A modern-day, post-uni domestic AU (albeit with shinier, techier prosthetics) where Jamison and Satya have known each other for about five or six years since meeting at university.
Jamison is a mechanic at the shop across the city, and Satya works for a prestigious company. They are good friends and mesh surprisingly well. A year or two into their friendship proper, Satya had encouraged him to seek a diagnosis for ADHD after learning about his struggles in class, which had resulted in him realizing a whole lot about himself. He’d thanked her by offering her samples of his cooking, and that led to the monthly evening where they’d both show off meals from home.
(They both love spicy food. Satya tries to make him sob with hot curry. It never works.)
After being friends for so long, they become so comfortable enough with each other that when something bad happens, they simply… confide. Wholly. No questions asked. After so many late nights composed of last minute essays and projects during university where emotions ran embarrassingly high, it’s almost second nature. Jamison makes all the affronted faces he should coupled with riled up commentary, and Satya employs all of the harsh frowns and disapproving quips at the appropriate moments. They’re proper professionals.
So when Satya returns from a date that goes sour and when a complicated ex of Jamison’s reappears to stir up unnecessary drama, it isn’t even a question of what needs to be done—it’s a question of when.
He texts her: you up for bollywood night??
She replies: Absolutely.
And so the two of them go to her flat and watch cheesy Indian films with plenty of popcorn. Jamison makes pancakes (“Pikelets, actually—oh, you’re gonna love ‘em!”), because why the hell not? They’re venting, right? That’s what tonight is for.
And it feels… natural. He picks at the pancakes on the plate in his lap and mops each bite in syrup, and he offers his fork to her with a waggle of his bushy eyebrows. Amused, Satya indulges. She finds that she adores how they taste (he must add both cinnamon and vanilla, she thinks; they’re delectably sweet) and she steals more than just another bite, much to his pleasure. He cranes an arm across the couch behind her, watching the television screen with an enthused countenance, and she leans against his side, full and content.
And—it dawns on her, belatedly, that he has acted more like a significant other to her than any of her prior relationships had. His silly grins and jokes and puns are a delight, and he drops anything for her without a second thought. He listens to her complaints and he offers advice (no matter how ridiculous) if she asks for it. His company is something of a comfort, and she can’t remember the last time she’d felt this calm in someone else’s presence.
As the couple on screen begins to sing in the midst of an intricate dance, she accepts another bite of pancake and says, “You are good to me.”
He pauses, and it’s clear he’s confused because his jaw does this thing where it slants just slightly while he’s thinking. “Do you not want me to be? I could scream and call you names, if you want. I know quite a few.”
“I’m certain you do, but that won’t be necessary,” she says. Gently, she rests her head against his shoulder. “It is just an observation. That’s all.”
“Observation?” He pops another slice of pancake into his mouth. “Uh, should I be worried? I know tonight’s been rough, but that sounds a little too serious.”
“Perhaps it is.” She finds herself resisting the urge to hold his hand. “I think rough night may be an understatement. It has been more of a rough year.”
“Too right.” He offers a grin. “Might not be much, but this makes it better, yeah?”
She returns it. “A little.”
The night wears on, and it isn’t long before the two of them fall asleep on the couch watching queued films. Satya wakes curled up against him; he has his arm around her and he’s snoring against the cushion, blond hair mussed, peaceful and perfect. Her heart is traitorous and stupid and does a little skip, and all she can think is oh no because she knows exactly what that means.
She also knows she must wake him because it’s past midnight and he has work in the morning, but when she tries to move he just—he makes this soft, murmured noise of protest, and brings her closer into the heat of his body. And perhaps it’s selfish of her (it is, she knows it is), but he feels so good and warm that she doesn’t want to move.
A while longer, she tells herself, nestling against his collarbone. Just a while longer.
Eventually, she gathers both the courage and the willpower to jostle him awake. The way he mumbles her name when he shakes off shackles of sleep should not sound so intimate, and yet it does.
“I was having a good dream, too,” he says, peeling himself away.
“What about?” The drum of her heart is deafening.
He bites his lip, the corner of his mouth in a sheepish smile. “Being happy, I guess.”
Jamison gets jealous once he realizes he’s caught feelings.
He lies awake in his bed at night, staring at the ceiling in a constant state of wracking indecision. His thoughts are a tumult of I need to tell herandI can’t stand her being with anyone elseandwhat if she doesn’t think of me like that?andwhat if she thinks us being mates is only ‘cause of how I feel?
And then, alarmed: oh, fuck me—what if I tell her and she doesn’t feel comfortable anymore? What if she wants space for a while ‘cause she finds it creepy?
It’s constant, endless, and he suffers in his insomnia. This leads to him working out in the dead of night because his brain is on overdrive and he can’t stop thinking about all the what ifs: what if she feels the same, what if she doesn’t, what if, what if, what if. Every bloody possible scenario plays out in his head—the good, the bad, and the impossible—and he both loves and hates it because he gets to kiss her and see her smile but he also gets the cold shoulder and bristling glares. He barely gets any sleep; headaches dominate his mornings and he practically has an IV for coffee.
When she taps him on the shoulder one day, he about jumps out of his skin.
Satya frowns in concern. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, why?” he replies, although it sounds much more like a mashed together yeahyeah’mfinewhy with the sheer force in which it leaves his mouth—and while he supposes he should be conscious of volume (because they’re on a street corner outside his favorite tea shop and people are staring), he has precious little control over any of him right now.
“Are you sure? You are shaking considerably more than usual,” she says, and the way she looks at him implies she is not convinced. He doesn’t blame her; he wouldn’t be convinced, either.
“No, really, I’m fine,” he says, and it’s mashed together again: noreally’mfine. “It’s fine. Promise! Everything’s fine.”
Everything is not fine.
Jamison ends up trying to forget about it by throwing himself into his hobbies and his job. Nothing cheers him up like tinkering and working with chemical compounds always draws his attention, but not even that works. He’s bloody hopeless, and no matter how many dates he goes on, he can’t keep his mind away.
One night, his new date is clearly interested in escalating things in the physical department, but he is absolutely not feeling it. His brain is preoccupied with other things, things he really does not want to admit to himself, and so he makes some lame excuse because he just knows if he tries to continue this it’s going to turn out terribly for both him and said date, and surely it’s better to spare them a disappointing time, right?
That’s what he tells himself as he brushes them off and heads home, heart twisting, wondering if she’s happy.
Is it really that horrible of him to hope she won’t give the person she’s seeing a fair chance? She deserves the world and he wants nothing more than to see her happy, but god it hurts so much to see her with someone else, even if it is only holding hands, and it’s unfair because—
Becausehe wants to do that. He wants that privilege. He wants to be able to lace his fingers through hers and walk with her downtown and take her to one of her favorite shops. And it’s bloody stupid because she’s all he can think about now: her cheekbones, her nose, her chin, her mouth, all of her little beauty marks, her wide hips, her dynamite legs, and even her perfectly manicured nails. While it’s true he frequently thought about her before, it’s nowhere near how it is now, and now it’s—
God, it’s fucking constant. Always. She latches onto every thought like she’s lint from the dryer and he’s a static struck mess.
Satya’s jealousy is much more subtle, and she deals with it far better. It burns, of course, as jealousy always does, but she mashes it down and focuses on work and goes to her Bharatanatyam practices and tries to ignore the people he shows up with because if she doesn’t it will hurt.
The yoga class she attends with him twice a week is equal parts excitement and dread because she gets to see him and talk with him (and admire how he’s built) but she also gets to hear about what he’s up to, and that inevitably includes his love life because that’s how they are, that’s their friendship; it’s candidness and comfort and long nights spent idly watching Netflix and chatting about their lives because neither of them can bloody sleep.
But when they’re getting tea after the session, she just grins and bears it, and it might be terrible of her but she secretly takes pleasure in the fact that he isn’t actively pursuing commitments with anyone—not that she relishes the thought of him hooking up with randoms (because she wants him to want her for that).
(Addendum: no, she doesn’t want him to want her for meaningless hookups because that would never be enough and she knows it. She wants him to want her for more, and that somehow—hurts? She isn’t his type. That hurts, too.)
Satya goes on dates with others to keep herself busy, but they never quite feel right. Learning new people is so exhausting and going to new places is a chore, especially when she can’t always look at the menu beforehand, and so more often than not she finds herself feeling sour when she leaves her flat. Not to mention the awkward breaking-the-ice phase always lasts so bloody long; everyone makes boring smalltalk and sometimes the restaurants are too crowded and noisy (so much clamor; so many colors and bodies and things) and she can’t hear what is happening. Unfortunately for her, lipreading does not tend to go well.
She checks her messages on dating apps because trying to communicate via text is sometimes better than it is in person, but it doesn’t stop her from getting frustrated and drained because she would much rather go to a quiet place with him or have a cup of boba on a rooftop overlooking the cityscape. She leaves most invitations and cheesy pickup lines on read; they require so much more of her than she is willing to relinquish.
Oh, but when he texts her? She must stop herself from replying immediately like she hasn’t been waiting for a message from him since this morning. Patience, patience—she has other things to do. She can’t let herself revolve around him. She can’t. It’s unhealthy. He’s a friend.
But when he asks if she wants to have takeaway at his because he’s on his way home and he’s half starved, she sends, “That sounds perfect,” and jumps to get ready.
(She can’t be in love with him, but she can love him. She tells herself there’s a distinction, and she tries her best to believe it. She loves him. She is not in love with him. You can love friends.)
(She is in love.)
Satya reassures him when his mechanic job goes south. The shop is closing, he says; some big place on the other side of the city is running them out. She knows he’s upset because he’s worked there for years, for his entire time throughout uni and well afterward. She knows he has friends there and the owners might as well be family. She knows it hurts.
She texts: Why don’t you try applying to positions in your field? You are an intelligent person. I think you would make a brilliant engineer.
He replies: idk, it’s been a while since uni and if you don’t get in right away it’s a bitch to get ur foot in the door
And then: only got 1 foot anyway lol
She texts: Then you clearly have a leg up on the competition don’t you? All of them have two.
He replies: you just made me laugh in mako’s ear!! oh he’s none too pleased
And then: preciate it tho x
Later that week, after a great deal of wheedling, they end up going to a pub with the rest of their mutual friends. It starts out as a really bad night. Jamison doesn’t have any jobs lined up despite his desperate search, and Satya is dealing with intense burnout from work. Emotions are a little raw.
In the midst of her second drink, Satya asks him if he’s doing okay. His gaze darts to the bar countertop and he seems to crumple in on himself. He holds his head in his hands tells her no, he’s not; he’s between a rock and a hard place and he doesn’t even know if he’s going to be able to afford rent this upcoming month.
Jamison scrubs his cheeks with his hands and then downs a shot. He makes a scrunched face at the taste, but he looks back at her and manages a carefree smile. He says he’ll be fine. He will. It’s just not been a very good week is all. Ups and downs, you know. Right, so, what about her? What’s she been up to?
And so she vents about the management in her company and how she dislikes how they’re handling things. She talks about her misgivings concerning their approach to their client base and how she’s starting to think there may be some sort of dodgy dealings under the table, but she cannot prove anything. It frustrates her because she likes to think they’re helping the community, but she has a sneaking suspicion that isn’t the case, and she can’t do anything about it.
But at the end, she turns the conversation back to him, and says, “I can give you money for rent,” because she can. She wants to help. She will. She won’t take no for an answer.
Jamison seems rather flustered and his ears grow charmingly pink. He mumbles something about how she shouldn’t go out of her way to help him because—Christ, he can’t just hit her up for money like that, he’s got class—well, sort of. He’s not perfect.
But she says, “Let me help you. We’re friends, aren’t we?”
(Oh, that little fact shouldn’t hurt.)
He sputters at her: yes, yes, of course they’re friends! He just—he feels terrible about taking cash like that because he can’t pay her back. He can’t even help her in return! He switches topics to maybe finding a cheaper place to live, he doesn’t mind scrimping for a while, not like he hasn’t done it before, but she stops him short.
“Have you thought about a roommate?”
He blinks. “Well, yeah, but it’s a little short notice, innit? Bit weird just barging in on someone you don’t know. Mako’s got his family to worry about, so can’t stay there. Already asked.”
She bites her lip. “I was referring to me.”
(It’s going to hurt with the people he might bring home, she knows, but he’s in a tough spot and she can’t bring herself to ignore it. She doesn’t like it when he hurts.)
Jamison’s brilliant amber eyes grow very wide. His left hand toys with the shot glass. “Are you—are you serious?”
“Very,” she says, and hopes she hasn’t offended him with the offer.
“At yours, yeah?” His face lights up. No worries needed, it seems.
“Of course,” she says. “I have a spare room that has been home to nothing storage boxes for a while now. You would be more than welcome.” (He has always been welcome.)
“D’you mean it?” he asks.
“I do,” she says.
A moment passes where he stares at her, quiet and still, the ambient lights above casting a warm glow through his unruly shocks of blond and across the sharp lineaments of his face and the freckles and birthmarks that scatter him over. He catches her gaze and holds it there, and it’s as if he’s looking at a star.
Without warning, he swivels on the barstool and crushes her in a hug. “Oh, you’re a real lifesaver!”
He’s so warm. Satya nestles into the crook of his neck and shoulder, inhaling the savory spice of his cologne. She lets her hands lace around the broad plane of his back and mesh into the fabric of his shirt.
And then, as if reality had sunken in at last, Jamison wrenches back, panicked. “Oh, I need to pack! Need to ask Mako for his ute, too, ‘cause my car ain’t gonna carry all that, ‘specially not the bloody mattress. Gotta grab boxes and a hell of a lot of tape, and—”
He pauses again—his thoughts must have routed in yet another direction—and he looks to her, brow furrowed, jaw set.
“I’m gonna pay you, all right? I will. Can’t do cash right now, bit stiff at present, but I can work! I’ll tidy up, do little improvement projects, fix stuff, you name it! Let no one say Jamison Fawkes won’t carry his weight.” His grin is contagious.
“I must admit I’m a little wary about improvement projects,” she says, an eyebrow raised.
He huffs a theatrical gasp in mock-hurt. “Oi, I know my way around a spanner. I helped fix up Mako’s place when he moved in! Hard yakka, but worth it in the end. Better than hiring some dipstick who don’t know any better.”
She stifles a laugh. “And you do?”
“Too right I do! Tell you what: first week, I’ll have that leaky faucet in the kitchen fixed. That’ll be my rent ‘til I can get you some dinero.”
“There is a leaky faucet?” This is news to her.
“Uh, yes?” He taps the empty shot glass against his chin in thought. “Or was it the toilet? Can’t remember. Ah, well. I’ll fix something. Promise! Gotta prove me worth somehow, eh?”
“You don’t need to prove your worth,” she says, and her heart aches at the thought. “You are worth plenty already.”
“Sweet of you to say, darl,” he says with a simper. His ears are still pink. “Next week’s looking up already, innit?”
Satya certainly hopes so, because she wholeheartedly agrees.
Moving day is hectic. Satya drives to his flat to help with boxes only to find Jamison and Mako halfway finished loading up the truck. He greets her drenched in sweat while Mako raises a giant hand in salutation.
Jamison somehow has both more things and less things than she had imagined:
A full-size mattress, a rubbish bag’s worth of clothes, a coffee maker (she isn’t surprised), three tool boxes, a handful of dishes (mugs included), a few holiday decorations (from his mum when she was alive, he explains), miscellaneous free weights (tenners, fifteens, and a single twenty), a kettlebell, his half-finished projects, and an extra (very old, he says) prosthetic arm. There are also various art supplies (pens, pencils, faded notebooks, an entire collection of erasers), the strips of gauze and other covers for his amputated limbs, a couple bottles of nail polish (“Takes half the time, y’know! Only got one of each!”), a pair of very expensive headphones, and a shabby laptop with one of his signature smiley stickers on its lid. A signed cricket bat (“Gotta support the lads back home!”) is one of the last items to stow away save for lingering things in his fridge and pantry.
When she asks about the scant furniture, he shakes his head and gives the dilapidated sofa and recliner set a dismissive wave. “Nah. We’ll chuck it. You got better stuff, anyway.”
The first night of Jamison in her flat is… perfect? It’s bizarre.
Mako stays for Chinese takeaway (“I really owe you one, mate”) before leaving, and then it’s just the two of them, exhausted and sore, Jamison flopped on the floor while she lies on the couch.
“Oi.” He rolls onto his back and gives her foot a nudge with his prosthetic leg. “Just wanted to let you know, I really appreciate this. I know it’s sudden and all, but…” He gives his broad shoulders a shrug. “Means a lot.”
She nudges his leg back. “Think nothing of it.”
The night is finished with one of his favorite action films. He uses her shower (“Much better!”) before sprawling out on the couch with her in a set of too-small ratty pajamas, prosthetic leg removed, sleep circling like vultures beneath his eyes. Satya dozes across from him, her legs tucked just over his hip for comfort. The film’s plot and dialogue blur into indiscernible noise; the warmth of him is too good, too addicting, and it seeps into her skin. It’s selfish of her, but she wants nothing more than to bottle this moment and all its palpable contentment so that she might drink it in whenever she pleases.
A shift of movement under her legs captures her attention. Satya opens one eye to see him grinning at her from the other side of the couch, his eyes half shuttered in fatigue. He gives her a dainty wave, and she can almost hear his cheeky salutation: g’day.
Of all the things Satya could be doing after sucking him off and leaving him utterly spent against a wall down some secluded corridor, the last thing Jamison expects is for her to adjust his suit.
With a methodical grace, she straightens his trousers over his hips and zips them properly, making sure to smooth out the lingering wrinkles (and he cannot help himself; he squirms under her hands, half pleasure, half over-sensitive discomfort). To his continued nonplus, his mussed white dress shirt receives much of the same treatment: she fastens each dainty button one by one, her fingers as swift and precise as always, a fastidious trail up the front of his chest and to the top of his collar, taking pause only to tuck the disheveled ends into his waistband and to tighten his belt. The bright smudge of red lipstick on his jacket’s lapel is a lost cause (and a mistake; his fault, too eager), but that does not stop her from meticulously scrubbing at it with a handkerchief.
It is safe to say that Jamison has never had this happen to him before. Not just the blowjob against the wall in the middle of a very loud, very crowded celebration part—any part of this, really. Prior to Overwatch’s clandestine recall, he would have never been caught dead dressed this way, not if he valued his reputation, especially within Junkertown’s cutthroat walls. Not to mention that in the blur of his previous intimate encounters, no one had seemed particularly concerned about their state of dress post-sex, no less his. It just wasn’t something anyone thought about. Didn’t matter much when they were crawling off of him half-dazed, anyway.
This, though. Oh, this is—this is new.
Countenance perturbed, she frets over the rumples in his shirt, fingers ironing out as many imperfections as she can, putting him back together with the same prompt decorum with which she had taken him apart, and it feels as though his heart is squeezing itself through a vise. While he would much rather be rid of this bloody ridiculous outfit (and it is ridiculous, he thinks, at least in his humble opinion), the fact that she is tending to him with such courtesy and gentleness makes him all too willing to acquiesce to the rest of the night’s droll and stuffy activities just for the sheer chance that this might happen again.
That isn’t to say he expects yet another impromptu iteration of her down on her knees with her mouth around his cock and his hands in her hair, because he doesn’t. Can’t. Shouldn’t? Oh, if she were keen, though, that would be absolutely fucking fantastic and he would not object to it by any means, but—well, he doesn’t know if he has it in him to suffer quite so quietly.
Just… having her do this again would be nice. Fixing his shirt, adjusting his jacket, picking at the top button by his collar because it isn’t where it should be. Perhaps combing some of his unruly blond shocks back into their proper place or rubbing the pad of her thumb by his mouth with the excuse of you missed a cake crumb in a delicate whisper down by his sternum.
It’s a strange kind of tenderness, and he finds himself craving it already.
When Satya finally comes to the loosened wrap of his tie, he forces a swallow and meets her gaze. Her own appearance is almost perfect despite their previous activities—hair kempt, dress pristine, not a single detail out of place—the red of her lipstick in a faded smutch being the only telltale sign. He isn’t sure what he finds hotter: the fact that she still looks fucking ravishing, the fact that she’d swallowed him all in one go, or the fact that she is actively trying to hide the evidence.
He takes a long moment to mull it over as he watches her pluck a golden-colored tube from within the tiny purse slung across her hip, pop off its cap, and then apply a simple coat over her lips. It is slow, painstaking, accomplished with her usual carefulness, and if he is being truly honest, it looks almost—sensual? He never thought he’d say that about someone fixing themselves after something like this, but, well, there’s a first time for everything, right?
Oh, and that smirk. That smirk. That is on purpose. He’s sure of it.
Fuck him dead. He’ll definitely have to go with the last one. He does love a woman who can hide evidence.
Satya stashes the lipstick tube in her purse once more, a pleased curvature shaping her smile. On her tiptoes (because she is still not quite tall enough in her heels), she gives him a brief peck on the mouth before tugging on his lipstick-touched lapel—time to go, it says, we’re needed.
Jamison hasn’t the faintest idea why anyone would possibly need him at an event like this, but he isn’t going to make a fuss. If the sultry look she’d given him had been any indication, it is possible that whatever sort of thing had happened here might somehow happen again, and potentially outside the realm of suits and celebrations—oh, and what he wouldn’t give to have her splayed down upon her bed with his face buried between her thighs.
Sucking in a harsh breath, he swallows down a frustrated groan and tries his very best to focus.
If he does anything at all to jeopardize that chance, he just might flatten the place.
The other one, though! Is it me or is this one somehow more cursed than the picture with the literal demon on it?
I mean, look. What’s up with this tiny fire? If you have a quote about surviving a fire by being more badass than the fire, you better have an impressive as fuck fire, otherwise I won’t be impressed. So you burned brighter than that barely sustainable flame in the sand you would be hard pressed to properly roast a marshmallow in? Like, wow.
The sky is brighter than the fire. The sky should not be brighter than the fire, obviously. Terrible composition. (Compare the Crowley version. Flaming like anything, that fire!)
The lighting on the model looks fake. It’s not light from the fire (because as we established, the fire is tiny and hiding in a hole on top of it). It’s orange enough to be from a sunset, but the sky is lightest behind the model, suggesting that’s where the sun would be, if it had not already set. The light on the rest of the sand in the background is a lot more blueish, supporting the theory that it’s past sunset. Conclusion: there’s a second fire next to the photographer that lights the scene, and they didn’t show us the cooler, bigger fire. No, the audience has to content with the tiny fire. We were cheated for the cooler fire, guys. (Alternatively, the light comes from an orange tinted lamp, but I’ll assume nobody drags a lamp to the beach.)
The model looks a lot weirder in this pose than Crowley. Understandable, after all she’ll have to make do with the correct number and arrangements of joints for a human body. Really, try sitting like this (hanging… slouching? I don’t even have a fitting word for this ridiculous pose). Her left foot is hardly on the ground weird as she’s pulling up this leg. It’s a miracle she’s not falling over. (Definitely a demonic miracle. Angels would not get involved in this type of thing.)
No pants but a thick knitted pullover. The pullover actually looks quite nice and warm. Not sure if it’s ideal beach wear, but, fine. But where are your pants, girl. If you can stand this warm pullover, your legs should be freezing. You’ll also get sand everywhere.
And that facial expression. I will allow the idea that it’s a sexy expression or bedroom eyes or whatnot and my ace ass can’t see it, so it just looks weird to me. But. Look at that million lightyears stare. Blank and distant. What did you see, pantless lady? (I am a little scared of the answer.)
I think I’ll give it 3/10. Nice fluffy looking pullover. Model has nice hair. Beach is a little boring, but pretty enough. Fire is rather disappointing. Model should a) go buy pants and b) see a doctor to make sure she didn’t damage any vital parts twisting like this.
going to the shops and seeing everyone go about their lives when you know what’s in the latest ipcc report honestly feels like being sarah connor in terminator 2 a little bit
rant time
it’s bizarre to see the amounts of denial in peoples responses, even those that are accepting the collapse… many people are talking about it in that very detached, “nature is over there” kinda way, as if we’re seperate from the environment, as if it’s very tragic and heartbreaking that we’ll all go on living our modern lives with cities and cars and power grids and running water, but oh so sad how “the environment” will collapse…
like, no. I’m sorry if you don’t wanna think about it, but life as normal won’t go on. there’s no “let the poor and disabled die and learn to live with the virus climate collapse” response here. it’s like, civilisation level collapse. like bronze age collapse collapse. which is ironic, considering the causes of that were resource hoarding, escalating warfare, pandemic, and environmental disaster.
like we need to be rapidly decentralising and localising our food and clean water everywhere at town infrastructure level, disentangling reliance on global or even national supply chains for basic survival, but instead internet armchair activists are still like “stop the capitalists from killing off the lovely nature, that is over there, seperate from us” and governments are like “we are reducing single use plastics because we aspire to one day be on track to maybe make net zero by 2050”
it’s fucked, and I’m not coping, and it doesn’t help that the last time i talked to a psych about this stress they started running me through the checklist questions for paranoid psychotic delusions… during the time an unprecedented amount of our country was on fire in the largest single bushfire event in history and the SES was telling us all to stockpile water to prepare…
how long will the denial last? so many tipping points of no return have already passed, but i still see “doomerism is the new climate denial”, as if acting like there’s still time to prevent collapse isn’t the biggest denial against the science there is… but i suppose it makes sense. we’re in the deadliest year of the 2019 pandemic yet with corpses piling up and business is back to usual.
maybe the benchmark for accepting collapse will be when toilet paper distribution stops so they can’t even panic buy it?
this election campaign is soul crushing tbh
it feels like, we’re on the titanic. the ship is already taking on water, the engineers are desperately trying to tell everyone how big the gash is and how many compartments are already flooded, we can feel the listing of the ship and we need to be launching lifeboats immediately and filling them to capacity, but if you even mention the lifeboats people think you’re crazy paranoid, and everyone’s just chanting the mantra that if we vote for the right party they’ll “hopefully steer us away from iceberg filled waters”
headcanon that one day Sam bought a record player for avengers tower so he could listen to Marvin Gaye high quality. But this becomes a problem when Bucky buys Taylor Swift vinyls and wants to use the record player too (Peter introduced Bucky to Taylor and ever since he’s been obsessed, his favorite album is evermore).
It quickly becomes a daily battle between Sam and Bucky over who can get to the record player first at any given time and how long the other gets to use it.
this results in a lot of trash talk, Bucky insults Marvin Gaye (even though he doesn’t mind his music much. or at all. maybe he kinda likes it) and Sam throws shade on Taylor Swift (even though he kinda likes her music)
but since Bucky doesn’t actually know anything about Marvin Gaye he invents random things to throw at Sam, like “you wouldn’t think Marvin was so great if you knew he killed a baby sloth” and Sam is just like “????” (bucky tries, ok)
anyway, this debate lasts for quite a while, until Wanda sends them to see Dr. Raynor about this specific issue, and they agree to share the record player equally
(“marvin still killed a baby sloth though” bucky says when they’re leaving. Dr. raynor makes a note to talk to Bucky about that in his next session)
HP never stopped innovating. From its origins in the 1930s as a leading electronics manufacturer to its role in the birth of PCs and performance servers, it has always demonstrated incredible ingenuity.
Today, that ingenuity is deployed in service of evil ink-based fuckery.
The printer-ink business model has always been a form of commercial sadism in which you are expected to put giant manufacturers’ interests ahead of your own with no expectation of any sort of reciprocity.
After all, when your profits depend on charging more for ink than vintage Veuve-Clicquot, you need to get up to some serious shenanigans to get your customers to drain their bank accounts to fill their printers.
By contemporary standards, the opening hostilities in the ink-wars look positively quaint:
Manufacturing special half-full cartridges to ship with new printers so their owners have to buy a new set just days after the open the box
Requiring frequent “calibration” printouts that use vast amounts of ink
Gimmicking cartridges’ sensors to declare them “empty” even when there’s still ink in them
Thing is, all of this just makes official printer ink less desirable and fuels demand for third party ink.
For this to work, you need to win a two-front war: one on your customers and the other on your competitors. HP is fighting both.
First they pioneered the use of DRM to detect and prevent third-party ink.
Then when ink makers started making their own chips, or harvesting chips out of discarded cartridges to use in news ones, HP got US customs to seize the product, calling it a patent infringement.
But the real ugliness started in March 2016, when HP pushed out a fake “security update” for inkjet printers. Owners who ran the update saw nothing, just a software version number that went up by one.
What they didn’t know was that they’ve been given an asymptomatic infection - a malicious update that only kicked in five months later, after everyone had had a good long time to update. That update’s real purpose was to detect and reject third party ink.
It went off right after school started, stranding cash-strapped parents with a year’s worth of ink for their kids’ school projects. People were outraged. HP issued a nonpology.
Every time HP got caught doing something evil, they had the same excuse: “that’s the deal we offered and you accepted it.”
For example, if the box says “Works best with HP ink,” then you are “agreeing” that it might not work with other ink. Nevermind that the only reason your printer doesn’t work with other ink is that HP tricked you into downgrading it so that the ink stopped working.
This is the grifter’s all-purpose excuse: “If you didn’t want me to rip you off, then why did you click ‘I agree’?”
HP was just getting started, though. In the ideal world, you wouldn’t even own your printer ink, you’d just RENT it.
This is “ink as a service.” You pre-commit to printing a certain number of pages/month and they mail you ink, which they own. You’re not buying the ink, you’re buying the right to use it.
If you don’t print your quota in a month, some of the pages roll over, but they don’t let you bank more than a few months’ worth - and to keep those pages, you have to keep paying for your sub. Meanwhile, if you blow through your limit, you get charged for every page.
This is a weird and unpalatable idea, so to sell it, HP rolled out a pay-one-price “Free Ink for Life” plan that gave you 15 pages every month for as long as you owned your printer.
But this is HP we’re talking about, so words have no meaning. Last month, HP notified its “free ink for life” customers that their life had ended, and they were being moved to a new afterlife where they had to pay $0.99/month, forever, or else.
This Darth Vader “Pray I don’t alter it further” shit is the most on-brand HP thing ever
Worse still are the many imitators HP inspires - all those companies that have decided that it’s your solemn duty to arrange your affairs to suit their shareholders’ needs.
The right-to-repair criminals like Apple, John Deere and Medtronic. Tesla and GM, Juicero and Keurig - companies that are not merely content with waging war on customers, but also on competitors who offer those customers shelter.
Since the turn of this century, HP has been shedding its productive business units that make useful products, and focusing its legal and engineering departments on innovations in shitty dystopian hack-futurism.
I’m seeing most of my favorite artists on here abandon ship, and I’m gonna follow them out. Tumblr was a great platform for me to explore artistically, but over the years I’ve been using it less and less. I think it’s time to officially say farewell, muted grey blue background color.
See you on the other side, fellow nerds! Thanks for following me. I don’t know why I’m writing this as if I’m dying. I’m not dying. I’m just gonna be on instagram.
“Ah, Scientist! How’s experiment number 387 doing?” - the villain asked, strolling into the lab. Said scientist jumped in surprise before turning to their boss.
“V-Villain, sir! Uh- Everything’s going smoothly so far.” - Scientist replied, checking something on their tablet as Villain walked over to the giant tube in the middle of the room.
The criminal ran their hand down the glass, admiring the creature growing inside it. “Marvelous~. Once this beauty is finished, we’ll be unstoppable.”
There was a long pause as the villain basked. It was a good bask. They were having fun. Until the scientist cleared their throat nervously.
The villain sighed. “What?”
Their scientist wrung their hands nervously. “Well, uh. I know it might be above my pay grade but uh…”
“Spit it out, Scientist!” Villain pulled a potato chip from their jacket pocket and bit in. “I pay you to think, let’s hear those thoughts.”
“You, uh,” the scientist stammered, staring at the villain’s snack, “technically don’t pay me. But that’s not the point! You do keep saying things like we’ll be unstoppable and all shall bow before me, and I would remiss not to point out we have no idea what kind of traits or personality we’re going to get when our chimera decants.”
“An excellent point!” The villain crammed in another potato chip, chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “Two questions then. One, what do you know about animal handling? And two, what do you mean I’m not paying you?”
“You, uh, technically kidnapped me?” the scientist said with a nervous laugh, hugging their tablet to their chest. “But I have been doing some reading in zoology and aquarium journals-”
“Great initiative. Now shut up,” interrupted the villain, looking less amused, more confused. “I kidnapped you?”
“Well, yeah.” The scientist looked a little hurt. “The International Biochem conference in Berlin? I was presenting a paper, it wasn’t going well. But then you - you suddenly stormed the stage yelling that I was a genius and my talents were wasted on them and then you, um,” the scientist blushed bright red, “you sorta tossed me over your shoulder and you had these kinda rocket powered skates-”
“Mm.” The villain nodded thoughtfully. “The Jet Set Rockets, yes. This is ringing a bell. Go on.”
“And then you brought me here. But no big deal!” the scientist hurriedly said. “Everyone just sort of forgot I was a prisoner after a few days. I was able to go home, pack my stuff, let the landlord know I was breaking my lease because I’d been kidnapped. But to get back to Beastica -”
"Beastica?”
“Oh, sorry! I mean…” The scientist ducked their head, running a hand gently along the glass. “That’s just what I’ve been calling her in my head. I didn’t mean to presume.”
“Beastica,” the villain hummed. They placed their hand next to the scientist’s on the glass. “I dig it.”
“Oh wow,” the scientist breathed. “But, uh, I am short on cash and some of that zoology literature is behind paywall, so can I get that expensed? Subscription to the Annual Review of Animal Biosciences and the Journal of Experimental Biology should do it.”
“Sure, sure! Tell Accounting Deirdre I authorized it and she’ll order it for you. Now.” The villain grabbed the tablet out of the scientist’s hand and flung it away.
“Hey!” the scientist yelped - and then shut up as the villain advanced on them, eyes glinting with intent.
“We need to sort this out,” the criminal purred, backing the scientist across the lab. “You can’t be ‘kinda’ kidnapped. That effects things, like your PTO accrual and whether you get invited to the holiday party.“ The scientist gasped as they hit the wall. The villain was there in a flash, hands bracketing them against the cement. "So what’ll it be, genius?” they grinned, running a finger down the scientist’s lab coat lapel. “Are you kidnapped, or do you maybe kinda wanna be here?”
“Oh, um…” the scientist stammered, eyes perfectly round aa they watched villain’s hand trace across their chest. “I mean, maybe… I don’t know! Can’t we do something in the middle?”
“Independent contractor! Got it!” The villain abruptly stepped back and started tapping things into their phone. “Go tell HR Deirdre you need a W9. That’s a good choice,” the villain went on, with a sly glass up through their lashes. “I have a strict no fraternization policy with my employees, but I don’t see any reason I can’t throw a contractor over my shoulder every now and again. If they ask nicely.”
“Okay,” whispered the scientist again, melting slowly into a puddle.
The criminal gave them a wink and handed them a pretzel stick from their shirt pocket. “I wanna see that behavioral plan by Thursday! Keep up the good work and you shall be rewarded in my day of victory!”
“Will do, sir,” the scientist whispered and hurried back to building their villain the world’s most beautiful marauding monster.
The minister pointed his finger at the queen. “The poison in your wine could only have come from her, your majesty! The queen is trying to kill you!” “No,” said the king. “If my wife wished to kill me she would look me in the eye and push a dagger into my chest.”
“Stop joking around when you’re dying!” I snarled at my idiot husband, now turning a delicate purple. The minister was backing away, so I leapt the table, ripping my dagger loose straight through the hole in my skirts.
He shrieked and tried to run, but courtly life had not been kind to his dexterity or his strength. It was child’s play to take him to the ground, my blade to his throat. “What did you give him? Where is the antidote?”
The minister’s eyes were wide and he was blubbering. It was an embarrassing display from a senior courtier - you’d think the man had never been in a knife fight before. “I don’t - Madame, I - what are you implying?”
“You see, it wasn’t me so that means it must have been you,” I said sweetly to the minister. “Talk or I flay you alive from the balls up.”
It was too theatrical a threat. I could see the pompous mask settle again. “Now see here-” he started.
I stabbed him. He screamed.
“Darling please,” wheezed my moron husband, who should have been sitting down and conserving his breath. “We need… answer…”
“Working on it,” I sang back, grinding my dagger against the minister’s shoulder joint. He screamed again and a spurt of blood landed on my bodice. One of the summoned guards who’d been hovering turned away, his face green. Honestly, I was going to have to fire everyone next week. “I realize these aren’t your balls. This is the warning stab to make my point that I am quite serious.” I pulled my stiletto from my hair, considered the thin blade critically. “Not the best weapon for the job, but I’ll make do. Might have to stab your balls a bit instead of flaying.”
I reached down for his pants.
“Wait!” the minister screamed. “It’s golden rest vine. Golden rest vine!”
There were gasps through the court. At least a couple were clearly fake and I cursed my inability to look in all directions at once.
“Never heard of it.” I slit the fabric open. “I hope for your balls’ sake there’s an antidote.”
“I know! I know that one!” We all turned to look at the little court doctor, hitherto best noted for their ability to fall asleep on two glasses of wine. They blushed but kept their hand up like they were in school. “Standard milkweed powder and brandy.”
“Then go get it,” I hissed and the only member of the court staff who was still going to have their job next week bobbled off at full speed. I turned back to the minister cowering at my feet. “You’re a coward and a traitor,” I declared. And incompetent, I added but only mentally as I couldn’t very well critique an enemy assassin for that quality. “Guards, take him away to stand trial at the king’s pleasure.”
Now that I’d done all their job for them, the guards rushed in a great clank of armor to drag the stupid man away. That handled, I turned back to the stupid man I’d married.
The doctor was already back, trying to feed my husband a cup with their hands shaking worse than his. “Great… great work, my love,” he wheezed.
“No. Beloved. Rest,” I said and grabbed him by the nose. His jaw flapped open and the doctor poured the draught down his gullet. I crushed his head to my breast in a tender embrace before he could spit it out.
“How dare you try to die on me?” I hissed in his ear. “I told you your death is mine when I’m done with you!”
My husband wriggled his head free to look up at me, his color already returning. “Yes, dear,” he whispered back with his stupid, inane smile entirely inappropriate to a man nearly killed by a greedy minister and incompetent staff. He touched my face gently. His fingers came away wet. “Don’t cry, love. I’ll be fine.”
“I am not crying!” I protested, but my husband forestalled further argument on the topic by turning his head and emptying the contents of his stomach across my skirts. In the ensuing clean up of yet another mess, he slipped into gentle rest before I could conclusively prove him wrong.
Another thing I’d have to get revenge for. Another reason - no, another obligation to keep the idiot alive, no matter how exhausting.
It’s a hard thing, proper revenge, but absolutely worth doing right. I’d get him. Someday.
