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shaunamilfman · 10 days

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you must like me for me [2]

summary: You weren't sure what you did to piss off Shauna Shipman, but you've been on the receiving end of her death glares for just as long as you can remember. If looks could kill you'd certainly be six feet under, but hey–it's kind of hot, right? For better or worse, everything changes after a run-in at a party. Part 1 | Part 3

“Come on,” Nat protests, pointedly glancing at the hickey displayed proudly on your neck. “Spill. Who was it?”

You shake your head with a grin as you look over at her. “Not telling.”

Nat groans exaggeratedly. “Fine. Whoever it is is Shipman-level crazy because I swear haven't seen your neck in weeks–”

She trails off at the sheepish look on your face. “No fucking way. You've been hooking up with Shipman? Shauna Shipman let you get within three feet of her?” You bristle at the utter disbelief in her voice, honestly a little offended, before you decide the disbelief is more on Shauna's personality than your ability to pull her.

“Could you announce it any louder?” You say wryly.

Nat scoffs. “No one would believe it even if they heard it.”

“Yeah, but Shauna would.”

Nat's eyes widen slightly as she glances around to make sure no one hears you. You give her an amused look as she rolls her eyes. “I'm not, like, afraid of her or something. But the last thing I need is for her to sic Jackie on me.”

You nod slowly, and she elbows you in the side in retaliation for your disbelieving hum. You rub at your side with a wince; Nat really could pack a punch when she meant to and– like this time– even when she didn't. Her face softens slightly at the motion, but she doesn't otherwise acknowledge it.

Nat never likes to acknowledge when she feels guilty about something, choosing instead to just bottle it up and stew on it. You think it's dumb to ruminate on something that's already stopped hurting, but you know Nat wouldn't appreciate you acknowledging it.

She's a lot like Shauna in that way, you've realized. You're not quite sure which one of them would win in a brooding contest but you think it might be a close call. It's strange to think about Nat and Shauna being similar in any way, but as you've spent more time with Shauna you've really started to question why you didn't get along well in the first place.

It's not like you've spent a ton of your time together talking– far too occupied by the thought of burying your head between her thighs to exchange pleasantries– but you've really grown to like the snippets of her personality that shine through.

She's argumentative with a mean streak a mile wide, sure, but she offered you a pillow for your knees once so you figured it probably evened itself out. Right? Granted, you only needed the pillow because she kept you kneeling on her hardwood floor as she insisted for another round but you assured yourself it was the thought that counts.

Shauna was sweet in her own way, you reasoned. Sometimes you caught her giving you the sweetest little smile out of the corner of your eye when she thought you couldn't see it, quickly turning it into a frown the second you turned your head fully to face her. She bemoaned your presence in her bed the second you were finished fooling around, but you kept yourself from commenting on the way she immediately wrapped herself around you. Sometimes it pays to be the bigger person for once. Truly you couldn't leave if you wanted to: she's a hell of a lot stronger than she looks.

Shauna never seemed warmer than in the afterglow, almost eager to climb into your lap or hold you on hers. The distance that she was always so careful to put between herself and others made bridgeable for just an instant as she allowed a vulnerability that was as rare as it was captivating. It felt like a privilege to be granted access to her like this, a part of her that she kept under lock and key. In those moments it was just the two of you, like nothing else matters. Like nothing ever mattered but her.

It was the quiet intimacy between you in a few moments of stolen affection that kept you coming back, unable to stop yourself from seeking her out even as you reminded yourself time and time again that it was a bad idea. It was a bittersweet connection you shared, but you can’t find it in yourself to resist it.

In summary, you’re fucked.

You push the thought out of your head, shifting focus abruptly as you elbow Nat back even harder. Nat grunts in pain, almost wheezing as she grabs at her side. She glares at you with teary eyes, but there’s a slight quirk of her lips that betrays a small hint of amusement. She shoves you backward a few steps, but you quickly recover as you start to laugh. That is, until, a force comes slamming into your shoulder and sends you stumbling back.

As you catch your balance again the shock of the collision fades, quickly replaced by blinding anger. You almost swung on her purely on instinct until you caught sight of a flannel-clad arm just in the corner of your vision.

“Oops,” Shauna mutters, voice dripping with insincerity. Your immediate confusion cools the edges of your rage, leaving you on edge and a little unsure as you stare at her. You’ve seen Shauna start plenty of shit, sure, but she’d never even bothered to interact with you at school before. You weren’t even sure what you could have done to set her off this time.

“Sorry, didn’t see you there,” She continues, seeming annoyed at your continued silence. You glare over at her as you rub at your shoulder, but it doesn’t seem to affect her anyway. She stares impassively at you, tilting her head to the side with a sarcastic smile as if daring you to do something about it. Shauna’s nonchalant demeanor does little to alleviate your growing irritation as you stare at her, rolling your eyes before looking around the hallway.

There are a few curious eyes on the both of you, but they quickly look away the second they catch you staring back at them. Students shuffle past and around you, talking aimlessly and oblivious to the standoff between the two of you.

It’s as if Shauna’s testing your patience, a subtle plea for your attention masked under a detached smile. If she wanted to see you lose your composure you certainly weren’t going to give her the satisfaction.

No matter what she was trying to get out of this little stunt– and you’re sure there was a reason for it no matter how impulsive she can act– you're content in knowing you’ve gotten something from it too. She looks so pretty when she tries to stare you down, a growing irritation bubbling on her face as you take a moment to take it all in. Although you resent her attempt to intimidate you, there’s an undeniable allure in her audacity.

Shauna commands your attention even in the busy hallway, standing unperturbed as the crowd parts around her with her shoulders squared and chin lifted in a silent declaration of defiance. There’s an intensity to her eyes that borders on a challenge, a well of determination hidden behind her steely indifference. You meet her gaze head-on, almost smiling as a flash of surprise crosses her face.

You love it when she gets like this. There’s a deliberate wildness to her appearance, a calculated messiness that only entrances you more. She faces you with a practiced air of indifference that does little to hide the barely contained rage just under the surface if only you knew where to look. She constantly teeters just on the edge of control, on the verge of striking out at the slightest provocation. She’s an absolute force of nature, more than willing to take down anything that stands in her way.

Choking down your initial urge to confront her, you take a measured breath before giving her a wry smile. “Watch where you’re going next time,” You say evenly, emphasizing each word.

Shauna’s eyes narrow, her face faltering for just a moment. “Sure thing. My bad,” She replies casually, a hint of mockery in her voice as she tries to bait you again. Her frustration is almost palpable as you let the challenge go unprovoked once again. You shake your head in amusement, tearing your eyes away from her as you turn back to Nat.

Jackie, who’s been looking confusedly back and forth between you, grabs her by the arm and starts trying to drag her down the hallway. “Shauna wasn’t looking where she was going,” Jackie apologizes with a pinched smile.

She seems surprised when Shauna digs her feet in for a moment, tugging again as Shauna finally relents and lets herself be pulled away from you. Jackie’s fingers are wrapped tightly around her forearm as they walk off but Shauna doesn’t even seem to notice it as she finally drags her eyes away from you as they round the corner.

“What the fuck was that?” Nat mutters. You shrug, shoving your hands in your pockets as you feel for the edge of your lighter. You give her an easy smile as you find it, rubbing your thumb aimlessly across the surface as you push off the locker.

“Should probably get to class, yeah?”

Nat stares irritatedly at you for a moment before shrugging.

…

You tap your foot against the ground impatiently as you lean against the wall outside, starting to regret ever deciding to wait Shauna out. She was later than usual and you were starting to wonder if she was ever going to get out of the locker room. You knew from experience that you had a good twenty minutes in between when Shauna left the locker room and when Jackie did, but then again Shauna usually knew you were waiting for her.

You wondered idly if Shauna was making you wait on purpose, a little power play that you wouldn’t entirely put past her. Sometimes you thought she got some thrill out of knowing you were waiting around for her, but you couldn’t entirely blame this one on her. Maybe she’s gotten caught up in her own little world as she waited around for Jackie, unaware she had someone impatiently waiting for her outside. Still, you had a sneaking suspicion that Shauna wouldn’t be able to resist the urge to sit in her car alone to write angsty prose in her journal while Jackie was busy talking with their coach.

You imagine her now, sitting sideways across the seat with her journal propped up on her knees as her pen moved furiously across the page. It’s a sight you’ve become all too familiar with lately; Even the sound her pen makes as she presses down just hard enough to threaten to rip the page in her anger has become oddly soothing. Despite her hidden penchant for dramatics, you find that there’s a surprising depth to her, one that extends far below the surface of any ideas you’ve previously held about her. There’s just something about her that resonates with you on a visceral level, lingering in your thoughts long even when you’d rather push her aside.

You’re almost embarrassed at how attractive you’ve started to find her brooding. She just feels everything so deeply, and you find yourself captivated and frustrated by it in equal measure as you try to rationalize her behavior. You knew that there had to be some reason behind whatever little stunt she was pulling in the hallway, but for the life of you, you just couldn’t find a reason. You want there to be a reason.

You need there to be a reason, otherwise, she was just pushing you around for no reason. You never thought you’d see the day when you were excusing one of her moody rituals, but you’ve become smitten with her despite your better judgment. Shauna could be mean, as you well knew, but you’ve never known her to be cruel. You so badly want that to be true, even as you keep getting the sneaking suspicion that she’s just toying with–

Ah, footsteps. You grin.

You wait a minute for her to pass by you before you push off the wall, trailing a few steps behind her as she walks toward her car. She turns suddenly as she reaches it, obviously hearing someone walk up behind her. The anger in her eyes fades the second she catches sight of who it is, a moment of unease passing over her face as she sizes you up. “What are you doing here?” She asks, not prepared to find you here and seemingly off balance

“What was that, earlier?” You press, momentarily distracted by the faint sheen of moisture that still clings to her skin after her shower.

Shauna huffs, her eyes rolling as she makes a half-hearted attempt to open the door of her car. You step forward and slam your hand against the top of the door, cutting off her retreat and effectively trapping her between your body and the door. You’re almost annoyed by her lackluster attempt– did she seriously just try to hide in her car? She looks pissed as she glances between you and the door, clearly realizing she’s going to have to confront you one way or the other. You’d take either, honestly, as long as she addressed the tension between you. You were getting sick of letting her set the pace all the time.

Her narrowed eyes betray her irritation as she looks up at you, but there’s a flicker of something else in her expression that only makes you want to push her more. A long moment of silence passes between you, Shauna’s heavy breaths as she tries to reign in her anger the only sound you can hear. This silent confrontation is unfamiliar, a definite departure from your usual dynamic that seems to make Shauna equally uncomfortable. As the seconds tick by, Shauna's seemingly detached confidence begins to falter, revealing the cracks in her armor as she finally gives in.

“What was what?” Shauna asks finally, more uncomfortable with the silence stretching between you than any desire to actually have this conversation. You’ll work with what you get.

“That shit you pulled in the hallway. Seriously, Shipman? You shoulder-checked me.”

“Just a little bump in the road,” She says with a careless wave of her hand, her tone bordering on indifference.

You sputter angrily over your words, hating the way she managed to work you up over nothing. “Seriously? A ‘bump in the road’? That’s your idea of an apology?” You snap.

“Of course not,” She says, giving you a wry smile. Shauna seems to get a perverse sort of pleasure from getting under your skin. You just wish you didn’t make it so easy sometimes. “I wasn’t apologizing.”

“God, Shipman. You’re so fucking irritating I–”

“Shauna!” She snaps, interrupting you mid-sentence and leaving you momentarily flustered. Your eyes narrow in confusion as you try to gather your thoughts.

“What?” You ask dumbly.

“You’ve had your tongue in my mouth. I think you can bear to call me by my name, can’t you?” Her words hang unanswered in the air, and you’re left speechless and a little embarrassed by the implications of her words. You feel a twinge of unease at the declaration, unsure how to respond as you stare blankly at her.

“What? Nothing to say?” She prods, immediately getting self-conscious in your continued silence. An embarrassed Shauna was a dangerous Shauna, as you well know.

“You had so much to say to Nat earlier,” She spits, mockingly imitating a high-pitched laugh.

“Is that what this is, Ship– Shauna? You’re fucking jealous?”

“What? Fuck off.” She scoffs, noticeably not meeting your eyes. You almost laugh in her face. Shauna was many things, but a good liar was certainly not one of them.

“Well, as long as you’re not jealous then,” You say dismissively, on the verge of losing your temper.

“Of course not,” She agrees, nodding solemnly.

You groan, casting a glance away to hide your irritation. There’s just something about her that was constantly leaving you torn between attraction and exasperation. Whatever.

You knew how you could get both out at once. You tilt your head to the side, a questioning look on your face that Shauna quickly answers with a knowing look as she closes the distance between you. Communication may not be your strong suit, but there’s one thing you both seem to excel at.

You press Shauna further up against the car, tilting her head to the side to expose the length of her neck. You press your lips against her neck in a quick kiss, soothing the area before bringing your teeth into play. Shauna cries out at the sting, hands grasping at the back of your shirt as she tries to pull you as close as possible, lost in the feeling.

Her breath starts to come out faster, her chest rising and falling in time with her excitement as her fingers dig into your back. You shudder at the feeling of her nails scraping against your skin through your shirt as she tries to regain some semblance of control over the interaction, but it’s clear from her reaction that she’s rapidly losing that battle. Shauna’s voice cracks halfway through a breathy insult as you nip at the crook of her neck, one hand falling from your shirt as she pulls you closer instead by your belt loops. The movement of her hips is subtle at first, quickly becoming insistent as she parts her thighs. You try not to think about how public it is, or that someone could see it.

She gasps as your teeth mark a trail across her skin, leaving small little marks behind you know she’ll only resent later when she has to try to explain it to Jackie. Unfortunately for her you rather enjoyed being on the receiving end of that rage– there was just something about that fire in her eyes. You catch sight of her, her flushed skin and parted lips taking your breath away.

She comes back to herself for a moment, a heady mix of passion and possession on her face as she takes you in. “Mine,” She whispers, her voice low and rough as she reaches a hand up to tangle it in your hair. She states it like it was a simple fact, and you hate the way that you want to agree with her. It doesn’t seem like she cares much for your opinion either, tugging you down by the hair as she crashes your lips together.

So, yeah. You didn’t quite get the confrontation you wanted this time either. What you did get was having to book it as you heard Jackie making her way toward the car, leaving a flustered Shauna to fix her mused hair and pretend like she hadn’t just been riding your thigh as Jackie rounded the corner. All in all, you consider it a win.

…

You can't make out the sounds of the argument happening outside the door over the sound of the ringing in your ears, but you weren't in the right mind to care about it anyway. You absently note the thumping sounds of boots making their way down the hallway as you catch sight of your flushed face in the mirror, breath still heavy with exertion as you cling to the edges of the counter with trembling hands. In the more rational part of your mind, you know that the counter isn’t the only thing anchoring you to the moment, but you cling desperately to the semblance of control gained from its unyielding support.

If you were more cognizant you'd be upset about the state of your favorite jacket, sleeves spotted red with the evidence of your anger. You didn’t know whose blood was on your hands, yours or his, but the distinction felt pointless. At the end of the day one of you was bleeding and it was entirely your fault. You exhale shakily, trying to take deep breaths to tame your racing heart as it beats through your chest. You stare into the mirror at your disheveled appearance, face bruised from the few shots he'd managed to land in return before Nat dragged you away. Your reflection gazes back with a mixture of defiance and vulnerability. You're oddly resentful of its silent witness to your emotions, its red-rimmed eyes serving as lasting evidence of your weakness.

The floorboards of the hallway creak as someone takes a heavy step forward, leaving you whirling around at the sound of the door opening behind you. Your eyes narrow as you catch sight of Shauna standing in the doorway, a strange intensity in her eyes as she takes you in. The room feels heavy with the weight of the words left unspoken between you, a strange tension filling you even as you push it from your mind in favor of gripping the counter as you struggle to rein in your emotions. Your hands slide on the slick white countertop, already stained with your bloody fingerprints.

You feel a pang of regret at the sight, quickly replaced by another wave of rage as you remember what started it. Maybe you shouldn't have hit him that hard, but he definitely should have known better than to make Jackie cry. If it hadn't been you it would have been Shauna– which, when you think about it that way, you were sort of doing him a favor in a roundabout way by sparing him from her wrath. She would have done much worse, after all.

You freeze for a moment, a sudden consideration of how your actions must have looked from the outside. God, the last thing you needed was Jackie following you around like a lost puppy. You can almost picture it now, Jackie linking your arms together and talking your ear off while Shauna shook with rage on her other side. Maybe you'd get lucky and Jackie would be too drunk to remember, sparing you from her well-meaning but seemingly suffocating affection.

You were a little resentful that she got involved in the first place. You didn’t need anyone to stand up for you, and if you did it certainly wouldn’t be Jackie Taylor of all people. Still, when he started running his mouth about insults you’ve long since grown immune to, Jackie was the first person to jump to your defense. You weren’t sure quite what you’d done to gain her fervent loyalty, but you weren’t sure you wanted it either. You think you might need to find a way to lose it sooner than later before it gets you into more trouble: you always were a sucker for crying girls.

A hand rests heavily on your shoulder, dragging you forcefully back to reality. You instinctively shrug it off, holding her wrist tightly between your fingers as you turn to face her. The two of you lock gazes for a long moment before you finally look away, loosening your grip but still holding her wrist in your hand. You think for a moment about lacing your fingers but quickly decide against it as you drop her hand entirely. It serves to ease some of your tension, shoulders relaxing as you lean back against the counter to scrutinize her. Shauna’s watching you just as closely, eyes lingering on the developing bruises on your face before settling on your hands.

You sigh as you turn back around, turning the tap on as you try to clean your hands off. “Where's Nat?”

“Managed to run her off,” Shauna says, stepping up to the side of the sink to watch.

“Nat's not one to be pushed around. Must've tricked her into thinking you aren't a heinous bitch.”

She shrugs, the quirk of her lips betraying her amusement. “It’s a gift.”

You scoff, letting it go unanswered as you gently dry your hand off. Shauna looks disappointed as you pull your now clean hand out, an unsubtle motion you’re too nervous to question.

“Why’d you do that?” She asks finally, her voice tinged with an unusual hint of urgency.

“Do what?”

She doesn’t relent, gaze piercing as she presses on for an explanation. “Start a fight over Jackie.”

“Who says I did it for her? Did you hear what he called me?” You deflect, starting to walk out of the bathroom before Shauna grabs tightly to your wrist and turns you around. You meet her eyes with practiced disinterest, hoping to avoid this line of questioning. You weren’t sure she’d like your answer, far too tangled in emotions she prefers not to address. You consider just saying it outright, putting the truth out there and making her deal with it however she wants. But the moment soon passes, too afraid of it blowing up in your face.

There are a lot of questions you want to ask her that you know she’ll only sidestep, distracting you with glimpses of skin till you relent– it’s almost nice to be the one withholding answers for once.

“You’re so frustrating, you know that? You give me such a headache.”

“Is that why you’re always in such a shitty mood?” You quip, unable to resist the urge so clearly presented to you. You smirk as you watch her reaction. Her jaw clenches, a flash of irritation crossing her face before she looks away. She’s tense for a moment before nodding stiffly. There’s a strange vulnerability in her begrudging acknowledgment, seeming almost impressed.

Shauna reaches for your face with deliberate slowness, like she hadn’t quite made her mind up on touching you before she started reaching. Despite your initial urge to back away you decide to let her, tilting your head along with the motion of her hand as she directs your chin from side to side to get a good look at you. The weight of her eyes is almost suffocating as she closely examines the contours of your face. She carefully traces the bruises with her fingertips, a surprising tenderness that you’ve only come to expect after hookups.

It feels strangely out of place now, leaving you stiff and unsure as you allow the gentle caress. You can’t help but wonder what she’s looking for if she’s searching for signs of weakness or simply concerned. It’s a complex thought and one that you don’t usually allow yourself. What if?

“You looked hot,” She says absently, snatching her hands away from your face as if the admission burned her.

She looks as surprised as you feel, her mouth opening and closing before settling on a simple, albeit cutting remark. “Hope your face gets better. It’s the only thing you’ve got going for you.”

The comment stings just like she knew it would, but the flicker of regret on her face is far more interesting. You find yourself holding your breath, daring to hope that she might finally say something real.

Shauna stops in the doorway, looking like she wants to say something else before she shakes her head and turns on her heels. You stare in her direction as she disappears from view, the sound of her footsteps carrying to the stairs until all you’re left with is silence.

#yellowjackets x reader #yellowjackets x you #shauna shipman x reader #minors dni

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enbycrip · 3 months

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Hey TV writers and producers could you maybe write a few shows my parents would watch with nonbinary characters in them please?

I’ve been trying to talk about nonbinary gender with them for nearly a decade now and it just doesn’t seem to get in anywhere. They nod and say they get it and go right back to using my AGAB pronouns. And honestly I don’t even know where to start that’s more bridgeable than that, and my sibling is nonspeaking and doesn’t give a fuck about gender so he’s not able to help.

And I do actually remember those really cringey anvilliciius sitcoms with the So Middle Class white gay and lesbian couples in the 1990s and 2000s were actually big things that shifted my parents’ mindset about that just being a normal thing. They genuinely don’t give a toss about my cousin having a wife now as far as I can tell.

So, yeah, maybe some cringey white abled nonbinary folk in sitcoms and dramas my folks would watch would actually be genuinely helpful? And have them have to deal with GCs being fucking terrible to them and do a Big End of Episode Speech about how much living with the fact of who you are being denied by people you love is like being kicked in the stomach on a daily basis?

Maybe they and cis folk like them will actually listen to that the way they won’t listen to me.

#sitcoms #shitty late 90s sitcoms #nonbinary #trans nonbinary #trans #queer #family stuff #cw mention of gender crits #representation matters

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aphroditestummyrolls · 11 months

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stumbling out of my google doc covered in blood, finally ONE SECTION AWAY FROM FINISHING THIS CHAPTER

“You speak Ravkan?”

The voice beside him was a soft thing, entirely disproportionate to the way he nearly leapt ten feet in the air.

“Sorry.”

To her credit, Inej did truly look apologetic when they locked eyes. He was sure he looked halfway to insanity, but she only blinked up at him. Her dark eyes had the whole moon in their centers, wide and bright.

There was a furrow to her brow that… the last time he saw it, she was holding a knife in her hands just for him. She was wary of him, always.

“Someone ought to put a bell on you.” He caught his breath.

The tension in her face melted incrementally at his peace offering of a smile. All night, it was her and that Brekker lad who hadn’t taken their eyes off of him— like a mark, or a threat. He’d like that to change.

At least, with her. He couldn’t care less for that barrel rat, but when he looked at this girl, he thought of his son’s smile. From that first moment on the docks, when she had stopped him, he knew Inej Ghafa was a good one.

“You speak Ravkan?” She repeated, perching herself beside him on the veranda steps.

He only shrugged. “Once upon a time, we travelled. I’ve lived a life, lass.”

That seemed to satisfy something she was looking for, though he didn’t know what. He didn’t know what, but he wanted her to like him— he kept talking. “When Aditi agreed to marry me, she said, before we settled, she wanted one thing— to see the world. To learn her gift by different cultures techniques.” He hadn’t liked it, no. He never liked it. It was something he could never quite shake, and look where that had gotten him. But, he loved her. Saints, there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t give her. “We lived in Os Kervo for a few years, before the war sent us home.”

The war, and the Second Army— they’d heard about a gifted Zemeni fabrikator apprenticing an old jeweller in Os Kervo. A jeweller who had retired from the Second Army many years before.

“That Darkling wanted to keep her, asked her to stay and support her kind. But, we knew.” He nodded grimly. The stars that could break through Ketterdam’s smog and raucous city glow shone down over the garden like lost souls. “She’d only just found out she was pregnant… and, while her Zemeni papers gave her a choice of whether she wanted to go to The Little Palace, we knew that if our son was like her, he wouldn’t. He'd be taken away— as if his own father wasn’t his kind.”

Maybe it was the effects of the wine, or maybe he was just starting to doubt how bridgeable the divide between him and Jesper had grown, but he still bit out the word like it was poison.

“Aditi shot that man in a place that must’ve been embarrassing to get a medik for, and we fled. I bought the farm, and we finally married.”

He wasn’t sure she was still listening— she was quiet as a church mouse. But, when he glanced to his right, her eyes were huge, a touch of awe hidden in the uplift of her lips. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it grew.

It broke across her face like rain on parched earth.

“Jesper’s mother shot the Darkling?”

“He should’ve known better than to threaten a pregnant woman— not to mention one with a pistol per hand.” He laughed despite himself, the memory choking him with a sensation that crackled like fire in his chest. He never thought he’d wish for that day back. “He’s his Mama’s son, that’s for sure.”

For a long beat, there was silence. Inej was still there, watching him with those intent eyes, and he blinked the tears away before he turned to gaze back at her.

She looked like she’d decided something, and he wanted terribly to know what.

“I’m sure— but he’s plenty yours as well.”

#grishaverse #grishaverse fic #six of crows #crooked kingdom #six of crows fic #shadow and bone #shadow and bone netflix #shadow and bone fic #wesper #jesper and colm #colm fahey #jesper fahey #inej ghafa #keep you safe #don’t worry— there’s PLENTY more fic I’m not spoiling anything by giving you so many snippets #holy shit it’s long #and it’ll still need an epilogue

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howifeltabouthim · 6 months

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'Rich people are just poor people with money,' my socialite boss said 15 years ago in New York. But it's not true. There is a culture of poverty and it's not bridgeable.

Chris Kraus, from I Love Dick

#out of touch #simplistic #social commentary #class divide #poverty #rich #poor #money #inaccessible #quotes #lit #words #excerpts #quote #literature #chris kraus #i love dick

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toms-amps · 1 year

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1961 Klemt M40

PA amp type that was used by the Beatles, Stones and many other top British bands. Bridgeable channels yield nice cleans to gnarly OD they didn’t contemplate back then. I have the specific bridging cable. Packed with 4 EL84s and ECC 83s. YouTube demo of the amp from single channel clean to multi-ganged channel drive.

youtube

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spann-stann · 1 year

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Is it possible to design a structure of government which will be stable and predictable? Hopefully, of course, stably and predictably benign? History affords no evidence of it. But history affords no evidence of semiconductors, either. There is always room for something new.

The key is that word should. When you say your government “should do X,” or “should not do Y,” you are speaking in the hieratic language of democracy. You are postulating some ethereal and benign higher sovereign, which can enforce promises made by the mere government to whose whims you would otherwise be subject. In reality, while your government can certainly promise to do X or not to do Y, there is no power that can hold it to this promise. Or if there is, it is that power which is your real government. Your whining should be addressed to it.

The neocameralist1 structure of Patchwork realms, which are sovereign joint-stock companies, creates a different kind of should. This is the profitable should. We can say that a realm should do X rather than Y, because X is more profitable than Y. Since sovereign means sovereign, nothing can compel the realm to do X and not Y. But, with an anonymous capital structure, we can expect administrators to be generally responsible and not make obvious stupid mistakes.

Another way to say this is that a realm is financially responsible. The general observation here is that, to paraphrase Tolstoy, financially responsible organizations are all alike. By definition, they do not waste money. By definition, their irresponsible counterparts do, and by definition there are an infinite number of ways to waste money. Think of a rope: a financially responsible organization is a tight rope. It only has one shape. But if there is slack in the rope, it can flap around in all kinds of crazy ways.

It is immediately clear that the neocameralist should, the tight rope, is far inferior to the ethereal should, the magic leash of God. (Typically these days arriving in the form of vox populi, vox Dei. Or, as a cynic might put it: vox populi, vox praeceptoris.)

Given the choice between financial responsibility and moral responsibility, I will take the latter every time. If it were possible to write a set of rules on paper and require one’s children and one’s children’s children to comply with this bible, all sorts of eternal principles for good government and healthy living could be set out.

But we cannot construct a political structure that will enforce moral responsibility. We can construct a political structure that will enforce financial responsibility. Thus neocameralism. We might say that financial responsibility is the raw material of moral responsibility. The two are not by any means identical, but they are surprisingly similar, and the gap seems bridgeable.

When we use the profitable should, therefore, we are in the corporate strategy department. We ask: how should a Patchwork realm, or any financially responsible government, be designed to maximize the return on its capital?

For our overall realm design, let’s simplify the Anglo-American corporate model slightly. We’ll have direct shareholder sovereignty, with no board of directors. The board layer strikes me as a bit of an anachronism, and it is certainly one place stuff can go wrong. Deleted. And I also dislike the term CEO, which seems a bit vainglorious for a sovereign organization. A softer word with a pleasant Quaker feel is delegate, although we will compromise on a capital. And we can call the logical holder of each share its proprietor.

Therefore: a Patchwork realm is governed by a Delegate, who is the proxy of the proprietors, and can be replaced by a majority of them at any time and for any reason. The Delegate exercises undivided sovereign authority, as in divine-right monarchy. I.e., in English: total power. (The Delegate is always Jewish.)

This fragile-looking design can succeed at the sovereign layer because, and only because, modern encryption technology makes it feasible. The proprietors use a secret-sharing scheme to control a root key that must regularly reauthorize the Delegate, and thus in turn the command hierarchy of the security forces, in a pyramid leading down to cryptographic locks on individual weapons.2 If the Delegate turns on the proprietors, they may have to wait a day to authorize the replacement, and another day or two before the new Delegate can organize the forces needed to have her predecessor captured and shot. Fiduciary responsibility has its price.

That modern cryptography was not available to the Most Serene Republic of Venice does not mean they wouldn’t have used it if they’d had it. Since we have it, we can use it. Since the algorithms date to the 1970s, it’s not surprising that history has no record of cryptographic organizational structures at the sovereign level. Since the neocameralist design for a sovereign corporation depends on them, it’s not surprising that history shows us nothing of the kind. While as a reactionary I believe that the legal and political structures of old Europe, so often defamed as “feudal,” are a treasure trove of sovereign organization and if restored in toto tomorrow would prove on balance a vast human boon, it is a slight overstatement to assume that everything old is beautiful and sweet, and anything new must suck.

For simplicity, our realm will do its books in gold.3 The spectacle of a sovereign corporation that maintains accounts in its own scrip is a fascinating one, at least from a financial perspective, and we cannot write it off quite so casually as yet another 20th-century monstrosity. It is not impossible that fiat currency can be made to turn a buck. It is unlikely that the proprietors will want their dividends in it, however.

And who are the proprietors? Anyone. They are anonymous shareholders. It may be desirable, though, for a realm to enjoin its residents from holding its shares. It is not normally necessary for a company to refrain from serving its shareholders as customers, but a sovereign realm is not a normal company. A resident shareholder has a conflict of interest, because he may have an opportunity to use the power of his share to promote policies that reward him directly but are not in the interests of his non-resident fellows. The effect is small, but better to rule it out.4

We’ll also assume—assumption to be justified below—that realms exist in a competitive market in which residents can easily take their business elsewhere if they don’t like the service.

-Mencius Moldbug, "Patchwork: A Political System For the 21st Century"

#toryblr #muh ideology (kind of)#mencius moldbug

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big5electronics · 11 days

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Elevate Your Car Audio Experience with Wholesale Subwoofer Enclosures and Amplifiers from Big 5 Electronics

Are you passionate about car audio? Do you want to enhance your sound system with high-quality components? Look no further than Big 5 Electronics, your trusted source for wholesale subwoofer enclosures and amplifiers. With our extensive selection of premium products and competitive pricing, we're here to help you take your car audio experience to the next level.

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theformulaforsuccess · 4 months

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youtube

The Original and True Meaning of a Deck of Cards.

Douglas Vandergraph continues his journey of teaching others how to accomplish their dreams and goals by talking about the reminders for the coming year. Douglas states, "As we plan for the coming year, let us take a lesson from the simple deck of playing cards. The original and true meaning of the playing card deck was to plot out the coming year. As we engage in games and festivities for New Year's Eve, remember to question everything and look for the true meaning of the world around you. The biggest gap between those who have and those who have not is education and understanding about the world around us. It is a bridgeable gap that a little knowledge transfer can easily fix, and we are doing that here on this YouTube channel every day." Douglas is putting himself out there as an example to others so they can see how anyone can take a chance, improve daily, and make a difference in the lives of others. What is it that you want in your life? Douglas can show you how to get it! This is a video series Douglas is completing in the hopes he can help just one person. Dr. Suess once said, "To the world, you may be one person, but to one person, you may be the world."

Follow Douglas on YouTube:

https://www.youtube.com/@douglasvandergraph

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#newyears #newyearsresolution #newyearseve #playingcards #deckofcards #deckofcardsmeaning #inspiration #success #successmindset

#deck of cards #playing cards #youtube #motivation #success #success story #successful #successstories #motivationalspeaker #motivationalstory #inspirationalstory #motivateyourself

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expendablemudge · 7 months

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A TRAITOR IN WHITEHALL, entertaining mystery set in WWII's corridors of power seen from below

Period details FTW. I was reading along thinking how little I actually knew about life in WWII when the main character finds a body in a place I had no vaguest awareness of the need for or existence of: A sun treatment room.

A what now? Sun-treatment? What on Earth is that?

It was about that time that my interest and pleasure in the read sharpened to the point of reading past my bedtime. I'm a mystery fan anyway, being a big believer in ma'at and the scales of justice needing to be balanced. The victim of the murder wasn't a lovely person, as is customary in series mysteries set in the Halls of Power. It was a lovely grace note, the first of several, that the victim was discovered in the sun-treatment room. This afforded the author a perfect opening to reveal this very interesting, perfectly sensible detail's existence. It gives the story an extra gloss of period authenticity, as does Evelyne's Agatha Christie-reading habit. The author's an experienced historical novelist and it shows in these sorts of unexpected moments that firmly root the story in time without becoming stodged up like a research paper gone metastatic.

Evelyne, our main character, is an oddball in the world where she's been plonked because nothing in her background suggests she's a prospect for Greater Things...an unwanted daughter placed in a boarding school by her always-absent father after her mother's death when Evelyne was thirteen, she's been given few solid opportunities to develop her intellect beyond the ordinary. As is typical for series mysteries, as fans of the genre know, she's got the most important character trait of a sleuth: Ungovernable curiosity, starting from when her Maman (a French lady, who raised her daughter mostly in France) supposedly committed suicide. Luckily her absent rich-bastard father's friend circle includes powerful people who need that precise characteristic in a woman of presentable lineage (if always stained by the loucheness of her foreignness), adequate education, fluency in French, and unexceptionable looks.

Evelyne's sudden arrival in the bunkers...referred to by the acronym "CWR" or "Cabinet War Rooms"...of busy workers surrounding the Prime Minister isn't cause for anyone to take much notice, exactly as the Powers That Be need it to be. She blends into the scenery. As her job is to ferret out a traitor who's already established in those hallowed halls, everything's proceeding acording to plan.

Until someone's murdered. (There's a reason I'm being coy about who's been murdered. If you know too soon, there's no way you won't know who the titular traitor is.) The murder makes everything higher stakes and involves Evelyne with the inevitable love interest, David. Another facet of the series mystery is the de rigueur presence of a love interest or interests. David's clearly being positioned for this. This is, for me, the least interesting facet of the story. How would David, a senior aide established in the hierarchy, even think to team up with Evelyne, a mere girl and of known-but-stained ancestry? In 1940s Britain? That high in the Government (even if it's not quite the way we're led to believe)? Hmm, said my inner skeptic. Most especially I find the borning relationship between them Doomed because David prefers American thrillers to Evelyne's beloved Mrs. Christie. This is a less bridgeable gap than between a reader and a mundane.

While the usual first-mystery flaws are present, eg too much information comes too easily into Evelyne's grasp for her position in the hierarchy and people "grit" and "roar" things far too often, the author is clearly a skilled storyteller. The TV adaptation unspooled before my eyes, in six-part ITV period-mystery glory. It's the kind of book one reads with keen pleasure in its strengths, and forgives its lapses readily. At least this picky one did.

If you're in the market for historical mysteries, this one will scratch the itch. Nothing too deep, nothing too fluffy, just the right level of interesting background and emotional investment possibilities. Bring the sequel!

#book blog #book review #book tumblr #historical fiction #wwii era #minotaur books #deathtober

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curiosity-killed · 1 year

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POV go wild 👀

I feel like "go wild" probably wasn't supposed to mean "write 1k of a very predictable character's POV" but here we are

writer asks meme

POV — something that’s already happened, retold from another character’s perspective

At seven years old, having woken groggy and nauseous in the swaying bed of a wine cart that carried her swiftly from where her parents, two sisters, and four brothers lay dying in their beds, Malia had decided that she would never trust too easily. She would not make the same mistake her parents had made when they allowed her father’s older brother to serve them wine that night, and no matter what life presented her, she would grow old and die either peacefully or at least standing, facing her killer.

When she first met Imperator Princep Aliras’s bright-eyed child, she had immediately determined that he did not share her reservations: he had almost immediately reached for her hand to tug her along in a tour of all his favorite spots in Ancelm palace with a special emphasis on trees he wasn’t supposed to climb, lofts he’d be easily pushed from, and a whole armory filled with swords he was too soft-handed yet to wield.

Her impression had not improved over the decade she spent growing up with Callebero.

She heard that he’d brought home some royal seductress from his campaign in Capall while she was still in Soldato for a season, and as soon as it was polite to excuse herself, she had walked briskly to her borrowed rooms and screamed into an overly-soft pillow. Her favorite little brother, she decided as she pressed bright spots into the backs of her eyelids, was an idiot and no one could blame her lack of responsibility if he got bit by an adder because he couldn’t see its fangs.

Now— Jisel sat across from her, expression carefully blank. It was a marked difference from the slack-faced shock she’d briefly worn when Malia pointed out the accusation that all of Arradine was sure to bay; this was tidier, more careful. She couldn’t call it guarded exactly but—crafted, certainly. Whether it was to cover her own shock and hurt or something deeper, there was something Jisel didn’t want to be easily read in her expression.

Malia tilted her head slightly, considering. At times, she was aware, she had been prone to a certain jealousy around those she loved, but she had been genuinely glad of the friendship Callebero forged with Jisel. Puppyish as he had been when they first met, when he was so eager to introduce Malia to his new friend, he listened to Jisel in a way he did not many others, and Jisel challenged him in ways few could. Callebero trusted her, which was a rare commodity in the last few years.

“He truly did not tell you the name of his successor?” she asked.

Some part of her had thought Callebero would name Jisel his successor; it would be a stupid and reckless decision, but that had hardly made it less likely. She couldn’t think of anyone he held in greater esteem who could be named.

Jisel met her eyes evenly, gaze still inscrutable, and gave a slight shrug. Her hands squeezed tighter around her cup, shoulders tensing just-so. Not quite a tell but, still, more than that even mask.

“I would have thought he would tell you before me,” Jisel replied and that stung, thorns catching in the edges of her skin.

He would have told her, once. For most their lives, he would have trusted her above any others with such knowledge. She had felt the distance between them growing for the last year or two but it had seemed bridgeable. Fixable, given a little time and space. Whatever quarrels they had, they always came back to each other. Even now, she had a pile of comedic illustrations tucked into one of her desk drawers that she’d picked up on the street of Behil just to show Callebero.

He would never see them. She would never hear him laugh again, would never tease him over his taste in men or be teased back for her tendency to start debates over everything from dress colors to diplomatic incidents. She didn’t miss their fights but—gods, she would take it if it meant another chance to see him, to talk to him again.

Grief brambled into her heart and tugged her away from suspicion or skepticism. It seemed closer here, dogging her heels more stubbornly than it had even when the rider first came to Kitartas with the news of the assassination.

It wasn’t until much later that her thoughts circled back to Jisel’s evasion, after Jisel herself had left with Valyn.

Lying on her back in the dark of their half-familiar guest chambers, Malia kneaded her thumbtips into the meat of Rassler’s palm absently. His breath hushed warm over her shoulder, arm a comforting weight where it was draped over her side and belly to let her fidget with his hand.

“Darling,” he murmured, pressing a kiss where his breath had warmed her skin. “Dove.”

“Mm?” she prompted, absent.

“You are thinking rather—ah, firmly.”

Stilling, Malia realized she’d dug her thumb into the flesh under his pinky hard enough that his hand had bowed around it. She winced and released it, soothing over the spot with light brushes of her thumb before bringing it up to press a kiss to the same spot. The motion sent his marriage band slipping down his wrist just far enough to bump into hers, and she fit her fingers to its engraved band to save his hand.

“Is it about Jisel?” Rassler asked.

“Mm,” she hummed before sighing. “She didn’t answer, earlier. When I asked if she knew who his heir was.”

Rassler gave a small noise of surprise and shifted, propping himself up on his right elbow to better meet her gaze. It was too dark to make out much of anything, but he didn’t seem to notice or care.

“You think she was lying?” he asked, plainly surprised.

She only barely held back a laugh at that, though it would have just as easily turned to a groan. Only Rassler would be surprised at the thought of someone lying for their own gain.

Exhaling, she shook her head slightly.

“No,” she admitted. “I think she was very careful not to lie to us.”

She turned her head toward Rassler, seeking him even in the half-seen night. She interlaced their fingers, squeezing tight once.

“That is what concerns me altogether more.”

#writer ask game #long post #asked & answered #natandacat #my writing #story: tcp #ch: malia #ch: rassler #ch: jisel

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