you’re watching the maury show on your computer when katsuki marches into your room without a word and flops down next to you on your bed.
“ hello to you, too.” you snort. his words are muffled by your sheets but you’re about 90% sure he told you to shut up, you ignore it.
he lays face down on your bed for a while not saying anything and you know he’s had a long day and wants to be close to you without actually talking. you don’t mind, you’ll give him his space until he reaches out himself.
and he does after a little bit, turning his head around to face you as he looks from you to your computer screen, eyes focusing on the woman screaming that the man she cheated on her husband with was 100% not the father of her baby, mixed with the cheers of the audience.
he looks at you and raises a brow “ what’s happenin ?”
“ lady cheated on her husband with his brother.” you respond.
“ his brother ?” he repeats. his eyebrows furrow and you know he’s hooked. if there’s one thing katsuki loves but will never admit he does, it’s trash tv.
you nod, grinning somewhat evilly “his brother. now they’re trying to find out which one’s the father.”
he hums, scooting himself closer to you so he can see the screen too. he flips himself around so his neck isn’t craned at that awkward angle anymore and settles himself down right next to you. hook, line and sinker.
he wraps his arm around your shoulder and shoves his head in your neck, breathing you in. you both don’t say anything. “do you want me to play it from the beginning for you ?” he shakes his head in your neck. you reach your hand up to scratch at his scalp and you smile when he sighs. he holds you a little tighter, pressing feather light kisses into your neck.
katsuki’s never been good at expressing himself with any other emotion that isn’t anger. it makes him feel stupid and weak and soft. he’s had a long fucking day and he doesn’t wanna talk about it, simply wanting to indulge in you but he can’t tell you that, can’t find the words to, so he tries to find other ways to tell you and he hopes you understand and you do.
katsuki’s thankful for you because sometimes he wants to talk, wants to open up about what’s bothering him but sometimes he doesn’t. he doesn’t and you don’t pry when you know he doesn’t and he’s so thankful for you. he presses kisses on your skin and soft bites at your flesh to convey just how thankful he is, how grateful he is for having you. he hopes every warm press of his lips against your skin can convey how much he loves you loving him. and it does, because you turn your head and kiss the side of his head so sweetly and he knows you’re it for him.
he’ll tell you all of this one day, he promises. he’ll tell you all the thoughts swimming around in his head one day, but he hopes this’ll do for now. and unknowingly to him, it absolutely does.
he pulls his head out of your neck and kisses you hard on the cheek one, two, three times and you giggle. you feel him smile into your cheek when he kisses you a fourth time.
“fuck’re they screamin’ about ?” he says and you turn to look back at the screen. the woman is yelling at her husband’s brother vehemently denying the possibility of him being her baby’s father. you feel a little bad for laughing. “ she says he’s not the dad” you answer.
he clicks his tongue “ why the fuck is she on the show then.” he says, turning his attention back to your computer but his grip on you stays secure. you press yourself a little closer to him.
you’re still smiling lightly when you look back at your screen, simply shrugging. “ she said something about her having more sex with her husband than with him.” you answer and he snorts.
“ ten bucks neither one of them’s the father.”
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Why do you say that subjectivity is becoming increasingly autistic? Also, have you ever read Homo Ludens?
Because people are increasingly socially exhausted. Since capitalism began to ravage communication, creative energy, etc, psychosis is no longer a limit to economic production and instead is itself a force of production (we are no longer compelled to repression, as we were during industrialization, but to hyperexpression)
If psychosis has been appropriated by economic processes, autism presents a new limit to capitalism (also, historically speaking, autism emerged out of psychosis)
This is because autism is neither repression nor hyperexpressivity, autistic subjectivity involves a turning away from the symbolic, or else a use of the symbolic for non-economic/non-communicative means. I have not read the book you mentioned but thanks for mentioning it.
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@daisyscape : ✍️ + okay listen... najma viper / accepting.
“Did you get to see Jamil today?” Ruhee asks, and Najma laughs, nodding, scooping the tiny girl into her arms.
“There you are. I’ve been looking for you.” Ruhee gives a sheepish smile; she always seems to disappear around bedtime. “And I did! It was nice.” Her smile goes a little mischievous as she considers how she’d tormented him; that’s her job as little sister, though. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen him in person.”
“Luckyyyyy,” Ruhee replies, almost pouting. “We haven’t seen Kalim in aaaages.”
Najma shifts her against her hip. “It’s not that long ‘til his next break. Maybe your big brother come home this time.” She hopes so — she’d sooner die than let Jamil find out, but it had been hard, last break, to be without her brother when she’d expected him home. She can’t imagine it’s easier on Kalim’s brothers and sisters. “How about I text Kalim tomorrow and we try to arrange a video call, so you guys can all see him sometime this week?”
“Yaaay! That’d be so fun! You’re the best, Najma!”
“In exchange, you have to go to bed really quiet tonight, and not give anybody any trouble, okay?”
“Booooo,” Rugee whines back, and Najma laughs. “But okay! I’ll tell everyone, and we’ll be soooo good tonight.” Najma laughs again. They’re all good kids — the Al - Asim family is, in a lot of ways, made up of especially good people. They’re kind. Kalim is kind; she knows that. She grew up with her brother, serving the family like her family’s always done, and even if she wasn’t as close to Kalim as Jamil was, she’d never been all that far from him, either. Jamil had protected her from becoming anyone’s personal servant, and kept her as far from Kalim as possible, but they grew up together; there had been times, between the distance and her own quiet resentment, when Kalim felt as much like her older brother as Jamil did.
Those moments never lasted all that long, though. It only ever took a word from either of her parents — fearful in a way that she was too young to understand — or a thoughtless word from Kalim himself to remind her of what they were. She — her brother — all of them...at the end of the day, they weren’t family. They were servants, born into an impossible task, a role that none got to choose. Najma cares for the Al - Asims, she does, but as she tucks Ruhee into the large bed piled with other children ( not because there isn’t madol and space enough for each to have their own room, their own wing, but because the siblings simply love one another in a way that’s all - tactile ) she thinks of what she is. She is their servant. She is not their equal. She’s not their sister. At the end of the day, she’s not, really, even, allowed to be their friend.
And, every one of them, too sweet and too ignorant to see it.
She closes the door, she smiles, she stretches her arms above her head. She misses her brother. She misses Kalim, in between moments of splicing resentment she’s never been able to shake ( omah, omah, why can’t jamil play with me? / he has to entertain kalim, dear, you know that — ) but above all, she misses her brother. And she hopes he’s happy, with his friends. He’d seemed happy when they met, in his own way. He was away from Kalim, who Jamil ——
Who Jamil always said he loved. Who, Najma noticed, even if no one else does, Jamil resents.
She wonders how things are at school. She wonders if Kalim has figured it out yet, that no one can be his friend when they were born to serve him. She wonders how long until she’s all grown up, when she can leave this place, when she can be more girl than servant. She wonders that her parents never did, and wonders if it would be a betrayal to leave them.
Then, her head shakes. There’s no use dwelling on things like that, things that ache. Not when there’s still work to be done before it’s time for her, too, to go to sleep.
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