, he would. if he could return your mother, he would.

“i’m thinking about other things too, though,” you muttered. “books i like… hmm, what i want to do in life… and i think about you.”

he leaned back in faint surprise, the corners of his lips quirking. his words were decorated with giggles of disbelief, but only the beginning of a giggle and not the middle of it. “you think about me?”

“yeah, all the time,” you muttered absentmindedly. “i see you all the time. how can i not?”

he was the same way. he already knew that. acting surprised only served to eliminate an influence on romantic attraction, which worked. theo looked at you carefully, which was how he usually looked at you. You showed up in great detail in his head: damaged eyes, spotty skin, fragile limbs, and a clumsy heart. he sees you the way that opens you up—the constant only he should understand.

“stop staring at me,” you said. “that’s my brand.”

“your hair is still wet, and it’s pissing me off,” he retorted. “turn around.”

if he has to endure the drizzle, he would. if he had to curse your mother, he would.

“hey, you should tell your mom you finally dried your hair for the first time in years.”

you laughed, an influence on his affection. theo turned on the dryer to drown the noise out of his mind, and he prayed you do send your mother a text eventually—“hey mom, i’m doing well. i got a new roommate. his name is choi taeyang, and he promises to take care of me as best he can.”

#p1harmony x reader #p1harmony scenarios #p1harmony x you #p1harmony imagines #piwon imagines #piwon x reader #piwon fluff #p1harmony fluff #p1harmony fanfic #piwon fanfic #theo x reader #theo x you #theo imagines #is there another theo somewhere out there that's not kpop boy theo

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fullofgutsndopamine · 6 months

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sway (you’re swimming in my veins)

or: hasan is too big of an idiot to say he likes you, so he gets into fights to get your attention

or: you'll have to pry drunk, frat hasan from my cold dead hands

tw/creepy men, toxic masculinity, drunk people, alcohol, cursing, excessive use of “princess” as a pet name

the music is so fucking loud, you can't hear yourself think. Your hands are wrapped around a red solo cup of water, mostly to try to fit in it, to not draw attention to yourself- your eyes scan the crowd as you nod to the music, even though you don't know what this music is at all-

"You're staring." Your friend comes over, elbows you in your side, a smirk is covered up by the rim of the solo cup.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." You lie,

"Frat guys are gross and I simply like to stare at them like they're creatures at a zoo. Some sort of odd creature to point at in awe."

"Right," Sam, your best friend snorts at your elbow, "And this has nothing to do with that hasan guy, right?"

"hasan," you snort, eyes everywhere but at Sam, “i didn’t even remember that’s his name-“

Sam rolls her eyes, "You need to leave him alone. He's bad news. And no-not in the 'i can fix him' sort of way-in-the-this guy needs to be looked at professionally sort of way."

Your voice drops, "What happened?" You ask, like it's a conspiracy theory. And it almost is, in the way you've heard whispers of him, of the bad things he's done, friends grabbing each other's elbows and pulling each other in close, cupped hands to the others ears when he walks in-but no ones ever elaborated beyond a warning to keep away.

Sam sighs, a deep breath, like it's the weight of the world on her shoulders, even though she's just telling someone else's tragic backstory.

"He's-" another sigh, "Just a dick, okay? He talks with his hands, not his mouth. He's always trying to get into a fight. Just-watch him, alright?"

Your head whips around to the guy pushed in the corner, throwing ping pong balls into red solo cups, stopping long enough to yell and throw his fists over his head.

"We're looking at the same guy, right?" You push.

This guy has a mop of unruly curly hair on top of his head, how he stops every once in a while to nervously mess with it, a too big black hoodie on, these dark bags under his eyes-you wouldn't talk to him for the fun of it, but he definitely doesn't look like he'd cause any real harm.

"Just because someone looks harmless, doesn't mean they are. Remember that. I'll be right back, I gotta tell James we'll be ready to go soon."

and she squeezes your shoulder and is off to find her boyfriend. You roll your eyes, the two of them are practically connected at the hip, and it makes you even more self aware of how alone you are.

"Y'know, you look like a creep in the corner?" A voice enters next to you, making you jump. You've never seen this guy before, short, blonde hair a mop on top of his head. "Did I scare you? I'm scott” when he smiles it reveals a partially toothless smile.

you can feel your heartbeat in your ears. a hard thump in your ears. something is wrong, you can tell.

"N-No, I wasn't scared." You try and play it off with a smile, "My friend Sam is around. I should go look for her. Drunk people, yknow-" you laugh, turning to leave, when he reaches out, his hand grips your wrist, hard.

"Stay."

in the corner, hasan is half listening to his two fraternity brothers attempt to talk politics ("Bruh. if you actually think Trump is bad-“) begging his eyes not to glaze over, just nodding his head, when his eyes meet yours.

Originally, he's caught in almost a dead space stare, just somewhere to rest his tired eyes (he'll insist later that it was just that, nothing more. nothing less.) but when he sees you try and move your arm away from this guy and him advancing on you more, well-

"Hey-" He's by your side before he can even stop himself and his Ma's voice is in his head immediately: why are you putting yourself somewhere you don't belong? but he shakes his head, pushing the thought down deep, "What's the problem over here?"

and he stands up straight, arms crossed over his chest, eyes narrowed, trying to look intimidating because he always insist he isn't scary at all, even if his bruised knuckles say otherwise-

And you look, well-relieved and he hates how visibility less stressed you look now that he's here, like he's some sort of hero or as if he did anything big-

"No problem." The guy speaks right away, a slight slur on his lips that makes hasan roll his eyes.

"I think you should leave, Scott. I think they're uncomfortable." hasan keeps his voice low, you have to strain to hear it over the music.

"I think they're big enough to talk for themselves, yeah?" Scott smiles and it makes your skin crawl, an involuntary shiver coming out as you shrug his hand off your shoulder again.

"Get your hands off of them," hasan is taking a step towards Scott, "I'm not telling you again to leave them alone."

"hasan-"You try, not even knowing this guy, trying to talk him off the ledge, wondering if you're about to see what his reputation is here for.

"Yeah, hasan," Scott smirks, his voice high pitched, obviously making fun of you, "Listen to the little-"

Later, you'll insist you didn't see who threw the first punch, even if you definitely saw hasan’s knuckles collide with Scott's jaw first.

A small crowd forms around the two, and in Scott's defense, he gets a few good punches to hasan’s left eye before he's yanked away by a friend.

Sam finds you, tries to get you to leave, especially after this run in with Scott still has you on edge, but you insist you need to talk to him after his little stunt.

So naturally, that's how you find yourself holding his hand, dragging him upstairs to the bathroom, ripping off the out of order sign on the bathroom and shutting the door behind you. You set the toilet seat down and nudge him to sit down and he does, with a groan as goi go through cabinets.

"I didn't even get a thank you." He mumbles.

"Are-" your head pops out from behind a cabinet, where you're digging to find some kind of disinfectant, your narrowed at him, "are you pouting right now?"

He shrugs, staring straight ahead.

"I'm so sorry, but i can't take you serious with that bag of peas on your face." You manage to finally say, barely getting it out without laughing at him as he sets it on the counter.

"Here," You roll your eyes as you finally squat in front of him (even if he towers over you) "So you don't get an infection at the very least. Jesus, that's a nasty cut."

Your hand touches the edge of it and he winces,

"You sure you know what you're doing, princess?"

You look up long enough to glare at him, pouring some alcohol into the lid, decide his comment doesn't deserve an answer.

Instead, you do what you usually do when you're uncomfortable, and make jokes: "charming. haven’t been called princess in years-“ Sure, you've never talked to him but this feels like something someone would usually add onto the nasty impressions they do off him.

he pulls away as you put your hand to his face, his eyes narrowed, eyebrows one, "thanks, i like to think it’s original-“

You stare at him hard because he has to be joking.

“sure,” you level, knowing he won’t remember this in the morning, “i’m lying.”

He nods, satisfied with himself until he sees you unwrapping various supplies, spreading them out in front of you.

"You sure you know what you're doin', princess?”

your hand is against his face as your try to bite your tongue from pointing out the pet name , instead giving him a hard look as you bring the alcohol soaked pad to his eye.

"Fuck!" He finally yells, his hand flies to yours, rests on top of your hand, "Warn someone next time, why don't ya?"

"Can't handle a little alcohol?" you tease with a smirk, bringing gauze up to his eye to blot at it.

"You're a mess."

"You should see the other guy." He mumbles flatly with a groan, "So-that thank you? i'll take it now."

you finally look up and meet his eyes and he's smirking at you.

"Let me get this straight." You grab the peas and hold them, "you just got into a huge fight-in the middle of a party your frat is hosting and you want me to say thank you?"

"I was defending your honor, princess." He insists, that stupid smirk doesn't leave his face.

"I don't need anyone to defend me, certainly not you." You pick the peas up and put them back on his face, maybe with a little more pressure than necessary you hold them there for a second, "I'm leaving, so i won't be here to patch you up. Don't do anything stupid."

and you turn to leave before you do something stupid, like thank him for helping you, or worse-sees the pink splashed across your face.

three weeks pass before you see him again, and honestly-between midterms, your job and everything else in your life, you almost forget about his existance.

That is, as usual, until your eyes wander over to his again.

He sees you staring, and before your head can whip away from his, he gives you a smirk, a wink, throws back what's left in his cup and makes his way to you.

"Funny seeing you here, princess'" He smirks, leans down to talking your ear.

You roll your eyes, "Your frat is with mine. don't act like i'm here for any other reason."

you don't tell him how happy you are to have someone to talk to, always feel out of place at these parties, and he's like a forgotten puppy in a room at a party and you're happy to see him.

"Nah, not for another fifteen minutes or so” He smirks into his beer bottle, almost empty.

"Sorry."

you can tell by his smirk he isn't sorry at all.

and you aren't either, but you have a role to play up, so you groan.

"I gotta check on Sam, make sure she's still alive." you sigh, standing up, wiping imaginary dust off your pants.

"Awe, come on, princess. just five more minutes."

"Goodnight, hasan." you roll your eyes again, walking away.

so naturally, his first thought when Adam, who's equally as drunk as him, gives him a shove, is well, at least he'll see you again, as his hand collided with Adams jaw.

"we've gotta stop meeting like this." he smirks as he holds up the bag of peas to his nose, the fight now over and he sits on the hard title of the bathroom, his knees to his chest. you only knew about the fight because when people were tending to him after he asked for you specifically, by name.

"Is that the same fuckin' bag from three weeks ago?" you ask instead, "Jesus fuck, do y'all ever grocery shop?"

But, against your better judgment, your opening and closing cabinets for cleaner.

"They're frozen, it's fine." he insists as you kneel on the floor next to him and eh closes his eyes immediately when you sit next to him. "You smell nice." he adds.

"Fuck off, hasan." You groan, but you're grateful his eyes are shut so he doesn't see you blushing.

"i'm only speakin' the truth, princess' he smiles, his eyes shut, and he's feeling too confident-until there's more alcohol on his nose and he's groaning-

by first instinct-purely, first instinct, you insist-your hand reaches out and you wrap your hand around his. "You're fine. this should probably warrant a visit to the hospital." you sigh, his hand "You're fine. this should probably warrant a visit to the hospital." you sigh, his hand stays around yours.

"I'm fine." he sighs, opens one eye, still has his teeth barred from the alcohol. "Just stings a lil is all. Listen, lemme get you a drink.

“Just one."

"if i say no am i going to meet you in the bathroom again to patch you up?" you sigh.

"Probably." he smirks, shrugging. at least he's honest.

"One drink, that's it. And no more fights." he laughs, doesn't say anything at first as he stands, offers his hand and helps you up.

"Deal. c'mon, i know just the place." and you let him wrap his hands around yours, fingers interlocked as he leads the way.

#caroline writes #hasan #hasan piker #hasan piker fanfic #hasan piker fanfiction #hasan piker ff #hasan piker fic #hasan piker imagine #hasan piker x reader #hasan piker x y/n #hasanabi #hasanabi x reader #hasanabi x y/n #hasanabi x you

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the-firebird69 · 3 months

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We fully intend to take over these stash and cash areas too and pull his out and put us in we're so sick of you dumb **** you want us to take over the planet so you'll win that's nonsense we're gonna make sure that you lose you've often the ships OKLOL that's not yours either. Should've done the research or investigated it or looked at it or even believed it's there a little.

- We're going to launch a series of tax while all this dumb shit's going on we're going to attack all over the world and specific people and locations are going to get devastated aside from crappy cities and its own purpose it is on purpose. And we need it done and we have to do it.

- We're also extremely tired of you idiots here and your act it means nothing you're mopping around as **** telling them off and we've had it with you you're gonna pay for your stupid skits and routine there's such **** **** and you know it. And I'll tell you what you ain't gonna win squat your plan was to get rid of everyone else we're gonna get rid of you.

- This guy Trump has ruined the Morlock plans many many times this one he could not afford to lose and or make mess up and he did.

- BJA is at all 10 and he's positioning all 10 trimmies five of them are 30 to 40 percent down and they will be down at the target in moments and the Tremie is about 8 miles high and it opens and it pours slowly and it goes right through concrete and they are going to test it momentarily I hear they tested one and it goes through fast I don't know if they're going to do it right now and they're gonna open it up it has to go through about a mile no it's like 5 miles and usually the acid just goes straight through it's super acid the trendy itself is resistant but it only lasts for a few hours when they pull it up it's got holes in it usually they have to bring a new one. See they are beginning to pour on one no they have to so that's speeding the other ones up they're gonna be there in a few minutes probably 10 minutes and it's quite a sight.

- We have some other things to do here today a lot of work in this town of jerks. They're all running off into different directions and a lot of them not to come home I don't know why we do that they're out there it's dangerous they should go out there and not come back. And really they're harmful people so I'm sending assignments out. They're trying to get to new Vegas practically all of them and stake their claim and it's by force and threats all over the world and we are going to after them. These facilities are going to be massive and they're going to be up in just a few weeks and I'm here too giant buildings and we'll probably have to tear it down and we're not peeing the **** and it's not really designed the way we wanted that's what they do and we are going to severely reprimand them with an **** behavior and right now new Vegas is about four miles by three miles but the buildings inside are smaller than these except for two and they're starting the third one today they're twice as big it's takes up four city blocks it's very large and each building is about 500 million square feet and we anticipate they might blow those up too and a lot of history will be gone we know it's gonna happen we just don't have the time to pull stuff out but we're gonna try the pill for each other all the time florida's went stuff foreigners want stuff from here on purpose.

More shortly

Thor Freya

Olympus and yes queen the band meant us. we hit them they are out gone. dead. and or entombed. never to return we promise. are filthy rotten animals but dangerous as all heck true too

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thegayhimbo · 9 months

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youtube

Color me NOT shocked about Trump being the projected winner in Iowa.

I do love the dig at DeSantis about "getting mopped tonight" and how he'll have to slink home with nothing to show for this. 🤣

Also, God has low standards if Donald Trump is his "chosen candidate."

#msnbc #rachel maddow #iowa #u.s. politics #fuck donald trump #fuck ron desantis #fuck nikki haley #all 3 candidates are slimy little worms #tgh opinions #Youtube

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atxlxs · 3 years

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Beyond The Veil: Chapter 2

The process to set up the identity and quirk registry was laughably easy. A few dead parents there, guardianship placed under a ‘family friend’ (Eras) here, a few medical appointment files and normal average family shit and ta dah! You have a fake identity!

It took maybe a month to backdate everything and erase any feeling of fakeness from the identity. That left Eras with 3 months to go through their businesses, all under different identities that have nothing to do with each other yet are run by the same person, and take some money out of her bank account to pay for the tuition when the time comes.

When she was done, one Muska Viridis had an application to sign in on testing day and a fool proof identity for when she attended the actual school. Sure she still had to pass but considering her abilities that wouldn’t be too hard.

Eras spent the last 2 months until the exam outlining everything that would be considered for the written portion of the exam and helping Muska study. It was, sadly, the reason for the nickname “teacher mommy” that became her phone's contact name for the rest of the time before the exam and Eras hated it. Which didn’t help with getting the nickname removed at all.

When the exam day came, Eras had to drag a sleeping witch out of her bed and shoved her towards her closet to get ready. The groaning and complaints fell on deaf ears as Eras literally wore noise canceling headphones for that exact reason. Heading to her own closet in the observatory, Eras got dressed in her protective motorcycle gear since she was the one driving Muska to the school. Hell to the no were they going to ride a train with people on it.

They met at the door and Eras handed Muska the extra helmet that was black with cat ears. A tribute to Tibbles. Speaking of the familiar, Muska said good bye and started cackling after the meow that followed. Again, Eras lamented being unable to hear the cat.

They walked together to the bike, a sleek motorcycle that was black besides the neon green highlights. Muska commented on the fact that Eras was obsessed with the color which only led to a snort of acceptance. Eras was self aware afterall.

A speedy delivery got them to the School gates of the obnoxiously sized highschool and Eras could practically feel the nerves coming off her friend. Ignoring all the looks from other examinees as they saw two people riding on what looked like a motorcycle from the future dressed in all black, (Eras had 5 PhD’s, she def built a motorcycle that trumps all the others) Eras flipped up her helmets visor and stared at Muska as she hopped off and took off her helmet.

“Kick ass witch bitch,” giving a smile of encouragement, Eras suppressed a fist bump in victory when Muska snorted and stopped being as nervous as before.

“You got it Teacher Mommy.”

Eh, some things are worth the sacrifice. If Muska stops being as nervous when she cracks that joke then Eras will only glare for a few seconds.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ok, Muska thought as she approached the sign in table, just gotta kick gum and chew ass.

Stopping momentarily to gather her thoughts because that obviously was not what she meant to think, she allowed herself at least a snort and kept walking. Eras’s words followed her all the way to the written exam room and as she watched the other students file in.

Calming herself down, Muska kept all her focus on the task at hand. Vaguely she registered a green mop of hair sitting in front of her and a blond off the side of the green student. Ha, Eras would like him, she idly thought as the proctor walked in and introduced himself as the Pro hero ectoplasm.

Ignoring the excited vibrations coming off the student in front of her, she had practice with that since Eras would vibrate and gesture animatedly whenever speaking of the things she enjoyed, Muska watched as the exam booklets were passed out. Hopefully the exams were structured better to retain attention then the old standard tests in America but she had doubts.

To her surprise, the exam actually was structured differently. It was easier to read at least. At the end there were two questions that were moral based. Smart, considering she was applying for heroics.

What do you think of how today's society portrays heroes?

And

What's your opinion on the labels people put on quirks?

Oh, this was not what she was expecting. Despite being out of the loop physically, the media was always a good place to stay in touch with society. Eras was the one of the two to actually make trips into society monthly for necessities and to check up on her business attachments, yet Muska made sure to stay in touch. She really didn’t want to walk into town one day and understand nothing like a boomer.

This meant she knew exactly what to write.

When she finished those last two moral questions, she found herself finished an hour before the time was up. What the hell did Eras do to her? That was not a normal study cram if it meant she finished this early. Getting up, as was allowed, and ignoring the stares she walked up to Ectoplasm and dropped off her test before immediately leaving out the right side door to the waiting room. Not stopping to see the surprise mixed with fear on Ectoplasm's face.

(Somewhere a rat was cackling as he watched the cams to the written exam room.)

Thankfully, she was allowed to have her phone while waiting for the next part of the hero course requirement. The practical. Scrolling through her phone, she was somewhat aware of the slowly filling waiting room. It was a nice room, filled with chairs and bean bags. She was melting into a purple bean bag chair of her own, ironically her hair was the same color so it added to the effect.

An hour and a half passed before the group of examinees that stayed behind for the practical portion were led to a theater where an obnoxiously loud hero called Present Mic called their attention. Muska snuck a picture and sent it to Eras and said “Present Mic? Presentation Microphone.” not waiting for the response since she knew what to expect, Muska paid attention to the lecture.

A few “YEAHS?!?!?!?” That fell on stressed students with no outward reaction later, a boy with navy blue hair and robotic movements stood up with a raised hand. She already hated him.

After Presentation Microphone called on him with a “Yes Little Listener!?” Muska had to sit through one of the worst types of questions she had ever heard, literally they have an exam brief packet he was getting to that robot, and a fucking ettiqute lesson that was definitely not deserved.

She took her foot off of the empty seat in front of her and slammed it onto the floor. The steel toed combat boots caused a resounding sharp thud that silenced the students as she leaned back and spoke.

“Now I don’t know exactly why your panties are in a twist but Presentation Microphone over there was getting to the section of the packet if you would just shut up and wait. What are you going to do as a real hero? Rush the debriefer? Also, did you seriously call out someone for muttering and saying they're not serious about the exam when that's a natural way for some people to think? What did you want him to do? To not take this seriously just to be quiet? Unruly hair too? That's just rude, do you not know what the word curly means? Shut up you pretentious asshole.”

The navy blue boy in question was left a spluttering mess as he slowly descended into his seat. Present Mic looked stunned on stage before he hid a snort with his hand, which Muska definitely noticed, and shook his head before grabbing the students attention to continue. She could have sworn that the Blond hottie that she noticed before was shaking a bit with restrained laughter. Huh.

After skimping on the locker room, she never went to any middle school still in existence so she wore athletic gear to the exam, Muska loaded onto the bus for her exam site and waited until they were finally moving. She noticed that blue boy was also on her bus, still seeming shocked by what transpired earlier and Greenie was sparing her glances filled with curiosity and awe. Oh god, attention.

Thankfully, after her show earlier, people avoided talking to her. She walked up to the front near the gate and had the perfect view of a now normal again blue boy heading towards Greenie who seemed to have something to say to someone up front near her. Making sure he felt it, Muska glared. Putting a bit of energy behind it so that the boy felt it. Indeed, blue felt it and started to look around as Greenie escaped without knowing it. When the blue boy's attention landed on her he jumped. A feeling of satisfaction followed as he immediately avoided doing what he was about too.

Turns out, Greenie wanted to thank a bobbed brunette with permanent blush for saving him from tripping earlier. Wow, so nefarious. Suddenly Present Mic called out for attention and merely said ‘go’.

Fueled by chaotic energy and the ability to complain if she was wrong, Muska immediately set off into a sprint into the city to find a high building to crouch on. She noticed greenie had done the same and soon Blue passed by with car-like speed.

Ah, a speed quirk.

Deciding on a building of interest, Muska scaled it with help from the energy that surrounded her. She could feel that she really needed to use her quirk more often considering it was draining faster than she expected. She had enough to take out some scraps of metal but not enough to use continuously to enhance her physically. Thankfully, having a vampire best friend meant she had to be at least better than normal athletically. Eras, the bastard, didn’t have the word fatigue in their vocabulary. Being dead had perks.

Plus they lived on a mountain. Even walking was a form of exercise.

After scouting where she wanted to go, Muska made her way through back alley areas that were neglected and filled with 2 and 3 pointers. Perfect prey. Borrowing from Eras’s vocabulary, it was time to hunt.

Scraped robot after scraped robot, Muska lost count about how many points she had grabbed, time passing by fast yet indescribably slow at the same time. Soon enough, a rumble followed by shaking ground followed the 5 minute warning. Turning her attention up, past the buildings guarding the alley way she was in, she saw a fucking skyscraper of a robot.

What kind of high school exam bullshit is this????

Suddenly, the energy in the air and surrounding harmony spiked, gathering nearby into the shape of a person who was charging towards the robot. Dropping what she was doing, Muska ran. The energy was impressive. The largest she has ever seen used before and that's saying something.

Once she reached the open main road where the 0-pointer was terrorizing innocents, Muska sucked in a harsh breath. Brown hair was stuck under a slab and greenie was the origin of all that energy. It was pouring directly into his fist and legs, none of it staying in the main body as protection for whatever they were going to do. She cursed and started running towards brown hair first. She wasn’t going to be able to convince greenie in time to save his limbs if she wanted to help out Brown from being turned into a concrete slab.

Reaching the girl just as Greenie jumped and Muska had the sinking realization that they did in fact break their limbs, Muska flipped the concrete off and assessed the damage. A small fracture in her left ankle but otherwise unharmed. Nausea, but that looks to be quirk exhaustion in effect. Lightly touching the ankle, Muska focused on mending the bone beneath the skin, welding it back together and accelerating the healing.

Just as the girl's face started to lose some of it’s pale pain filled expression, Muska saw the exact moment when she looked up and probably saw Greenie do whatever caused that loud slam.

Suddenly, Brownie jumped up and slapped something, hard. Snapping her gaze up, Muska caught sight of greenie, positioned to slam into the ground, with a broken arm and legs, floating.

“Oh? Guess your quirk can turn obviously injured people into kites huh?” Muska said, all snark and sarcasm like usual. Newly dubbed GravityGirl looked like the snort she gave in response hurt, which while nauseous probably did.

Walking over and holding her arms out underneath greenie, Muska nodded to GravityGirl to release her quirk, leaving Greenie to fall into her arms bridal style. All knight in shining arm vibes as well.

“Hey Green, what the fuck were you thinking not protecting your body from that much energy?” Muska asked, there was obviously enough power in whatever greenie did (probably punched the bot) to wreck a city block let alone a robot designed to be destroyed.

Greenie looked shocked and devolved into a stuttering apology for whatever reason and Muska sighed. Then his eyes lit up and he went off on a tangent of questions about Muska’s probable quirk and what it probably could do.

Muska just nodded and listened as she sent a questioning glance to GravityGirl who gave a thumbs up despite the pale face. Feeling for Recovery Girl's presence, Muska jerked her head in the nurses direction and walked with Greenie still in her arms. Not that the guy could walk if he was put down.

When Greenie noticed he was rambling he slapped a hand over his mouth and started apologizing for bothering her, which didn’t sit well with Muska. That was a red flag.

“It's fine green, My quirks called energy manipulation which I can use in several ways,” Muska started, technically the healing wasn’t her quirk but that didn’t need to be known, “I can use it to sense other energy, make myself invisible, make a forcefield as a shield, and solidify it to act as solid ground in the air as well as boost myself physically in needed scenarios like climbing a wall, etcetera.”

“That's so cool! And oh my god I started rambling about your quirk despite not even telling you my name! I didn’t get to thank you earlier as well for defending me! My name's Midoriya Izuku.”

Whelp, greenies got a very green name, Muska thought with a suppressed snort.

“My name's Mus- well I guess I should introduce myself as Viridis Muska here. I’m used to first names then last. How about you GravityGirl?”

Said girl perked up at being included and smiled a million watt smile.

“Uraraka Ochako! GravityGirl is an adorable nickname! I've been wanting that as my hero title since I was a kid! But wait, used to introducing your first name before last? Are you not from japan?” She asked, tilting her head despite her wobbly steps to follow.

“Yea, I'm from Canada but I’ve been in japan for a few years now. Old habits die hard.”

They walked with small talk towards Recovery girl, Midoriya was still stuttering hard though so that's another red flag. It didn’t feel like shyness and more like learned nervousness. However, unless they saw each other in school, she couldn’t do much about it. When they came up to Recovery girl, Muska watched bemused as the older woman ripped into them for not being careful with themselves. Especially Midoriya. Muska was able to get away scott free and with some extra energizing gummies that were interesting. Maybe she could use them for something or at least figure out how they were made.

As she headed to the gate, Muska caught sight of a familiar figure leaned up against a motorcycle off the the left in front of the gate. The last bits of tension left her shoulders as she approached.

“How’d it go?” Eras asked, helmet still on and hiding her facial expression but the smirk could be heard in the tone.

Swatting a shoulder as she grabbed the extra helmet she sighed.

“Thanks to your personal version of hell and undead perks, The written exam was a breeze and I was more than ready for a light jog with the occasional scuffle with fucking robots.”

Eras laughed as she sat on the seat of the bike, turning the vehicle on and removing the peg. Muska slipped on and grabbed the hidden handles on Eras’s leather jacket. A personal touch so that she would have easy access to something to hold on to.

“Sounds like a blast, victory playlist?”

“Victory playlist.”

Shuffling to find the specific playlist, Eras connected to both of their helmets that had bluetooth in them so they could talk to each other and listen to music. Once started, Eras revved the bike once, startling nearby students.

Before they left, however, Muska spotted Midoriya and Hottie on their way out of the gate. Mido seemed to be trying to talk to the annoyed blond with little success. Flipping up her visor and tapping Eras to wait, Muska waved to them. The blond looked confused but also curious and Midoriya lit up like a thousand suns.

“Hey Midoriya, try not to break anything next time if you get in, wouldn’t want to harm that cute face huh?” She called out with a smirk. Eras turned her covered head to their direction and despite having a hidden face, the movement back and forth between them was universal language for confusion.

Midoriya stammered out an affirmative with a bright red blush and covered his face with his arms. The blond seemed annoyed so Muska made a decision. Deciding to be bold, she lost any and all social shame after the first century, muska called out to the blond as well.

“Hey blondie, hope to see you soon, it’d be a loss to not see that face again.”

Decidedly, confusion must not be normal in the blonds life if their face was any indication. He looked like the old math lady meme in the funniest of ways. Without allowing a response, Eras kicked the bike into gear. Knowing Muska wanted the dramatics of it. As they drove away, Muska gave a sly small tilt of the hand to come across as a wave as the gate to UA turned into a small speck in the distance.

#mha fanfiction #mha #bnha #mha oc

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likeabxrdinflight · 4 years

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in the upcoming months, it is probably going to become a popular conservative talking point to shift blame to biden and his administration for any continuing surges of covid-19, for any issues with the vaccine rollout, and for the covid death toll from january 20th onwards.

don’t let them do this.

spread of covid is now out of control in this country because trump did nothing for ten months. he encouraged his supporters to ignore social distancing and mask mandates. now that behavior is so set in stone it’s unlikely to change. he politicized public health measures and after ten months of that, the damage is entrenched. biden’s efficacy in changing that is severely limited.

the trump administration had no plan for the vaccine distribution. we know this now- there was nothing. biden has inherited a mess and it’s going to take time to get things sorted out. he has to come up with a plan from scratch. give it until february before that’s even solidified, but serious damage might already be done.

deaths are going to continue increasing so long as the spread of the virus is uncontrolled- which again, that blame lies with trump. so long as biden is attempting to do what he can to get this situation under control, the blame will still lie with trump for causing this mess in the first place.

in short, the biden administration is a clean-up crew, and there’s an awful lot of shit to mop up. it’s going to take time, and there’s a lot of damage that just can’t be undone at this point. but don’t let conservatives suddenly point fingers as if they didn’t cause all of this in the first place.

#trust me they're going to try it #they're already doing it

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sanderssidesfanfiction · 3 years

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If There’s a Place I Could Be - Chapter Seven

If There’s a Place I Could Be Tag

August 24th, 2000

Remy gripped one of his arms with the other as he stood at the threshold of his new dorm room in college as his mother whined and wailed and generally put on a display of the overly-attached, they-grow-up-so-fast mother. He stood there with an awkward half-smile on, waiting for her to finish her spiel as she crushed him in a hug, and then made her excuses to leave.

His dad was a lot less emotional, giving him a simple smile and a, “Make us proud, son,” before he was gone.

“Your parents are quite the pair,” his new roommate said from inside the dorm.

“Tell me about it,” Remy grumbled, closing the door. “I’m so glad I get to be away from them for a while.”

November 1st, 2000

Remy woke up with a killer headache as someone opened the blinds. “Ugh, d’you have to do that?!” he griped, not opening his eyes and turning away from the window.

A voice, that decidedly did not sound like his roommate, laughed. “Oh, yeah, the hangover has set in. Do you need some ibuprofen?”

Remy’s eyes shot open, and he turned to face Emile, who was still standing in front of the window. He squinted and grimaced. “Ugh. Please?”

Emile silently passed Remy a pill bottle and some water. Remy grunted his thanks after he swallowed. “Ugh. What happened last night?”

“You got pretty drunk is what happened,” Emile said. “You could barely stand by the end of the night.”

Remy groaned and fell back onto the bed. Honestly, sleeping more sounded pretty good right about now.

“Hey, no, we gotta get breakfast, Rem,” Emile laughed. “I know you only have afternoon classes, but you need to eat.”

“Mmph. Says who?” Remy asked.

“Says the shrink-in-training who knows a balanced diet is a key factor to maintaining good mental health,” Emile responded matter-of-factly. “Come on, up. I doubt you’ll be the only one arriving for breakfast in what you slept in last night.”

Remy got off the bed, swaying ever-so-slightly. “Ugh, hangovers are nasty,” he grumbled.

And, of course, to make things worse, Emile looked immaculate; the only thing that could be considered “out of place” was his hair, and that wasn’t out of place so much, because his curly mop could never be tamed. Remy felt like a mess, probably looked like a mess, and Emile looked ready to go to work wherever he might end up. “I didn’t say anything embarrassing, did I?” Remy asked.

“Embarrassing by your standards, or mine?” Emile asked, letting Remy outside the dorm room.

“Mine,” Remy said, wincing as the sounds of the second floor dorms filled his ears.

“Well, you talked about an old stuffed animal you used to have named Bones,” Emile said with a shrug.

“Oh, I almost forgot about Bones,” Remy said. It wasn’t quite true, but he had almost put the hurt of his mind, at the very least. “Anything else?”

Emile hummed. “Not that I can think of?”

“No talk about crushes or anything?” Remy asked.

Emile laughed. “No, not that I can think of.”

“Okay, good,” Remy sighed. “I had a crazy dream last night where I said I would date you, and I wasn’t sure if I had actually just been drunk.”

“No,” Emile said, shaking his head. He stared forward as they waited for the elevator. “Just a dream, Remy, nothing to worry about. Unless, of course, you believe that means you secretly do have a crush on me.”

Remy laughed. “Oh, as if! You’re so not my type,” he lied. He wasn’t even aware he had a type before today, but clearly, with George in high school and now Emile, he was into the nerds and the geeks. Emile wasn’t full-blown crush, not yet, but he was certainly up there on Remy’s potentials. And when a geek trumped the members of the football team or the swim team, you knew you had a problem.

Emile laughed a little. “Are you sure? Brainiacs are the future!”

“You’re cute, Emile, don’t get me wrong,” Remy said, as the elevator doors opened and the two walked in to find two other people already waiting. “Just not my type. Personality-wise.”

“So what is your type?” Emile asked, grinning. “I might be able to set you up.”

“Ah, no thanks,” Remy said. “Friends are enough for me right now.”

“And later?” Emile asked. “If you decide you want to look for someone?”

Remy blew out a breath. “I’ll go up to whoever I like and say, ‘Hey, I’m going thousands of dollars into debt to get this one paper certificate that won’t guarantee me a job but I was told to get anyway. Want to suffer together?’”

Emile laughed as they left the elevator. “Well, that’s an original pickup line, don’t get me wrong,” he said. “But seriously, what do you plan on doing after this semester?”

“What do you mean?” Remy asked.

“Well, midterms are like...next week, Remy,” Emile pointed out.

“Wait, what.”

“Yeah, they’re next week,” Emile repeated, as ice entered Remy’s bloodstream. “Did you forget?”

“Yeah,” Remy said, voice pitched an octave and a half too high. “Oh man, like, I’ve been saving all my cash from the job to pay for the next semester, but I don’t know if it’s going to be enough. I might have to take out more loans than I thought. Oh man. Oh no.”

Emile put a hand on Remy’s arm. “Hey, deep breaths, Rem. Don’t want to go into another panic attack.”

Remy made a pained noise that roughly translated to too late. He tried to breathe, but his chest felt far too tight. He couldn’t, like, at all.

Emile led him to the cafeteria, by which time Remy’s brain had finally sputtered to life again. “I can’t do this,” he mumbled. “I can’t...I can’t...I can’t do this.”

“Hey, Rem, you’ll do fine,” Emile said. “You said yourself you know everything in your classes!”

“No. No, I mean I can’t do this,” Remy said, waving his hands around the cafeteria. “I can’t do college. Not for three and a half more years. Emile, it’s going to kill me. I’m going to die if I keep trying to go to school. I’m gonna grow bored, or I’m gonna grow even worse mental health-wise than however shaky that is right now. I can’t do that. I can’t stand it here. College...can and will kill me.”

Emile visibly swallowed as they both went over to the waffle maker and Remy went first, pouring the batter into the waffler and closing it tight. “Then you really shouldn’t be going to college, Remy. If it’s hurting you, then definitely do not keep coming here.”

Remy sighed. He knew Emile had a point. He knew that. But still... “My parents—”

“—Under no circumstances will be your excuse to stay in a place that is literally going to kill you,” Emile said sternly. “If this is going to drive you to jump off a building, or hang yourself, or do something stupid so you go out as a martyr, then don’t keep doing it.”

Remy stared at Emile in shock and confusion until the waffler dinged. He grabbed the waffle, grabbed whipped cream, and sprinkles, and started making his signature mess of a breakfast. “This is going to come across as really insensitive,” he warned Emile. “But...you genuinely care. Why?”

Emile poured waffle batter in the waffler silently before sighing. “I’ve lost too many friends to suicide already.”

“Friends? As in, plural?” Remy asked.

“Yes, Remy. Friends as in plural. High school was not a kind place. Nor was middle school, for that matter, but high school was the final straw for both of them,” Emile said. “Almost lost a third, too. Walked in on her popping pills like they were after-dinner mints.”

“I—” Remy didn’t know what to say. “I’m so sorry.”

“At least I caught the final one in time,” Emile said with a bitter smile. “She didn’t speak to me for a long while after that. Emailed me right before I went off to college, thanking me. She had finally found medication that actually worked for her. Didn’t get a chance to see her before I left, but we’ve been talking about seeing each other over winter break.”

“I hope you get that chance,” Remy said.

“Me too,” Emile sighed. “But Remy, please. If college will kill you, drop out of college. Your parents do not take priority over your mental health. What’s keeping you from dropping out, other than your parents opinions?”

“Finding a place to stay,” Remy said.

“I’ll help you find a roommate who can pay rent, I know a few people around campus who are desperate to live nearby but not in the dorms. What else?”

“Money for food, transportation,” Remy said.

“If you’re not paying for college you should have enough money so that you can buy the food to get you through, even if you no longer have a meal plan. We can get you a bike, or figure out the bus routes needed for you to get to Starbucks to work,” Emile said. “And if necessary there’s other options around the city that I know are hiring.”

Remy had never seen someone angrily pour syrup on a waffle before, but watching Emile do just that was an experience. “Emile...why would you do this for me? Like, I get the whole wanting me to drop out so I get to be your friend still and I don’t wind up dead thing, but that doesn’t mean you have to help me figure everything out.”

“I’m your friend, Remy. Of course I’m going to help you,” Emile said. “That’s what friends do. They help each other.”

“But...but this feels like going above and beyond,” Remy said, wincing as someone shouted something unintelligible across the cafeteria. “Like, most friends support their other friends’ decisions, but you’re actually mapping out how I would live if I were to genuinely drop out.”

“Friends can and should help you prepare for the future if you need help, or even just want help. If they’re able to offer help, they should, in my opinion,” Emile said.

They moved further into the cafeteria to eat, and Remy was thankful that Emile chose one of the darker parts of the cafeteria, away from the windows and the sunroof. “What’s going above and beyond, then?” Remy asked.

Emile shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think there is an ‘above and beyond’ with friendships, but if you need a threshold, how about...moving in with you and getting a part-time job so you can afford the rent and food?”

“That’s definitely above and beyond,” Remy said.

Emile turned thoughtful, poking at his food. “Is it, though, actually?”

“What do you mean?” Remy asked, frowning and taking a bite of waffle.

“I mean, that’s something I could definitely do. It sounds like a good idea, actually,” Emile said.

Remy choked on his waffle piece, before coughing violently and swallowing the rock that had returned to his mouth. “You serious? I thought...I thought you would want to like...see your friends over the holidays, and your folks. You seem like you’d be close to your folks.”

“Well, I can still see them over the holidays,” Emile reasoned. “But this just means I wouldn’t be moving back home over the summer and then moving again when it comes to sophomore year. I can visit my parents without having to live in their house. We could get a two-bedroom apartment, split the rent and food over the summer, and I could handle the rent during the school year while you worry about food. It could work.”

“Emile,” Remy said. “You’re literally saying you would move in with me. For no other reason than I can’t afford my own place on part-time minimum wage.”

“That’s not the only reason,” Emile said. “It would help me save on room and board, too. Less student loans for me.”

Remy laughed incredulously. “So, is this it? Is this a thing that we’re doing? You’re going to move in with me? I thought it’d be one of your friends.”

“Well, most of my friends would go home in the summer, when you need the most help,” Emile reasoned. “And besides, do you honestly think you could get along with any of my friends long enough to actually share living space with them? I know that your own roommate bugs you a whole lot, because you spend so much time in my room, where you don’t have to deal with anyone but me. And if we can stand each other most days when we don’t have classes and you don’t have to go to bed, yet, I think we can handle living in a place at a point in time where you’re going to work and I’m going to school and going to work. I’ll have to talk to my parents about it, of course, but they aren’t going to say no. They just need to know why my tuition is less than it used to be.”

“So...that’s a yes?” Remy asked.

“Yes,” Emile said with a grin. “You drop out of college, and we move in together.”

Remy whistled under his breath. “Okay, then,” he breathed.

#if there's a place i could be #sanders sides fanfiction #remile #emile picani #ts sleep

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kickthecan-revolution · 4 years

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Just like her mama.

I can’t find my glasses and I’m typing this on my phone so this might not be legible.

I took today off. I’ve been abrupt and confused this week, very disengaged. It’s likely due to lack of sleep and staring too long at people in screens; I have a habit now of staying up super late reading the internet, watching Netflix, snuggling the cats. There’s something about needing to relax my brain from the intensity of the day I guess? I don’t know.

I’ve stopped watching the Karen videos so much. They are so disturbing and yet they are effective, we are seeing more mask compliance for sure. People are so quick to pull out their phones at the smallest sign of disturbance - say what you want about the viciousness of cancel culture but this name and shame thing works. People are afraid. Good. If that’s the only thing that our culture can do to make others safe? That’s not our issue.

I’m much more confident Trump is going to lose the election now looking at the potential electoral map. That despair is lifting, the bracing myself for what comes is softening ever so much. Biden is so problematic, still makes me feel sick to my stomach but it’s better than the alternative.

I had a super intense session with Elaine this week that was a game changer in a good way. I’m not sure that I will talk about it here but I am coming to grips with some behavior in my life being addictive - powerless to control it - and it’s been wirh me since I was very young. Finally acknowledging that was I think, one of the hardest moments I’ve had in therapy. Something shifted that needed to, like I was behind a door with no door handle to let myself out and I somehow created one eith that admission.

I finally have a housecleaning team coming to deep clean and sanitize this place. I hate spending money on it because I can do it myself and I do, but I have little free time - do I want to scrub this shower down? Spend hours mopping? Mh lazy ass is winning. I cancelled the last company for continuing to cancel on me a million times, so I’m trying someone new. I got up super early to clean before they got here at 8am and then I just realized it’s at 11am. So I’m going to run a bunch of errands and get some things done before they get here.

My Woodlawn home closes today. The money will be in my bank by Monday. What a thing. I am kind of looking around to buy something but it’s just too expensive here. I love this little place, my rent is dirt cheap; time is on my side. This interest rate is insanely low, that’s the only thing stopping me but I don’t see it changing for awhile.

I am really proud of how I’ve managed my financial health. I’ve held my company stock for so long which has panicked my financial planner for years but the net result is that it has split a few times and is shaping up for a solid retirement. Nothing is ever promised and it’s such a risk to keep holding it like this, but in the end I believe in what we are doing. So I want to invest in that.

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madpanda75 · 5 years

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“The Haircut” Part of the Hostage Series

I’ve has this idea brewing in my head for awhile. The twins experience some “firsts” and Rafael gets a makeover....

Side note: I saw Raúl in Chess last February and that haircut (you know the one) was soooooo hot in person. He rocked it! Of course, the man could rock anything and still be fine as hell. Anyways, let’s just say the Freddie Trumper cut was the inspiration for my story. ❤️😍

Warning: NSFW (Daddy kink, anyone?)

5000ish words (cause I’m incapable of writing a short fic 🙈)

It was all going according to plan. Rory and Ben were sitting in their high chairs, their eyes glued to the iPad screen in front of them while you stealthily reached for a pair of scissors. You never thought you would be one of those mothers that uses a handheld device to keep your kids entertained, but desperate times call for desperate measures— and you were desperate.

The twins were just about to turn a year old. They were walking and babbling—on the brink of saying their first words. It was hard to believe how much they had grown in such a short amount of time— including their hair. It didn’t surprise you. All of your babies were born with a head full of hair, you had the pregnancy heartburn to prove it, but lately Rory and Ben’s hair was getting out of control. With their first birthday party right around the corner, you were determined to give them their first haircut. Nothing drastic just a little trim so they didn’t look like they were raised by a pack of wolves.

Slowly you crept towards them, afraid to make any sudden movements. Rory still mesmerized by the iPad, pointed to the screen and laughed. You jumped and quickly hid the scissors behind your back, amazed that your little girl could even see what was going on in the Baby Einstein video under that messy mop of hair. After a moment, you inched closer until you were just within arms reach of her.

With your scissors at the ready, you held your breath and reached for a lock of her hair when Ben immediately turned towards you pointed and screamed, gaining his sister’s attention. Rory took one look at the scissors in your hands and went into panic mode, crying and wailing.

You let out a small whine of frustration, on the verge of tears yourself. Any time you came close to cutting the twins’ hair, they would have a full blown meltdown. They were petrified. You were beginning to feel like Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street. Although to be fair, even Sweeney Todd would’ve gotten the job done.

Not above begging, you got down on your knees in front of their high chairs, your hands clasped in front of you. “Rory, Ben, please, work with me here. I’ll buy you candy. I’ll get you your own iPads and when you get older, I’ll let you pierce or tattoo anything you want. But for the love of all that is holy, please let me cut your hair,” you pleaded, tears streaming down your cheeks.

“Woah, what is going on here,” Rafael said, walking into the kitchen. You hadn’t even heard him come in amid the chaos. The twins bounced up and down, reaching out for Rafael as if he was their only salvation.

“Don’t mind us.” You sniffled and stood back up. “We’re just re-enacting the Shakespearen drama, “Lady Barba doth loseth her mind because her offspring won’t let her cutteth their hair.”

“Hmmm, don’t know that one, must be one of his earlier works,” Rafael mumbled, scooping Rory up first, then Ben, rubbing their backs while they quieted down.

“This is not a joke, Rafi. They won’t let me cut their hair. Our babies are beginning to bear a striking resemblance to Cousin It. We’ll have to dress up as the Addams Family this year for Halloween.” You pinched the bridge of your nose, beyond frustrated, having tried everything else at this point. “I’m outnumbered.”

“Not anymore.” Rafael placed the babies back in their chairs, shrugging off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves with purpose. “Papi’s here now and we’re gonna cut some hair.” He took off his tie and wrapped it around his forehead, making him look like a deranged pirate or a drunk executive at a holiday party.

You crossed your arms and cocked your head to the side, taking in his appearance. “You look like your cousin Chuy who got drunk and passed out in his black beans at our wedding.”

Rafael rolled his eyes. “Just follow my lead and when I give you the signal, take the scissors and trim.” He crouched down in front of the twins and began to make all sorts of goofy silly faces, blowing raspberries and sticking his tongue out at them. Rory and Ben were cracking up, peals of laughter filling the room, even you were entertained watching him.

With his eyes still focused on the children, Rafael motioned for you to come closer. Rory and Ben must have sensed your presence. The minute you tiptoed towards them, they spied you with the scissors and began to cry. “See, I told you it was hopeless,” you shouted above their screams.

Rafael sighed and took the tie off his head, running his hands through his hair. Glancing between your husband and the scissors in your hand, a light bulb went off in your mind. “I have an idea,” you said, a smile slowly spreading across your face.

“What’s that?” Rafael asked.

You grabbed a chair and placed it in front of the babies. “What if I pretend to cut your hair to show Rory and Ben that there is nothing to be afraid of.”

Rafael eyed you warily with the scissors in your hands. “Mi amor, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

“Please, Rafi. I’ve tried everything else and nothing is working. I don’t know what to do and more importantly I don’t want my children growing up to be fearful. Just think of the therapy bills we’ll have to pay because our kids are traumatized by bad hair.”

“Fine,” he grumbled and sat down. “But be careful,” he emphasized, giving you a stern look.

“Relax. I will not touch a hair on your head. I promise.” You kissed the crown of his head before turning to address the twins. “Rory, Ben, pay attention. Mommy is going to cut Papi’s hair.” You ran your hands through Rafael’s hair, taking a lock between your fingers. Rafael squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath while you pretended to snip his hair. “There. All done,” you said with finality. “See that wasn’t so scary.”

The twins quieted down and shook their heads. You smiled and reached for the electric hair clippers.

“Woah!” Rafael exclaimed, jumping out of his chair. “Excuse me, Ms. Vidal Sasoon. What are you doing with those!?”

“The electric hair clippers are way more terrifying than scissors.”

Rafael nodded and took a step back, placing the chair in between you both as a barrier. “I agree. So I repeat, why are you taking out those bad boys.”

“Pretending to trim your hair with scissors was the first step but if we show them the electric hair clippers, they’re going to realize that scissors aren’t scary at all compared to these.” You held up the hair tool, looking at your husband as if your reasoning made complete perfect logical sense to any normal human being.

Rafael arched a brow at you. “As the lawyer in this family, I must inform you that your argument is weak at best.”

“Overruled, counselor. Mommy trumps lawyer in this family,” you retorted, reaching out and gently pushing Rafael back in the chair. “Trust me. This theory of mine will work. I’ll cut their hair and then we’ll actually be able to see our kids’ faces.”

“Oh, God. I’m regretting this already,” Rafael mumbled, listening to you turn on the hair clippers, the whirring sound buzzing in his ears.

Rory and Ben began to whine and tried to wiggle away as much as they could in their high chairs. “Shhh, relax babies. It’s ok,” you reassured them. With the clippers in your hand, you tilted Rafael’s head to the side, once again pretending to trim his hair when you heard two tiny voices.

“Dada!”

“No!”

“What?!” You exclaimed, your arm jerking forward, the hair clippers accidentally coming into contact with Rafael’s scalp.

Rafael slowly stood up and pointed to the twins before looking back at you. “Did they just say-”

“Their first words,” you finished his sentence.

Your thoughts were confirmed when Rory reached out for Rafael. “Dada!”

Meanwhile, Ben pointed to the clippers. “No!”

Upon hearing your children speak for the first time, thoughts of haircuts flew out the window. You and Rafael picked up the twins, kissing their cheeks and showering them with praise, while they giggled. It was then that you saw it. The large chunk of hair that was now missing on the side of your husband’s head. The chunk of hair that you had shaved off.

You froze with Ben in your arms, your eyes as big as saucers. Rafael hadn’t even noticed yet, too caught up in the excitement. It wasn’t until Rory touched the buzzed patch of hair that he realized something was off.

You cringed, watching as he stroked the now short stubby follicles. Every emotion flashed across your husband’s face in a matter of seconds— confusion, shock, and anger to name a few. “Y/N?” He glared at you.

“Ummm, ok. Don’t freak out, but I may have made a slight boo boo with your hair.” Rafael handed Rory over to you and walked to the bathroom. “Your Dada is gonna lose it in about 5 seconds,” you told the twins, setting them down on the floor. “5, 4, 3, 2,-”

“OH MY GOD! MY HAIR!” You heard Rafael shout, right on cue.

“Whoops,” you softly said and took hold of Rory and Ben’s hands, all three of you toddling down the hall towards your panic-stricken husband.

*****

After the “incident” as it would now infamously be referred to in the Barba household, you made a quick call and was able to get Rafael an appointment at your hair salon. With two cups of coffee balanced in your hands, you walked over to the receptionist area where he sat with the twins. One good thing about your husband’s mishap was it kept the kids entertained. Rory and Ben were fascinated by Rafael’s hair, running their hands along his newly buzzed patch. It was the most relaxed and happy you had seen them all day.

You smiled and handed him one of the cups of coffee. “Peace offering.”

“Thanks,” he grumbled, taking a sip and looking straight ahead. That “thanks” was the first word he had spoken to you in an hour. Judging by his reaction, it was obvious how upset he still was.

You sighed and sat down next to him. “I texted your mom. She’s gonna pick up Mila from her playdate and meet us here.” Rafael grunted in acknowledgement and sat in silence.

“You know, it’s really not that bad.” You said after a moment, shrugging and taking a sip of your own coffee.

Rafael whipped his head towards you. “Not that bad. I have a chunk missing from my head. I’m supposed to meet with the D.A. tomorrow looking like I’ve been scalped.”

“It’s just hair. It’ll grow back,” you mumbled, rolling your eyes.

Before Rafael could reply with a snippy remark, Lucia walked in with Mila. The little girl gasped when she saw her father’s half-buzzed head. “Papi, what happened?” She ran up to Rafael and ran her hand against his hair.

“We had a little accident while I was trying to cut the twins’ hair,” you said with a shrug.

Rafael scoffed. “A little accident?”

“Rafi, calm down. I’ve seen much worse.” Lucia waved him off and picked up Rory, sitting on the opposite side of Rafael. “You’ve always had a thing about your hair. I remember when you were a teenager spending hours in front of the mirror, making sure you had the perfect mullet.”

You nearly spit out your drink, hearing that your husband was once all business in the front and party in the back. “Excuse me?! You had a mullet!? How have we been together for so long and I didn’t know this!”

Rafael scowled. “Because I didn’t think my past hair choices were crucial to our relationship.”

“Yes, but, mi amor, knowing that you rocked a mullet is crucial to my happiness,” you laughed before turning to Lucia. “Please tell me you have pictures of this.”

“Of course, mija. Next time you stop by, I’ll have to show you. He tried everything except for one of those little rat tail things.”

As he listened to his mother tell you more embarrassing stories of his teenage years, Rafael sighed and looked up at the ceiling, exasperated. “Dear God, this is a nightmare.”

“Barba?” Called the receptionist.

You and Rafael walked up to the desk where you were met by a tiny girl with cotton candy blue hair. Your first initial thought was that she looked like a pixie on crack.

“Hi, I’m Skye. I’ll be your stylist today,” she squeaked.

Rafael opened and closed his mouth several times, at a complete loss for words. Images of him walking out of the salon with hair so colorful it would make a unicorn gag flooded his mind. “Thank you very much but I’ve had a change of heart.” He practically sprinted back to where Lucia sat with the kids.

“We’ll just be a minute,” you told Skye, walking back over to Rafael and pulling him aside. “Babe, what’s wrong. I thought you wanted to get your hair fixed.

“Yes, by a professional not by Rainbow Brite,” he whispered. “She looks like she’s only a few years older than Mila.”

You glanced over at the girl. She did look young. The mom in you wanted to give her a hug and a cookie and tell her to go back to school. “She looks a bit green but she may surprise you. She could be the Doogie Howser of hair.”

Rafael took another look at the stylist and ran his hand through his shorn hair. “Ok,” he conceded. “But I better not walk out of here looking like a troll doll.”

“We all ready?” She asked when you both came back.

You smiled. “Yep, he’s all yours.”

“Cool beans!” She exclaimed and clapped her hands, glancing behind you at Rory and Ben. “You know, I can trim their hair if you like.”

You followed her gaze to the twins, their hair practically covering their eyes. Now it was your turn to be anxious. As mom, you wanted to be the one to give your babies their first trim. You remember when you first cut Mila’s hair, barely being able to see through your tears. She’s lucky her bangs came out in a straight line. “Oh, I don’t know. They’ve been kinda funny about their hair.”

“Trust me, my niece was the same way. I know what I’m doing. I have a way with kids,” Skye reassured you.

“Cause you probably still are a kid,” Rafael muttered under his breath.

Running out of options and growing tired of the screaming and crying every time you came close to the twins with scissors, you reluctantly agreed and brought Rory and Ben over.

“Awesome sauce!” Skye said and took Ben from your arms. The little boy was mesmerized by Skye. As she walked back to her work station, Rory let go of your hand and began to follow the tiny stylist, calmly walking past scissors and blow dryers without a care in the world.

“Did you see that? She just took my babies,” you said and ran after them with Rafael right behind you.

*****

You and Rafael sat down with the twins on your laps, swiveling in your chairs while Skye was getting ready. Rafael spun around, making Rory squeal with delight. “Dada!” She giggled and patted his head.

Rafael stopped and smiled at his little girl, realizing that he was acting a tad dramatic about his hair. He would’ve shaved his head ten times over if it meant hearing his babies’ first words.

“Ok, are we all ready?” Skye asked.

“No,” Ben mumbled, clinging to your shirt.

“It’s ok, baby. Mommy’s right here.” You kissed his forehead and faced him towards Skye. “Ok, we’re ready.” Rafael followed suit with Rory. Meeting your gaze, he smiled at you, seeming nervous himself. With his free hand he reached out for yours, dropping a kiss on your knuckles.

“I’m sorry about your hair. It truly was an accident,” you softly said, squeezing his hand.

Rafael nodded. “I know. I’m sorry if I overreacted.”

“Well, I did shave a chunk of your hair off. But if it makes you feel any better, you could be bald and I would still think you’re the sexiest man in the room.”

“That definitely helps,” he replied and stretched towards you to awkwardly plant a kiss on your lips.

“Finished!” Skye announced and turned the twins back towards you and Rafael. “Well Mom and Dad, what do you think?”

Looking at your children, you gasped. Your sweet little babies were all smiles, their hair perfectly trimmed. Skye really was a miracle worker. “Oh my God! Look Rafi, I can see their eyes now,” you cooed and nuzzled against the twins. “My beautiful little babies.” You sniffled, tears forming in your eyes.

Skye gave you locks of the twins’ hair, which made you cry even harder. Rafael softly laughed and handed you his handkerchief, although even he got misty-eyed when he saw how grown up Rory and Ben looked with their new haircuts.

“That just leaves you, Mr. Barba.” Skye said, snapping a black barber’s cape around his neck.

You stood up and ran your fingers through Rafael’s hair. “I’m gonna go back to your mom and Mila. You sure you’re gonna be ok?”

“I’ll be fine,” he reassured you.

After one last quick kiss, you and twins were gone, leaving Rafael alone with Skye. The hairstylist slowly walked in a circle around him, studying his head. “Hmmmm,” she mused, deep in thought.

Rafael’s eyes followed her, his brow raised up to his forehead, feeling apprehensive about what was about to happen. “So….ummm… should I go get my hair shampooed or something.”

“Shh,” she shushed him and licked her index finger, holding it up as if she was trying to determine which direction the wind was blowing. “I got it.”

Rafael looked around. “What? What did you get?”

Skye smiled and leaned on the counter of her work station, facing him. “Mr. Barba, relax. I’m gonna make you look bitchin’.”

“Bitchin’?!” Rafael repeated, ready to rip off the cape and jump out of the chair.

Skye grabbed the hair clippers and went to stand behind Rafael’s chair, locking eyes with him in the mirror. “Trust me, when you come out of here with your new haircut, your wife won’t be able to take her hands off you.”

Rafael didn’t need any help in that department. You were all over him regardless of his hair, yet he was intrigued by the stylist’s statement. With a flick of a switch, the familiar buzzing he had heard earlier began to sound in his ear, only this time, instead of panicking, Rafael relaxed, curious to see exactly what Skye had planned up her sleeve.

*****

“Come on! You can do it. Say it one more time for abuela,” you cooed to the twins, trying to get them to talk so Lucia could capture it on video. You glanced back towards the salon, hoping to catch a glimpse of Rafael. It had been a while since you left him and now even you were beginning to worry.

Rory looked up and smiled brightly, pointing behind your shoulder. “Dada!”

“Do you see Papi?” You turned your head to follow her gaze. “Where’s Pa—Oh my God,” you gasped, when you saw Rafael. You opened and closed your eyes, shaking your head a bit, making sure the person approaching you was indeed your husband. His hair had been buzzed short on both sides, but long at the top with a deep side part, showing off the graying at his temples. It was styled but still had body to it, a few strands of hair flopping forward as he strode up to you.

“Well, what do you think?” Rafael asked and twirled around to show off his new cut.

“Rafael!?” Lucia’s eyes widened as she looked her son over. “It’s different, pero I like it.”

You suddenly became mute, your heart beating fast. What were those things that came out of people’s mouths? Oh yeah— words. Standing there, you racked your brain, trying to think of something to say that resembled the English language but in the end all you could squeak out was “good” and awkwardly gave Rafael a thumbs up.

After his big reveal, Lucia took the kids to dinner while you stayed with Rafael. Standing next to him as he paid at the desk, you were captivated by his hair. He looked like a rock star, emulating pure sex. You wiped your chin to make sure there wasn’t any drool dribbling off it. Unable to help yourself, you reached over and ran your fingers through his locks. “Mmm Daddy,” you whispered. Rafael, the receptionist, and Skye all turned towards you. “Did I just say that out loud?” You blushed and let out a nervous giggle.

Rafael smirked and arched a brow, noticing your flushed cheeks and the way you were biting your lip. He certainly enjoyed the effect he was having on you. Looking back at Skye, she gave him a knowing smile. “See you at your next appointment, Mr. Barba.”

You were silent all the way back to the car. Rafael opened the passenger door for you before getting into the driver’s seat. “So where to now? Did you wanna maybe grab dinner? We can go to—”

You cut Rafael off with a bruising kiss, swiping your tongue across his bottom lip, your one hand tugging at his hair while the other snaked down to the front of his pants, your delicate fingers tracing the outline of his now growing erection. His body was all too eager to respond to your passionate embrace. He groaned and tilted his head to deepen the kiss, his tongue mingling with yours. After several minutes, you pulled away to catch your breath, your lipstick slightly smudged, eyes half-hooded. “Let’s go home.” Rafael let out a shaky breath and turned on the ignition, speeding out onto the street. Hungry for your husband, you leaned over the car console to place teasing feather-light kisses on his neck. “Hurry,” you softly murmured against his skin.

****

Rafael could have quit his job and joined Nascar with the way he weaved through rush hour traffic, the car screeched to a halt in front of your home in record time. You led Rafael inside, opening the door and pulling him in after you, your lips never leaving his. Clothes were haphazardly strewn around the foyer floor as you pawed at each other. “Bedroom?” He mumbled between kisses.

“Too far,” you panted, leading him towards the living room. Rafael hopped towards you, trying to take his shoes off with his pants hanging around his ankles and nearly tripping in the process. You fell over the arm of the couch, half-naked, bringing Rafael down on top of you.

Flailing your legs, you kicked off your panties while pushing Rafael’s boxer briefs down, releasing his cock. He hovered over you, watching your chest rise and fall rapidly, giving you a look of pure lust. Running his large hands up your body, he grabbed your blouse and ripped it off you, tearing the fabric to shreds. You gasped, almost coming undone right then and there.

He pushed your breasts out your bra, dragging his thumbs across your nipples. Dipping his head, he latched onto one of your hardened buds, suckling and raking his teeth over it. You moaned loudly, and wrapped your arms around his neck, practically smothering him with your chest. With a muffled groan, he licked across the valley of your breasts, repeating his actions on your other nipple.

You tugged him up for passion-fueled kiss, probing his mouth with your tongue. “Fuck me, Daddy,” you whimpered, reaching down to help guide him towards your core. Rafael’s eyes darkened. You had never called him “Daddy” before today. Hearing that delicious word was like flipping a switch, untapping a primal desire within.

He dragged his cock along your slit, slightly shocked at how wet you were. “Damn, baby. You’re dripping. This all for me?”

“You know it is,” you purred, moving your hips towards him.

Pressing his crown against your opening, he slid into you, inch by inch. Both of you sighing in sweet relief when he was buried to the hilt inside you. He slowly rotated his hips, sinking into your sheath even further. A low guttural moan escaped from your lips. You gripped his biceps, your eyes fluttering shut, feeling your walls stretch to accommodate his size.

Rafael’s thrusts were hard and deep. He threw his head back, cursing in Spanish, the head of his cock bumping against your cervix with each snap of his hips. “Does that feel good?” He growled, his words punctuated by his movements.

“Harder. Please,” you choked out.

Grabbing one of your legs, he hooked it over his elbow while you wrapped your other leg around him, your heel digging into the small of his back. He leaned forward and sped up his thrusts, fucking you hard into the couch. The angle now had his cock grazing against your g-spot.

“Oh fuck! Just like that!” You sobbed in pleasure. “Don’t stop!”

Rafael grunted with his efforts, licking and kissing the sweat off your skin. You shuddered underneath him, listening to his ragged breathing in your ear. An obscene steady wet slapping noise echoed against the walls. You could even feel the couch skidding on the floor.

Weaving a hand between you both, he began to rub your clit in time with his thrusts. You bit back a scream, your muscles tightening against him as he plunged into you again and again. A tight coil twisted deep in your belly, desperate to spring free. Rafael pressed his forehead against yours, moaning and panting into your mouth, your lips caressing his. “I want you to come hard for me, mi amor. Let me hear you.”

Obeying Rafael’s command, you let go, screaming his name. Every muscle in your body tensed up, your nails clawing at his back as your orgasm washed over you. Stars flashed before your eyes. You were floating on air. A distant series of harsh groans coming from Rafael and the warm wet sensation of his seed spilling inside you brought you back to reality. He gradually slowed his thrusts, prolonging your pleasure before untangling himself from you.

Sitting back on his haunches, he placed a hand on each of your knees, keeping your legs spread. “You look so fucking hot right now,” he purred when he saw his cum seep out of your wet throbbing pussy. Lowering his head, he settled himself between your thighs, licking and sucking your glistening lower lips.

“Oh Rafael!” You whimpered, propping yourself up on your elbows to watch him. “That feels so good.”

Rafael’s eyes bore into yours while he lapped at your core. The taste of your sweet juices combined with his salty cum flooded his mouth. He traced your entrance with his tongue, his nose rubbing up against your clit. The smell of sweat and sex clung to you, driving him wild.

Tangling your fingers in his hair, you grinded against his face, your body oversensitive yet in dire need to come again. He wrapped his mouth around your bundle of nerves, groaning and shaking his head while swirling his tongue around your hot swollen pink pearl.

Your second orgasm ripped right through you. You sobbed in pleasure, arching your back off the couch, your thighs clamping down on either side of his head. Rafael moaned against you, watching you writhe and shiver above him. He licked you through your release, letting go of your clit with a wet squelch. Turning his head, he placed a kiss on your inner thigh, gently nibbling and sucking at the tender flesh until he was satisfied with the dark bruise he had left.

You covered your face with your hands, your body shaking from the pleasure still coursing through your veins, mumbling something unintelligible. Rafael smirked, laying wet open mouth kisses on your stomach, moving his mouth up to your breasts before peeling your hands away from your face to plant a searing hot kiss on your lips. “Should I take that as a compliment?”

“Uh huh,” you breathed.

Rafael chuckled and shifted over on the couch, half of his body on top of you. Propping his head up, he rested his chin on your sternum while you twirled a strand of his hair around your finger. “You know, we still have a couple hours before Mami comes home with the kids,” he said, drawing circles onto your skin with his index finger. “Want to go take a nap and then round two?”

“Yes please, Daddy,” you moaned, not sure which one you were more excited about: the nap or the sex. Oh who were you kidding— it was definitely the sex.

Rafael groaned. “You’re asking for it, cariño.” He got up from the couch and took your hand, helping you to stand. Reaching around to the back of your thighs, he lifted you in his arms.

You wrapped your legs around his waist as he carried you up the stairs, gazing into his hypnotic green eyes. You couldn’t help but blush, butterflies fluttering around in your stomach. “Have I mentioned how much I love this new haircut on you,” you teased.

*****

Later on that night, you tucked Mila in before going to check on the babies. When you walked into the nursery, you saw your husband laying on the floor, between the twins’ cribs, his arms reaching through the bars and clasping one of Rory and Ben’s little hands. All three of them sound asleep, exhausted from their long and exciting day. Leaning on the doorframe, you softly chuckled to yourself, it was certainly obvious where the twins inherited their dramatic flair from.

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#rafael barba #rafael barba fanfic #rafael barba fic #rafael barba imagine #rafael barba x reader #barba #barba fic #barba imagine #Rafael Barba x Reader x Mila #Mila Barba #aurora barba #benjamin barba #hostage series #law and order svu fic #law and order svu imagine

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architectnews · 4 years

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Architecture under Biden Presidency

Biden Presidency Architecture, US Building News, Social Housing Shortage, American Election

Architecture under the Biden Presidency

Historic US Election Review of Architectural Aspects: Architectural Column by Joel Solkoff, PA, USA

Nov 12, 2020

US Architecture under the Biden Presidency

The steeple of Independence Hall was the masterpiece of 18th Century architect William Strickland. Photograph in the public domain by Captain Albert E. Theberge, NOAA Corps (ret.).National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration.

Independence Hall is the birthplace of the Constitution of the United States–ratified in 1788; in operation since 1789. If nothing else, the big victor in the US elections of 2020 is the Constitution of the United States.

Despite fears of violence and foreign interference, over 100 million US Americans cast their votes safely and without significant problems in the midst of our worst health crisis in over 100 years.

Joe Biden clearly won the Presidential election by over 4.4 million popular votes. Biden also won the electoral college vote—that aristocratic relic difficult to explain; likely to be reformed—. by a comfortable margin. It is with the considerable emotion that I recollect and write with pride that twelve times I have sworn to uphold the Constitution of the United States and “defend it against all enemies foreign and domestic.”

https://ift.tt/2iaNIlE

This is the complete text of the Constitution from the U.S, Senate website, I will be writing and talking about Independence Hall and the Constitution a lot–perhaps, not all today.

To contain Covid, architects must build cities

The first rule of writing is know your audience. You, my readers, are architects and members of the AEC community. If taming the deadly virus is to be achieved, the AEC community must build cities on an order of magnitude far greater than in the 1950s when Levitowns dotted the US countryside.

In the wake of World War II, soldiers returned to have children as the massive Baby Boom generation (my generation) converted the US from a nation of urban dwellers to one of suburbanites.

Aerial view of Levittown, Pennsylvania circa 1959 (when I was eight years old). Wikipedia: “Levittown is the name of seven large suburban housing developments created in the United States by William J. Levitt and his company Levitt & Sons. Built after World War II for returning veterans and their new families, the communities offered attractive alternatives to cramped central city locations and apartments. The Veterans Administration and the Federal Housing Administration (FHA) guaranteed builders that qualified veterans could buy housing for a fraction of rental costs.”

Right now, architecture commissions in the private sector are drying up. Massive public spending will begin shortly as housing our most vulnerable children, women, and men is required to prevent death and contagion. Urgently, architects must learn a skill rarely taught in architecture school: Politics. Architects must become, as the expression goes, “political animals,” a subject on which my future columns will descend on you with passion and this is what you must do next information.

Before the pandemic, the Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD) had a waiting list of 3.5 million low income individuals who are in danger of contracting corona virus because of the unsafe housing where they live.

Breadcrumbs demonstrating what we can expect from Biden when adults return to govern

“Infection Control Deficiencies Were Widespread and Persistent in Nursing Homes Prior to COVID-19 Pandemic” is a report from Congress’ General Accountability Office (GAO) on the failure of US nursing homes, where most corona virus deaths are taking place, to protect its residents–people like me who are elderly and have considerable health issues.

One of the number of places in the US government (where I worked in Washington DC for nearly 20 years) is the General Accountability Office (GAO). Here is a report the GAO released on May 20th of this year: “GAO analysis of CMS data (content management system data from Medicare and Medicaid) shows that infection prevention and control deficiencies were the most common type of deficiency cited in surveyed nursing homes, with most nursing homes having an infection prevention and control deficiency cited in one or more years from 2013 through 2017 (13,299 nursing homes, or 82 percent of all surveyed homes).

https://www.gao.gov/assets/710/702638.pdf

Hail to the Chief

Even before the election results where confirmed by the widely-respected Associate Press, a serious-minded President-to-be Biden had already begun the process of preparing to fix the problems of nursing homes, inadequate housing, and Covid virus specifically. Within his first week as President elect, Biden had already appointed a panel of distinguished and credentialed scientists to make suggestions regarding the pandemic. “Covid, covid, covid, covid,” President Trump repeated sing song like in his re-election rallies which because of the absence of social distancing and laissez-faire mask use have been spreader events.

All Architects Today Must Be Covid-19 Architects

Joel Solkoff’s Column Vol. VI, Number 4

West front of the Capitol of the United States where Joseph Biden will take the oath of office to “preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies foreign and domestic” on January 20,2021 at noon. Photo in the public domain.

The annual budget of the U/S. Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD) is $44.1. billion.

Secretary of HUD Ben Carson tested positive for Covid-19 after results of the Presidential election were announced by the authoritative Associate Press. One reporter suggested Secretary Carson may have contracted the disease at a Michigan rally for President Trump where Secretary Carson did not consistently where a mask.

Yesterday, the US death toll from the corona virus was 2.7 million children, women, and men.

DATELINE Thursday, November 12, 2020. Williamsport Pennsylvania, a town of 28,000 people (a treasure trove of architecture) 178 miles southeast over rotten roads to Philadelphia’s Independence Hall where my fathers (mothers did not apply) ratified the Constitution of the United States.

The biggest of the big news from this month’s election is that President Donald John Trump will no longer be President of the United States even if it means the Marines have to drag him out of the White House kicking and screaming. An ongoing question is whether the United States will ever recover from the Trump Presidency. On this issue, I take the long view. Maybe. It is the forthcoming Presidency of Joseph Robinette Biden, Jr. on January 20, 2021 that gives me some hope. Biden has run an excellent campaign. His choice of Kamala Harris, Senator from California, former attorney general of the state of California was sheer genius–a word I seldom use.

Senator Harris was my first choice for President during the crowded Democratic nomination process. Senator Harris mopped the floor with candidate Biden during one debate. This debate

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S6-UC8yr0Aw

Embedded in accordance with the terms of YouTube’s licensing agreement

When I heard that Biden had selected Harris, this bumper sticker came to mind. “It takes brass balls to play rugby.” This is a time for US and global architects to understand that politics is about power. In your case, it is about exerting your power to design housing for the most vulnerable to Covid 19. Here is Kamala Harris questioning Bill Bahr who in 69 days will no longer be the Attorney General of the United States:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bHd_UlebyoM

The press’ failure in covering the election results

“Counting inches forward in Pennsylvania, and both sides predict victory.” asserted the New York Times inaccurately on November 4th.

Before Hillary, Pennsylvania consistently cast its electoral votes for Democratic Presidential candidates even ones who lost the election. If it were for Pennsylvania, John Kerry would have been President of the United States. Pennsylvania has voted for Democratic candidates consistently because there are a lot of voters in Pittsburgh and Philadelphia at each end of the state and few voters in the center, in the burned out Rust Belt where the existence of a Donald Trump was the inevitable result of the failure of Democratic and Republican Presidential Administrations from preserving and protecting this rich beautiful land between the two oceans.

My condemnation is considerable of the New York Times, the US’s newspaper of record, for dangerously pretending that the king-making electoral vote in Pennsylvania was a close vote. The only reason former Secretary of State Hillary Clinton lost the 2016 election, was because she ran an incompetent campaign. That is putting it mildly.

Following election day when I voted for Joe Biden in a Trump county in Pennsylvania e-architect Art Critic Sarah Schmerler drew the following rough approximation of reality. The New York Times, leading the world, kept us all on the edge of ours seats unnecessarily. New York Times reporters were incapable of telling the difference between big and little.

If you have a large number of votes in one place and few votes in another place and if all votes are equal, then you do not have a close race.

Joel votes. Photo reproduced with his permission by my health aide Frank Rasole, Jr.

As you can see, the parking lot was not crowded. There were no lines. Few voters. A mile away at the Williamsport Regional Airport on Friday evening, Air Force 1 arrived and Trump conducted a large super-spreader event where his fervent followers promised the President they would vote for him. My polling place: Loyalsock Twp Building, 2501 East Third Street Wi lliamsport PA17701.

I have not yet had the chance to examine the vote count there/here four years ago, but I would be surprised if in 2016 the Loyalsack polling place had fewer voters than poll workers as I experienced. Meanwhile, while the entire process of my voting took fewer than 15 minutes, in Philadelphia potential Biden voters were spending hours in line. I do not understand why the alarmist press was unable to see that Biden would obtain my Commonwealths’ 20 electoral votes handily.

++++

Off to New York City to save my life

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4YEs2rVINpU

I have been hopeful of moving to the Peter Herdic Park Hotel completed 1865. Williamsport’s best architect, Anthony Visco, Jr took my amanuensis Frankie Resole, Jr. and me on tour of the hotel which was an alluring rural attraction.

Sadly, while I am hoping to maintain a legal residence here in the Appalachian Mountains, now is the time to head Noah’s call and move to New York City. As an elderly man with significant health conditions, Remaining in Lycoming Country–with its failure to test physicians and nurses in the emergency room of its largest hospital, its failure to test at all my primary care physician, and its failure to socially distance or wear masks consistently–may very well be a sentence of death.

The most dangerous spot on the planet from this deadly disease is South Dakota–beautiful South Dakota. Lycoming Country, Pa has all the characteristics of South Dakota’s danger. Within the next two weeks, the infection that has closed down London and Paris will be coming to the US with a wallop. Now is the time to get out.

New York City, once the epicenter of the pandemic, is now the safest place to be in the US.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=krm2VwxdOjM

Embedded in accordance with YouTube’s licensing agreement

My editors beckon: “All right, stop writing, Joel.”

Isabelle Lomholt and Adrian Welch, Editors at e-architect

“Good night and good luck,” as Greensboro, North Carolina born Edward R. Morrow, my hero, used to say. My hero Edward R.Murrow broadcast this 1960 example of classic investigative reporting.This documentary was broadcast on Thanksgiving Day where I watched it at my maternal grandmother’s apartment in Brooklyn. I was 12 years old at the time.Murrow’s documentary shaped my future career in measurable ways. Note the hideous conditions of farm worker housing. Little effort would find in Florida and Canada- where inadequate housing for migrant workers in danger of spreading the Corona virus have been reported. Think Black Lives Matter when you hear the words of a grower Murrow quoted: “We used to own our slaves. Now we just rent them.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yJTVF_dya7E&t=9s

Embedded in accordance with YouTube licensing

Joel

Selfie, Lycoming County, Pennsylvania, USA

Architecture Columns

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New York City Mayor Bill de Blasio, Queens Library

Renzo Piano’s Whitney Neighborhood

Detroit Dying Special Report

Disability-Access Architecture

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Joel Solkoff’s Column Vol. IV, Number 2

Joel Solkoff’s Column Vol. IV, Number 1

Special Wooden Floors for the Whitney

Detroit will be a Trendy City

Belt and Suspenders Routine – Joel Solkoff’s Column

Joel Solkoff’s Column Volume II No. 6

Joel Solkoff’s Column, Vol.II, Number 7

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mikeo56 · 4 years

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They Say That Discrimination Is A Thing Of The Past

A few times I’ve had a white person (BTW I’m a white male) say that a black person claiming discrimination is merely playing the race card or the victim card to cover for their own inadequacies.

They say that the reason the black person didn’t get the job or the apartment or whatever almost never had something to do with discrimination, that the real reason is that they just weren’t good enough, and that their claim of racism is nothing more than a phony excuse, a scam to blame others for their own failings.

If their opinion is challenged they usually say something like, “Oh, come on. There isn’t any widespread discrimination any more.” Maybe they add, “The Civil War was over a hundred and fifty years ago. They need to get over it.”

It’s All Their Own Fault

Sometimes these white people will continue with something like, “If they would only stay in school and stop having out-of-wedlock babies and taking drugs they wouldn’t have these problems.”

Sometimes, if the white person in question is really feeling talkative, they’ll ramble on with something like, “The real problem is that those people don’t want to work hard” or “Those people just aren’t as smart [as white people].”

I’ve been thinking about this “There isn’t any wide-spread discrimination anymore” idea and I asked myself, “What do white people really think about black people?”

What A Lot Of White People Really Think

Well, all white people aren’t the same so, I amended the question to “What do a lot of white people really think about black people?”

What’s “a lot”? 20%? 35%? 50%. I don’t know.

My guess is between 20% and 35% on average depending on where you live. Mississippi is going to be different from Connecticut.

So, for the purposes of this column, when I say “a lot of white people” I’m going to go with a 25% nationwide average but clearly that’s just a guess.

The Dog Whistle Is More Common Than The Bullhorn

I don’t often hear blatant racist statements like “White people are genetically smarter than black people” or “White people are a more genetically advanced species than black people,” probably because I don’t generally listen to people like David Duke or Iowa Congressman Steve King.

Most of the time, white people’s racism is of the “dog whistle” variety — it’s code where the words say one thing, but which other racists recognize as meaning something else.

Some people think that Trump’s tag line “Make America Great Again” is just a slogan, but a lot of white people translate it to “Make America White Again” meaning “We need to stop catering to black and brown people. They’re mostly losers sucking up our tax dollars and getting a free ride. We’re going to get rid of food stamps and Medicaid and we won’t let any more of them into the country.”

Gestures Instead Of Words

Dog whistles can be gestures as well as words.

There’s scene in an NYPD Blue episode where Andy Sipowicz is talking to Vince Gotelli, one of the old-time night-shift detectives.

Believing that Sipowicz is as racist as he is, Gotelli wants to say something about a black person and not be overheard so he runs the palm of his hand down in front of his face. Andy doesn’t understand and Gotelli says something like, “You know, shades” and he again runs his palm in front of his face in a gesture supposed to signify people with dark skin, “behind a shade.”

A lot of white people flat out believe that black people aren’t as smart, hard working, decent or honest as white people. To then, that’s just a fact, but they hesitate to say it out loud. Instead they express this opinion in different subtle but significant ways.

Subtle Discrimination

Who You Hire

Suppose one of these white people is looking for a new primary-care doctor. You read them the website particulars on two candidates, Walter Hawkins, Iowa State University Medical School and Robert Phillips, Yale University Medical School. Hawkins has five years experience and Phillips is the deputy head of the department with ten years on the job.

Naturally, they pick Phillips, but then they get a look at the candidates’ pictures and discover that Phillips is black and Hawkins is white. Suddenly, Hawkins is their guy.

“Why?” you ask, “Because he’s white?”

“No,” they’ll tell you. “I just think he looks more like a real doctor.” Or, “He seems nicer.” Or, “He looks like someone who knows what he’s doing.”

They aren’t going to tell you that the real reason they switched from Phillips to Hawkins is that they think that black people are less intelligent than white people; they think that Phillips must have gotten into Yale on a quota, and that people helped him and covered for him because he was black, because, in their mind, how else could a black man graduate from Yale Medical School?

No, they won’t say that out loud, unless they think that you’re just like them. But they absolutely believe that black people just plain aren’t as smart as white people and that a black man couldn’t possibly be a really top-notch doctor.

And they will look you right in the eye and tell you that they aren’t a racist.

“I don’t have anything against anybody,” they will insist. And they would think that was true.

Who You Rent To

Take two resumes, identical in every way except that the picture of Robert Phillips on one of them is of a white man and on the other he’s a black man. Now, have Mr. Phillips apply to rent 100 AirBNBs as a white man and 100 as a black man.

You will find a significantly higher rejection rate for the black Mr. Phillips than the white Mr. Phillips.

A Harvard Business School study (Racial Discrimination in the Sharing Economy: Evidence from a Field Experiment) found that people whose names are perceived to likely be black find it 16 percent harder than whites to book lodging on Airbnb. They found that some Airbnb hosts would rather their properties remained vacant than rent them to a black guest.

Personally, I think that Airbnb applications with actual pictures showing black versus white guests (as opposed to hosts merely inferring race from the applicant’s last name) would have black rejection rate differentials much higher than 16%.

I’m sure you would find the same thing in tests for renting an apartment or applying for a job interview.

A lot of white landlords and employers will decide that while the white Mr. Phillips looks like a wonderful candidate, the black Mr. Phillips somehow just doesn’t measure up.

“I’m not a racist,” they will swear to you. And believe it.

The Stereotype Racist Pictures That Pop Into Their Heads

I wrote a column about the little stereotype pictures that pop in our heads when we hear a word or phrase e.g. “Las Vegas” or “Wedding.”

The Pictures That Pop Into Our Heads. When I Say “Welfare” “Illegal Alien” “Businessman” “Drug Company”

For a lot of white people the words “black man” will pop up a picture of a person selling drugs on an urban street corner or a manual laborer pushing a mop or a junkie passed out in an alley or a pimp covered in bracelets and gold chains.

You think I’m making this up?

Racism Masquerading As ‘Just Being Careful’

Why do you think a white woman tried bar a black tenant from his own apartment building?

Because in her mind a black man could not possibly earn enough money to be able to afford a luxury apartment. She was convinced that he must be a criminal who was there to steal, that he couldn’t possible belong there.

Why do you think two white security guards kicked a black man out of the lobby of the Double Tree Hotel where he was a registered guest?

Because they were sure that he must have been a pimp or a drug dealer or a homeless person who intended to sleep in the lobby.

In their minds a black man couldn’t possibly afford to stay in a nice hotel because when they see a black man the pictures that pop in their little heads are of pimps, drug dealers, drug addicts, homeless people and raggedy poor people.

A black, female Yale University graduate student fell asleep in her dorm’s common room and a white, female student called the police with the complaint: “There’s somebody here who is where they’re not supposed to be.”

Why did she think that? Because in her mind black people couldn’t possibly belong in a Yale University dorm.

In Indianapolis a white, female off-duty police officer and a white, female apartment-house manager evicted a black tenant from the complex’s swimming pool even though the manager knew he was a tenant and he had the key to his apartment with him.

In Memphis, a white manager of an apartment complex called the police on a black tenant for wearing socks in the pool.

In North Carolina, a white man demanded identification from a black woman at a private community pool and called the police when she refused.

In South Carolina, a white woman attacked a 15-year-old black boy at a neighborhood pool, telling him and his friends that they had to “get out.”

This is just the tip of the iceberg. These incidents go on and on and on.

Why A Lot Of White People Assume A Black Person Doesn’t Belong Around Them

All of these people saw a black person in a place they thought a black person “didn’t belong.” Why did they think that a black person didn’t belong there?

Because they thought that black people were too poor to qualify to be in such a nice place. Or because they thought that black people were likely dirty, lazy, dangerous or criminal and they didn’t want “people like that” around them.

My opinion is that few of these white people would admit to being a racist any more than the white person who wouldn’t accept a Yale-educated black doctor or a white homeowner who wouldn’t accept a black person as an Airbnb guest wouldn’t admit that they were racists.

They would just say that they were being careful because unknown black people are more dangerous or untrustworthy than unknown white people.

They would tell you that they just wanted to protect their property and white tenants are generally more law abiding, careful and drug free than black tenants.

They would say that they just wanted to keep out trespassers, and because most black people can’t afford the nice places used by white people, they were more likely to be trespassers.

They would just tell you that they wanted the best professionals they could get and white doctors are, of course, smarter and better than black doctors.

Yes, You Are A Racist

Then they would look you straight in the eye and solemnly tell you, “I’m not a racist. I’m just being careful because black people really aren’t as smart, honest, trustworthy, law abiding, clean, and decent as white people. That’s just a fact. Recognizing that fact doesn’t make me a racist.”

Yes, it does, it really does.

So, don’t tell me there isn’t widespread discrimination in America.

It’s just gone underground. It’s language is just now more often spoken in code and with winks and nods.

But it’s there all the same in every little, bigoted picture that pops into a lot of white people’s heads whenever they see a black man who is someplace they’re sure he doesn’t belong.

— David Grace (www.DavidGraceAuthor.com)

#race #racist

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the-firebird69 · 4 months

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FAILED TRUCK JACKING ATTEMPT. This trucker knew what to do. Would you ha...

This is John rivallard again they were sick of him we don't want to see you doing this to anyone we're going to revoke all your licenses with all your aliases it works you get hassles I really need you to slow down and screw yourself which is odd it really is too much we can't stand you you say your Zeus you're a dick and now you're going to see your me and you're going to be done I've been doing this for a long time

Thor Freya

He says I took advantage of him he says I did then he says he did this to me and he did he says all the stuff and he's doing it and I don't believe he's doing it I sort of get something I'm pissing him off all the time so he's doing things I guess I'm oblivious it's true I don't get what he's doing that's what I understand it but it's not really doing it to me it says there's a couple things that I'm really ignorant about and I saw it Mop's house. Did a lot of shotguns and they're kind of rusty and he never had Rusty weapons and that's what I got to go on I've seen really strange crabs that look like they have heads he says I'm going to get to see them because Justin is going to stick you inside of one of his homemade predators that we have to hold together and I said this it's not bad but it's not great no that's a nightmare and we don't want that to happen and he says it sounds like my people doing it to shut me the f****** and show me these things exist and to shut me the f****** and get me out of the f****** way to stop eating the criminal here and I get something else so I learned something who cares

Billy Hicks

Hahaha he says it's so rich he knows who you're a fool he knows what he's doing and we have to look into it but I know as I've seen these creatures and I've seen you see them and you still have those f****** stupid look on your face like they don't exist but if they're right there so we have to get rid of you you're so damn dumb it's like a great white shark versus a hammerhead if you can imagine it

Mac daddy

Who does that I have to wait till I get there this is maybe we make people real small and we stick them on spiders what's the damn difference they take over the ship and their brain is soup and I get that one

Trump I guess my reaction is very lame my system is very lame they aren't using me as a mule so my role is to just sit there doing nothing like a f**** I get that just waiting you to show up and he says oh boy your free pretzels now yeah that's fine for the East terrific

Haha feel like that John remillard you're a hunk and loser but holy s*** this is going to suck these things are terrifying and I've seen them and you're a moron at least you have something to chew on

Ken

Olympus

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lil-papaya-tifosi · 5 years

Text

Masterlist

Word Count: 3777

Summary: Things rarely happen during the night shift, but tonight, it seems like the whole world is ending. Well, only according to my neighbor.

It was a night like any other. After 1am people rarely came into the small shop to get anything, be it food, drinks or other things they found here. Therefore I often had some peace until the end of my shift, which wasn’t until morning at 6 o’clock. It was exactly the same now. I had just said goodbye to the last customer and let myself fall on the small stool that always stood behind the counter. A quick look at the small digital clock next to the cash register told me that it was just after 1. If someone stormed into the store now, the world really had to be ending. And by that I didn’t mean a miniscule storm, but something bigger. Like a nuclear war between Trump and North Korea or the outbreak of the zombie apocalypse.

For a short moment I closed my eyes and enjoyed the silence. As long as you could call the buzzing of the refrigerated counters and the quiet music coming out of the speakers silence. I had become so accustomed to the constant background noises that they almost had a calming effect on me. Every now and then the flickering neon tube above the candy shelf attracted my attention. Not a soul was to be seen far and wide. The view I had from around the heated counters for the baked goods, onto the small side street confirmed this. At this time of day a lone car rarely drove here and if one ever did, then mostly only to avoid the idiotically operated traffic lights of the main streets.

I sat down normally again and dug out my papers to study. I did that almost every night shift I had. One of the reasons why I really couldn’t understand why each of my colleagues avoided the night shift. Unlike during the day, it was always quiet, because exciting things rarely happened during the night shifts. I was almost always able to concentrate on learning, and I hardly ever had to deal with annoying customers or noisy children. Usually they brought up the argument that I could also learn at home and should spend the nights sleeping. But the big difference was that I wasn’t paid at home also I didn’t sleep at home anyways, when I was spending the nights learning. Besides, a student knows no sleep during the Finals week. It’s basically an unwritten law. Thus this argument was also void. Therefore I preferred to be paid for learning. >Okay, let’s have a look.< I thought to myself before I buried my nose in my anatomy book.

The loud ringing of the bell above the shop door, which had been violently torn open, tore me away from my notes. Frightened, I flinched and automatically looked at the small digital clock next to me. The small display showed shortly after 3. At this time there really must have been a nuclear war outside or the zombie apocalypse must have broken out, otherwise I couldn’t explain the heavy steps and heavy breathing, which echoed through the shop. I could hardly see anybody from my position. This was also due to the fact that the heated counter blocked my view of most of the shop. The unknown person seemed to have stopped because the steps had ceased. But now the whirring of one of the refrigerated counters became louder, a sure indicator that he had opened one of the doors. Slowly the situation scared me a little and I hoped that I would not be asked for the entire contents of the cash register in a few seconds. But wasn't there a first time for everything? A very loud >>Fuck! << let me flinch again, the fridge door being slammed in annoyance. Cautiously I got up and peered as well as I could over the shelves, while from the back of the shop an indefinable long strand of curses came floating towards me. So if one really intended to rob me now, whoever it was, was on the completely wrong side of the shop, since all you could find back there was milk in every variation. On the other hand though, if he really intended to steal milk I would definitely worry about the average salary of our society, because milk was really not expensive.

I timidly took a step out of my cover and continued to spy across the shelves. Apart from a black mop of hair I couldn't see anything. Gathering all my courage, I spoke up, not leaving the protection of my counter. >>Can I help you in any way? << Surprisingly, my voice trembled less than I expected. Quite contrary to my hands which were shaking uncontrollably. The black head shot up jerkily and looked over the shelves at me. I resisted my initial instinct to jump behind the counter again to hide and took a step forward to make myself more visible. >>Y/n? << It suddenly came quite confused from the unknown gentleman. My heart was racing now. Although I knew the voice, I couldn’t immediately identify it because of my nervousness. My instinct took over when the stranger came out behind the shelves and let me take another step back behind the desk.

A wave of relief washed over me when I saw who had stormed into the store. >>Jungkook? <>My God you scared me. Can’t you come into a shop like a normal person? << I grumbled at my neighbour and raked my hand through my hair. However, it didn’t seem to interest the black haired guy in any way that he had just almost given me a heart attack, because he came running towards the counter with quick steps and almost threw himself over it to reach for my wrists. A little surprised by the sudden contact I stiffened briefly, but he didn’t even seem to notice that. >>Y/n...I have a problem. A very big problem even. << Almost automatically my eyes wandered to his crotch. So either his problem wasn’t as big as he said or his sweatpants did an extremely good job of hiding it. I felt the heat rising into my cheeks as he put his hand on my cheek and gently stroked it. >>It’s really important that you help me with this, ok? << he spoke now as his eyes wandered over my face. However, his tone of voice irritated me a little. If he really wanted me to suck his dick, he should stop beating around the bush about it.

A snap in front of my face brought me back to reality. I felt my face take on the colour of an overripe tomato. >>I have no time for your thirsty ass because my ass is thirty too. << he exclaimed not making the situation any clearer for my brain. >>For Banana milk! <<< he groaned at me, this time visibly tense. Either he could read my mind or I had just undressed him with my eyes. Since I strongly doubted the former, I had to be satisfied with the latter. Much to my embarrassment. At that moment I wished for nothing more than the ground to open up and devour me. I would even prefer the zombie apocalypse. I would even voluntarily throw myself into Zombietrumps arms and present myself as a willing victim to get out of this embarrassment. A little confused, I blinked at him, while Jungkook moved from one leg to the other. >>Do you still have any in stock or not? << he asked with a little more emphasis and nodded his head towards the fridges. >>What do we still have in stock? <>Banana milk! << he almost yelled now, leaning over the counter even further, if at all possible. In the meantime he had placed his hands on the counter top to support himself a little further while his face was hovering a few centimeters in front of mine, his eyes looking at me insistently.>>Please Y/n...<< his voice was now nothing more than a pleading whisper. With big eyes he looked at me. Under normal circumstances, I would now ask the customer to keep a little more distance, but under my neighbour’s intense stare I couldn’t get a single useful word out. For a few seconds we just stared at each other, while I, for my part, tried to reconnect my tongue to my brain, and him obviously waiting for an answer. Just as I was about to open my mouth again to tell him that if there wasn’t any left the fridge I would have to look in the stockroom, since my brain was thank god already that far, the bell above the shop door distracted me again. Jungkook didn’t move an inch when I tried to look past his extremely muscular, broad form. >>Y/n? << a voice I knew all too well called out. >>Are you there? <>Jimin? << I asked mentally thanking my brain for re- establishing the connection to my vocal chords in time. I was given a relieved breath as an answer. When he finally appeared in my field of vision he stopped abruptly. >>Do you know him Y/n? Is he bothering you? << my fellow student asked anxiously and came a little closer. Typically Jimin.

I had met him during one of my lectures. At that time we had sat next to each other for almost half a year, but none of us had made any attempts to start a conversation. Until the day I had fallen asleep on the table completely knocked out. The two nights before that had been spent with studying only so I had been running exclusively on coffee. Apparently I had complained in my sleep about the curriculum. Jimin, the angel he was, had fortunately woken me up before more people around us could hear my ramblings.

How it became us suddenly going out for a coffee every day after university and then spending the afternoons or evenings together, I hadn't quite figured out yet. Regardless, because I liked him I didn’t worry too much about the how. At some point he had started to visit me at night on my shifts, after he had found out about my job. Most of the times he payed me a visit we used the time to learn together or just to talk a little.

I just pieced together an answer as Jungkook cut me off this time. He whirled around and looked at the blonde. >>No Hyung! Nothing is ok! I have a serious problem! For days I haven't been doing anything else than learning and now the worst of all emergencies has happened: << he took a short break and inhaled deeply. >>I don’t have Banana milk anymore! How am I supposed to study now? << Now I was completely confused >>Wait...you know each other? <>When was the last time you slept? << he asked, honest worry etched into his features. Jungkook looked at him as if the older one had just suggested a Threesome on the counter. I wouldn’t say no to that, since both men looked extremely good even though it would take a little bit of convincing. >>Is it important when I slept the last time? << he avoided the question. >>I currently have a much bigger problem. I. Don’t. Have. Any. Banana. Milk. Left. << he said and spoke each word accentuated slowly.

Jungkook turned back to me. By now he was looking like he was about to have a nervous breakdown. Jimin’s face, on the other hand, showed a mixture of deep concern and pure amusement. At least he looked exactly like I felt inside. >>I’d have to go to the storeroom to see if we still have any left. <>Were there no more on the back shelf? << I asked the standard question. Although I was very aware of the fact that he probably wouldn’t be standing here in front of me, begging to get the milk if it was still on the shelf, it was just a habitual question. Now Jungkook looked at me as if I had just told him that I liked Jimin’s unspoken orgy idea.

Looking for help he turned to Jimin who was too busy trying not to laugh. >>Don’t you think I would have disappeared into my study hell long ago if I had found some in that damn refrigerated shelf? << he groaned quite desperately. I bit my lower lip to stifle a smile and shook my head. >>Y/n...please...it’s really important. Otherwise I can’t continue studying and if I don’t study then I fail and if I fail my parents are incredibly disappointed in me because they would have expected something better and if my parents are disappointed in me I don’t know what to do anymore and... << His flood of words was interrupted by Jimin looking at him with his eyebrow raised. >>Now take it down a notch, Kook. You act as if the whole world is going down because of your banana milk. << He only got a sulking Jungkook as an answer. I just nodded silently and quickly disappeared to the back of the store.

In the storeroom I shook my head laughing. He probably just exaggerated the situation. It was a bit amusing what some finals could make out of us poor students.

I quickly managed to find what I was looking for, finishing the trip to the storage room. With the desired milk on my arm I went back to the sales room. Jungkook was running restlessly up and down in the counter area, while Jimin sat relaxed on the counter top typing on his mobile phone. I decided to let my stressed neighbour fidget a little longer and hid behind one of the shelves. A few seconds passed in which Jungkook continued to run up and down until Jimin was fed up with it. >>You look like you’re about to have a complete breakdown and your last resort is this stupid banana milk. << he deadpanned and looked at the black-haired guy over his phone. Jungkook glared at the blonde. >>That’s easy for you to say. I know you’ve already finished your finals. But maybe I should ask Y/n what you look like when you’re close to them. << he snapped at the older one and I bit my lower lip to avoid giggling. Jungkook wasn't completely wrong. Jimin could look a lot worse when we were close to the finals. To be honest, I’ve never seen a person who could be so stressed over a test like Jimin was. Well, except Jungkook. >>Where do you know each other from? << Jungkook asked changing the subject. He dropped himself cross-legged to the ground. Apparently he had given up trying to demolish the floor. Jimin shrugged. >>She sits next to me in my main lectures. At some point she fell asleep on the table and complained very energetically about the subject matter. I finally woke her up before the whole course heard her tirade of abuse. << Jungkook chuckled quietly. >>And you? << Jimin asked him the counter question. Jungkook leaned back, supporting his weight on his hands. I was able to see his biceps flexing under the short sleeves of his shirt. >>She is my neighbour. << he answered briefly. The only thing that made it clear that the young man was still under tension was his restlessly wobbly leg and his eyes that were continuously darting in the direction I had disappeared before. >>How long does it take her to find this damn milk? << he grumbled, now and stretched out a little hoping to get a better look through the open storage room door. Again Jimin shrugged. >>When was the last time you had sex? << The blonde suddenly asked bluntly. Jungkook looked at him completely stunned and also caught me off guard with the question. Jimin meant his question completely seriously, since no mockery could be found in his voice. Almost synchronously both Jungkook and I raised an eyebrow. >>Honestly, sex is my least concern at the moment. If you haven’t noticed yet, I’ll write my finals next week, haven’t slept for 3 days and live on banana milk and coffee. << Now Jimin also raised an eyebrow. >>As long as you don’t pour the milk into the coffee. << My neighbour remained suspiciously silent for a few seconds. >>Why do you even ask that so bluntly? << he asked after a few seconds and looked critically at Jimin, who only gave a slight chuckle. >>Forgot that I'm a med student? Sex helps to reduce stress and helps to relax. You need both badly. You could also masturbate, because what counts in the end is the orgasm. << The blonde took a dramatic break. Jungkook looked at him a little disparagingly. I, on the other hand, couldn’t resist a grin. It was so incredibly typical for Jimin to come up with ideas like that, even if he was not wrong this time. The endorphins the body released during orgasm really helped with stress relief and relaxation. Jimin continued carefree despite my neighbour being visibly unhappy about the topic. >>But it’s more fun with two people. << he finished and wiggled his eyebrows, a shit-eating grin on his face. My neighbour snorted unamused before reaching into the shelf behind him and threw the first thing he could reach for at Jimin, in this case a chewing gum container. The blonde man caught it with playful ease.

>>I would prefer it if the goods would not get wings. << I finally revealed myself, while it cost me some serious self-control not to laugh out loud. The incredibly annoyed expression on my neighbour’s face turned into a wide beam when he saw the boxes in my arms. >>Before anything breaks here. <>Is that enough? <>You are the best Y/n! << he exclaimed cheerfully and embraced me impetuously. Since I hadn’t expected it, I stiffened reflexively briefly, which he didn’t seem to notice in his euphoria. I couldn’t resist a smile as I wrapped my arms around his narrow waist to return the hug. However, he seemed to see it as a kind of invitation to wrap his arms a little tighter around my form, which only elicited a suffocated sound from me. Classic case of underestimating one’s own strength. A squeak escaped my throat as he suddenly lifted me up just to hug me tighter. A quiet giggle echoed from the counter, which could also have come from me, if my neighbour wasn’t busy squeezing any air left out of my lungs. I had never experienced so much enthusiasm about a few bottles of banana milk.

Instead of just putting me back on the ground, he still kept me firmly pressed against his body. Meanwhile I had put my hands on his upper arms to stabilize myself a little. I could feel his muscles tense under the fabric of his T-shirt. It had not remained hidden to me that the young man was 80% pure muscle, since I had met him too often in the morning, when he was on his way to the gym and I was on the way to my flat. Besides, I really wasn’t blind. Although, feeling the muscles under my fingers was certainly not an unwelcomed experience. >>Thank you! Thank you Y/n. You're saving my finals. << he said. If we were now in one of these cheesy romances he would kiss me now. Also something I wouldn’t complain about. But we weren’t. I became painfully aware of this when he put me back on the floor and pulled his wallet out of his pocket. A little disappointed inside, I went back behind the counter and pushed Jimin, who sulked at me, down without further ado. >>This isn’t a seat you dingus. << I said drily and let the black haired man pay for his banana milk.

Suddenly a strange silence laid over us. We looked at each other a little awkwardly while Jungkook grabbed his boxes. >>I’ll go then...<< he mumbled into the silence and nodded giving us a friendly smile before he left. >>Don’t forget what I told you earlier. << Jimin called after him causing the younger one to turn around. The blonde pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek and made the corresponding hand movement. Jungkook shook his head snorting before he disappeared through the door with a loving >>Fuck you Park! << . Bewildered I looked at my friend and hit him on the arm. >>Not everyone is such a fucking nymphomaniac like you! << I exclaimed outraged and made Jimin burst out laughing. Rolling his eyes, I brought the chewing gum container back to its place, while in the meantime, still giggling quietly, he was roaming through the shop and grabbing some snacks from the shelves. >>I just desperately hope he doesn’t really pour the milk into his coffee. << he said when he came back to me. I shrugged and scanned the things he had put on the counter. >>I don’t think we’ll ever know. << Jimin laughed quietly as I pushed the card reader over to him. >>But during the finals your brain is totally strained, so I wouldn’t be surprised. I don’t have to remind you what you do when you’re stressed, do I? <>See you tomorrow? << he asked before turning to leave. I nodded approvingly. He said goodbye and with that I was alone again. Grinning I looked at the clock. Shortly before 4. I sighed quietly and let myself fall again on my stool behind the heated counter. At least I could still use the last hours for studying.

#bts #bts imagine #bts smut #bts crack #bts jungkook #jungkook #jeon jungkook #jeongguk #bts jimin #jimin #park jimin #kpop smut

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bountyofbeads · 5 years

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Trump pressured his alcoholic brother about his career. Now he has regrets.

https://wapo.st/2yGJVqT

This is a fascinating read 📖 looking at the dynamics within the immediate family members of Trump. You see the lack of empathy on Donald's and Fred's part throughout the article.

Trump pressured his alcoholic brother about his career. Now he has regrets.

By Michael KRANISH | Published August 08 at 6:00 AM ET | Washington Post | Posted August 8, 2019 10:02 AM ET

President Trump remembers coming home in the mid-1960s to read reports on the cost of mops and paint as he prepared to work in the family real estate business. He was astonished to find his older brother, Fred Jr., reading aviation books in hopes of fulfilling his dream of being a TWA pilot.

“Come on, Freddy, what are you doing?” Trump has recalled saying to his brother. “You’re wasting your time.” Their father berated Fred Jr., saying he wanted to be nothing more than “a chauffeur in the sky,” a friend said, instead of running the Trump company.

Fred Jr. was wounded. “It was a lot of pressure,” said David Miller, a Lehigh University fraternity brother of Fred Jr.’s who became his lawyer. “He did what he could to run away from it.”

Fred Trump Jr.’s dream of flying for TWA ended. He descended into alcoholism and died at 42 years old in 1981.

Now, as President Trump speaks about how he will fight the opioid crisis, he has seized on the story of his brother as evidence of his empathy for addicts, saying that he can apply the lessons of that experience to dealing with the calamity of narcotics abuse.

In an extensive interview with The Washington Post, Trump provided what appears to be the fullest accounting he has ever given of his brother’s life and death, and he went further than he has before in acknowledging mistakes.

“I do regret having put pressure on him,” Trump said. Running the family business “was just something he was never going to want” to do. “It was just not his thing. . . . I think the mistake that we made was we assumed that everybody would like it. That would be the biggest mistake. . . . There was sort of a double pressure put on him” by his brother and his father.

It is rare for Trump to express regret or admit mistakes. But he said his brother’s short, tragic life scarred him like no other event, and he said he remains haunted by watching Fred Jr.’s handsome features fade.

A number of Fred Jr.’s friends, who provided The Post with many new details about his life, said the president has too often told the story in a way that put Fred Jr. in the harshest light while painting himself as the virtuous brother who avoided alcohol. The president was asked to respond to their comments and recently did so.

Jack O’Donnell, a former Trump casino executive who later ran an Arizona addiction treatment center, said the president still has not come to terms with his brother’s life and death.

“It always felt like it was a dark family secret, and a subject [about] which he did not want to talk,” O’Donnell said. “There is generally a lot of shame around addiction, which is sad. I think the entire Trump family suffers a great deal of shame and unresolved trauma over Fred’s Jr. death.”

TALL AND HANDSOME

Freddy, as everyone called him, was the firstborn son, so he was given the name of his father. His friends said in interviews that he was the opposite of Donald Trump — soft-spoken, playful, and often joking.

The Trump children grew up in Queens, eventually moving to a two-story, columned house in Jamaica Estates that looked as if it belonged on a Southern plantation. Freddy took the subway to St. Paul’s, an Episcopal high school in Garden City, N.Y., and his father hoped he would be accepted into the University of Pennsylvania’s Wharton Business School. But Fred Jr. didn’t get in, and he went instead to Lehigh University in 1956, leaving behind his then-10-year-old brother Donald.

Fred Jr. quickly became one of the most sought-after students at Lehigh, and many fraternities courted him. Despite being raised Presbyterian, he joined a fraternity that historically had been Jewish but was open to people of other faiths. One of the brothers said Fred Jr.’s joining that fraternity, Sigma Alpha Mu, was a declaration of his independence from his father.

The fraternity brothers said they never saw Fred Jr. drink excessively, and they recalled giving him the responsibility of house steward, which involved overseeing the kitchen and some finances. Tall, blond and movie-star handsome, he was considered the campus jokester, arranging stunts and carrying himself as happy-go-lucky and wealthy. They recalled him offering them rides in a sports car, boat and an airplane, which he rented at a local airport.

“Every year he would come to college with a brand-new Corvette,” said fraternity brother Ira Jay Kirschner. “He was a fun-loving person who enjoyed life.”

“He was as far from Donald’s personality as you can get,” said fraternity brother Mel Bergstein.

After graduating from Lehigh in 1960, Trump met a flight attendant named Linda Lee Clapp, and they married in 1962.

The couple lived in New York, where Fred Jr. relented to pressure to go into the family real estate business. It was Fred Jr., one friend said, who came up with the idea of naming a set of high-rise apartments near Coney Island as Trump Village, the first time the family name appeared on a development. But he soon got into fights with his father over seemingly mundane decisions, such as how much to spend on windows.

Donald, who had been sent to military school to have discipline instilled in him, was about to attend Fordham University. It was in this period that Fred Trump Sr. and Donald Trump chastised Fred Trump Jr. for not wanting to be involved in the family business.

Fred Jr. saw flying as an honorable profession, his friends said. He applied to be trained as a pilot for TWA and passed a rigorous set of requirements to enroll in a 1964 class of about a dozen students. He flew for a number of months as a secondary pilot.

“What he loved doing was flying airplanes,” Donald Trump said. “I remember being at the house and other pilots from TWA would come to the house and they’d come to work with Fred because he was a very natural talent.”

Three pilots who trained with Fred Jr. said in interviews that they saw signs of his alcoholism emerging. The pilots said they didn’t know anything about the pressure Trump was under from his family to join the business, but they said he clearly was under stress that he could not handle.

Bob Dedman, who said he sat next to Fred Jr. at the TWA flight school, said he was “always nattily dressed, polite, educated and well-mannered. A nicer gentleman you will never meet. His problem was he had a major drinking problem. . . . He would go to a restaurant and have a couple of martinis. He would fall asleep and I said, ‘Hey, Fred, wake up!’ ”

By some accounts, Fred Jr. was fired from TWA after a year-long probation for new hires. He was “terminated because he had a drinking problem,” said Bob Kavula, vice president of the TWA Retired Pilots Association. “His drinking got in the way of his flying, and they couldn’t afford that.”

But one of Fred Jr.’s friends, Annamaria Forcier, who as a teenager in 1958 moved to the Queens neighborhood where the Trump family lived, thought Fred Jr. left TWA because of the pressure from the family.

“My impression of it was that he was basically forced to go work for the family firm,” she said. “There was a lot of tension between not only the old man but also between him and Donald. There was a lot of tension because they didn’t want him to be an airline pilot.”

Forcier saw the brothers together on several occasions, including a dinner at her home where she said Donald Trump yelled at his brother.

“I’m five-foot-eight and I’m standing between them,” Forcier said. “[Donald] was yelling at him. He was a finger pointer, and he put his finger in his brother’s face.” Finally, Donald Trump stormed out, slamming the door behind him, she said.

Trump said, “I actually don’t know if I ever argued with [Fred Jr.], other than to sort of tell him, ‘Gee, you should love this, this business; we can do something great here.’ ”

Still, Trump has said for years that watching his brother’s downfall was instructive, particularly his backing down in the face of their father’s scolding. Donald Trump shaped himself in a way that is now familiar: pushing back against anyone who questions him and becoming the kind of “killer” his father wanted to run the family business.

“I stood up to him,” Trump wrote in his autobiography, “and he respected that.”

DRINKING WORSENS

For a while, Fred Jr. tried to build his own business, establishing an employment agency, but the effort foundered. By 1966, he had rejoined the family company, where he was identified in newspapers as vice president, and became the spokesman for the family’s effort to redevelop Steeplechase Park on Coney Island into a zoo-like attraction.

Donald Trump, meanwhile, was increasingly seen by their father as the heir apparent. Donald had completed two years at Fordham University and was under pressure from his father to transfer to Penn’s business school, which Fred Jr. had failed to get into a decade earlier.

As it happened, one of Fred Jr.’s closest friends, a high school classmate named James Nolan, had become an admissions officer at Wharton. As recently reported by The Post, Fred Jr. asked Nolan to interview Donald as a candidate for admission.

Nolan said in an interview that he agreed and gave Donald a rating that qualified him for admission. Donald was granted entrance as a transfer student, enabling him to achieve what his brother had not and establishing him in their father’s eyes as more successful.

A few years later, when the New York Times ran a feature about the family business, it showed Fred Trump Sr. surveying company property alongside Donald Trump. Fred Trump Jr.’s name no longer appeared in stories about the family business, and his drinking became worse.

“I tried many times to tell him to get help, to try to get him to stop,” Miller, the fraternity brother and lawyer, said in an interview at his New York City apartment. “If I had known of the existence of Alcoholics Anonymous, I would have dragged him by the throat to it.”

Finally, Miller persuaded Fred Jr. to see a psychiatrist. Miller described the meeting as follows:

“I don’t want to stop drinking,” Fred Jr. said.

“I can’t help someone who doesn’t want to stop,” the psychiatrist replied.

Miller concluded that his friend simply “liked to drink” and “became addicted to alcohol.”

Around this time, Linda decided to seek a divorce because of Fred’s drinking, Miller said. They divorced in 1970. Fred Jr. worked at some modest jobs for the family company as his health worsened.

By the late 1970s, Donald Trump’s life was being chronicled in the press like that of a celebrity. He partied at Manhattan’s Studio 54, married his first wife, Ivana, and began developing property in Manhattan with the financial support of his father.

Fred Jr., meanwhile, was gaunt, ill and hospitalized.

Nolan, the former high school classmate, visited Fred Jr. in the hospital during this period, and part of his stomach had been removed, apparently because of damage from drinking.

“He was melancholy, understandably,” Nolan said. Yet somehow the old jokester had kept his sense of humor.

“He said, ‘You know, I should have become a comedian,’ ” Nolan said.

Donald Trump said that he, too, visited his brother at the hospital. He asked his brother what attracted him to alcohol.

“I used to ask, ‘Is it the taste, or what is it?’ ” Trump said in the interview. “He didn’t know what to say about it because, frankly, it was just something that he liked.”

In these last years of his life, Fred Jr. lived once again at the Jamaica Estates home. Donald Trump has long said that his brother helped him by warning him against alcohol, but he had not said what, if anything, he did to help his brother. Asked in the interview whether he did anything to help his brother fight the disease, Trump said he often traveled from his Manhattan home to visit.

“I dealt with it,” Trump said. “We went out to dinner a lot. I’d sometimes come home and go to lunch with him.”

Asked whether his brother was ever sent to a rehabilitation program, Trump responded: “He did. A number of times.” Asked if he visited his brother, Trump said, “I don’t think it was necessarily a stay-over rehab because he lived in the house. I don’t remember it as being a stay-over. But I spent a lot of times with Fred.”

Trump said that “I don’t think there was much we could do at the time . . . . Things have been studied and learned right now that are much different.”

During this period, Trump said, he was shocked by his brother’s physical decline but also by his determination to survive.

“He was so handsome, and I saw what alcohol did to him even physically . . . and that had an impact on me, too,” Trump said. In the end, “he actually lived a long time longer than you would expect.”

On Sept. 26, 1981, Fred Trump Jr. was at Queens Hospital Center when he died of a heart attack, which the family has said stemmed from alcoholism.

News of the death was received bitterly by Fred Jr.’s friends. Forcier expressed concern that the family had not provided him with the type of support that might have helped him.

Donald Trump feared addiction to alcohol was a disease that ran in his family and that he would follow his brother if he had a single drink.

“Let’s say I started drinking, it’s very possible I wouldn’t be talking to you right now,” Trump said in the interview. “There is something about the genetic effect.” (Trump noted that his fear of alcohol did not prevent him from buying in 2011 what became known as Trump Winery in Virginia, now operated by his son Eric.)

With Fred Jr.’s death, the family’s focus turned even more to Donald Trump, whose fortunes were ascendant as he developed Trump Tower in Manhattan.

ESTATE FIGHT

Fred Trump Sr. died 18 years after his namesake son. The family of Fred Trump Jr. had hoped to receive a share of the estate similar to what would have gone to him if he had lived.

The issue was important to them because Fred Jr.’s son, Fred Trump III, had a son, William, with cerebral palsy. The boy’s care had been covered by a Trump company, but it was costly, with expenses that would last a lifetime.

After the patriarch’s death, however, the descendants of Fred Jr. learned that they would receive only a portion of the amount they had expected. They took the extraordinary step of suing several other members of the Trump family in March 2000, alleging that Donald Trump and his siblings had persuaded Fred Sr. to change the will. Donald Trump responded by cutting off the family company’s payments for the care of Fred Trump III’s child with cerebral palsy.

“When [Fred Trump III] sued us, we said, ‘Why should we give him medical coverage?’ ” Donald Trump told the New York Daily News at the time.

Fred Trump III, referring to Donald Trump and two of his siblings, who were executors of the estate, said in a Nassau County court case that “my aunt and uncles thought nothing about taking away my critically ill son’s coverage in an attempt to browbeat me in to abandoning my claim in the probate contest.”

In response, Robert Trump, speaking for himself as well as brother Donald and two sisters, said in an affidavit that the health care provided by the family had been given “out of the goodness of our hearts” and was not a contractual obligation. Moreover, Robert Trump said, Fred Trump III received $200,000 annually in gifts and payments from the Trump family “without lifting a finger.”

The estate case was settled confidentially in 2000.

President Trump, asked about the dispute by The Post, cited the settlement and said, “One child was having a difficult time. It was an unfortunate thing. It worked out well, and we all get along.”

Linda Trump and her two children, Fred III and Mary, declined interview requests. Robert Trump and his sister, retired U.S. appeals court judge Maryann Trump Barry, could not be reached for comment. Elizabeth Trump Grau, the president’s other sister, declined an interview request.

‘MUCH NICER GUY ’

Over the years, Donald Trump has refined the narrative of the impact of his brother’s death.

Trump told Playboy magazine in 1990 that his brother’s death had shaped his life.

“His death affected everything that has come after it,” Trump said. “I think constantly that I never really gave him thanks for it. He was the first Trump boy out there, and I subconsciously watched his moves. I saw people really taking advantage of Fred and the lesson I learned was always to keep up my guard one hundred percent, whereas he didn’t. He didn’t feel that there was really reason for that, which is a fatal mistake in life.”

Speaking that same year in a CBS interview, Trump again came close to putting some of the blame on himself, while still hedging. “Perhaps it was my fault and perhaps my father’s fault for egging him on to business because he wasn’t good at it, because he didn’t like the business,” Trump said. He said his brother “totally gave of himself and he gave himself to other people” and was open. “I tend to be just the opposite.” He told CNN that his brother was “a much nicer guy than me, to be totally honest with you.”

Now, nearly 38 years after Fred Jr.’s death, Donald Trump said that he understands the circumstances of what happened to his brother “much, much better” and that his presidency has given it new meaning. Trump said he would apply the lessons to the fight against addictions, including alcohol and opioids.

“I guess you could say now I’m the chief of trying to solve it,” Trump said. “I don’t know that I’d be working, devoting the kind of time and energy and even the money we are allocating to it. . . . I don’t know that I’d be doing that had I not had the experience with Fred.”

Alice Crites, Julie Tate and Magda Jean-Louis contributed to this report.

#politics #u.s. news #donald trump #trump administration #politics and government #president donald trump #trump #white house #us: news #must reads #trump news #donald trump jr #trumpism #potustrump #potus45

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