Winter let's 👉🏽👌🏽👉🏽👌🏽👉🏽👌🏽💦
Pasiii 😳 *bites lip and tucks hair behind ear while looking down and blinking repeatedly*
You say this right before i start heading towards the church…? 😳 Are you trying to make me sin..? 😩💦
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BUNN I GOT US APPLE JUIS :3
awwhhh passiii 🥺🥺 now I gotchu sum of deez nuts 🥺🥺🥺🥺
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You are to be blamed for everything I am feeling right now
no cause ,,, this is based off a fic that i read that literally changed my life and drenched my panties .
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✨🩷🌙SEND THIS TO OTHER BLOGGERS YOU THINK ARE WONDERFUL. KEEP THE GAME GOING ✨🩷🌙
hi mimi <33 hope you are doing good
omg hi!!! i hope you are too!!! thank you for stopping by <333
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pasi do you think iwaizumi had a slut era when he was at college in california >.> 🎤
—cw: fem!reader, slight cockwarming, nicknames, both reader and iwa are kinda dominating.
absolutely!!! he was a hot shot in high school, but with all the burning teen passion in him, he never really put that much emphasis and importance on romance.
but as soon as iwa went to a new country, something in him shifted. yeah, he was still very career oriented but the foreign air had gotten to him. no one can deny he looks hot. And those biceps???!! helloo?!! all the girls at his university were obsessed with him. he didn't show it at first but he liked the attention. the rude and tough personality was now easing in into a more flirtatious and smug one.
it boosted his ego. especially when he found there was an ongoing rumor about the size of his cock among all the girls in the university. he'd become such a slut, fucking girls left and right. one of his moves were to ask the girl if they woukd tutor him (knowing damn well he has the textbooks inked in his brain), and then lure them in with his sweet words. then fuck them. there were times (a lot of times), his roommate walked in on him with every new chick.
but it got on his nerves that out of all the girls in the uni, why were you not interested in him. he had tried to hit on you a few times but all you did was ignore or replied with sarcasm. it's not that you didn't find him hot. he was packed. you just didn't want to fuel his ego and become a nobody the next day. you wanted to leave an imprint on his mind.
so now when he had you on top of him, he was salivating. his big torso casting a shadow in the nightlight on the bed.
"c'mon. I didn't ask you to shut up. tell me the answer, hajime," you cooed.
"demand analysis is—fuck!" his speech struggled as you clenched your pussy around his dick. "just move goddamit."
"answer me first. or have you become too much if a slut that your brain cannot remember anything else?" your tone taunting. he tried to furrow his brows in fury at being called slut but the way his cock twitched inside you, you knew he liked that remark.
"fuck this shit." he threw the textbook off your hand to the other side of the bed and grabbed you by your hips. you moaned when he picked you yp before slamming you down on him.
"anh! this—this isn't fair. you didn't answer," you closed your eyes, still complaining.
"shut up, princess or i won't let you come." His hips had started catching up to a desired pace.
"fuckfuck!ugh! what—oh what about the test?"
"i know everything. i called you over to fuck this pretty pussy." you knew it was going to happen. you came with the same intention. you don't wear a matching set on any normal day. you threw him further on the bed, his back hitting the plain. your hands placed each on the either side if his pelvis bone.
"i knew you were a slut, iwaizumi hajime," you angled yourself in such a way that your clit would rub against his skin as his dick is busy plunging deep inside you. "good thing i know how to use a slut."
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pasi pasi psst. i am thirsty, and your writing is god tier so if the sleepover is still open (feel free to ignore this ask if it isn't), how would seventeen react or what would their replies be when you say "i miss your dick💔" on call?
seungcheol: doesn't matter where he is, he's getting in his car/ on the next flight to see you and dick you down real good
jeonghan: sends you the tip of his cock in a photo just to tease you and make you beg for more
joshua: immediately starts to guide you through an orgasm, whilst also jacking off and letting you hear his groans
junhui: "and I miss your tits" he'd start rambling about everything he misses about you
soonyoung: just whines because he can't see you and now his dick is hard and you're not with him to fix it
wonwoo: he'd change the call to a video chat and ends up masturbating on camera with you watching
jihoon: sends you a couple of voice audios to listen to after he hangs up the call including moans, guiding thru an orgasm, etc
seokmin: would get so pouty and needy, ends up whining and jerking off to your voice and then makes you cum too
mingyu: "so naughty...teasing me when I can't do anything about it" ends up teasing you with photos for days after
minghao: simply laughs and tells you in explicit detail everything he's going to do when he sees you next
seungkwan: he's going to complain every day until he sees you next, and then fuck you absolutely stupid
vernon: is stunned into silence, before changing the topic but he doesn't forget it when he gets home
chan: "so fucking needy for me...all mine" gets so dominant and makes you cum multiple times over the phone
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Moving Forward | Graham Dunne x Reader
A/N: After I got a request asking for Graham x a groupie, I knew I had to take it on. I just didn't realize it would be two parts, different perspectives. Hope you guys enjoy <3
Warnings: Drug use, angst, death
Daisy Jones and The Six Masterlist
You moved around the hotel feverishly, throwing your things into a small duffel bag that was so full it was threatening to burst at the seams.
Graham followed your every step, gently taking you by the shoulders, "Y/N/N, please, just hear me out."
Shrugging him off, you pushed past him into the bathroom, sliding the things in the vanity into another compartment of your bag.
"I don't want to see you go down a bad path you can't get out of, Y/N. I love you, I can—"
Turning on your heel, you pushed him away from you, shaking your head, "You don't! You don't fucking love me, Graham. You just met me!"
"Three months is long enough to fall in love with someone," Graham said, trying to take your hand in his, "I want to help you. Please, let me help you. I don't... I don't want to lose you."
"No one can help me, Graham," You hissed, "I've been on my own long enough. I don't need a man coming in here trying to change that—trying to save me from myself."
Before he could even reply, you pulled him into you, your lips crashing on his. It felt like it lasted forever, feeling his tears roll down his face and onto your cheeks.
Finally breaking away, you shook your head, "This isn't love, Graham. It's fear."
"Y/N. Please, think about this," He pleaded, his voice breaking.
If you started crying now, you don't think you'd ever stop. You'd be unpacking twenty years of heartache and neglect.
"You wouldn't have been happy, Graham," You said softly, your fingers gripping the door handle, "Not in the long run."
You left without another glance, walking pasy rows and rows of hotel rooms before you made it to the elevator.
As you frantically pressed the button to go down a floor, the doors opened. Warren stood on the other side, his neck covered in hickeys and lipstick.
Smiling like always, his face fell when he saw the sickening expression on your face.
"Hey, Y/N, you alright?" He asked, stepping out of the elevator.
"Goodbye, Warren," You said, walking right past him and into the elevator, hitting the close button and entering the floor number.
You didn't want anyone else to see you like this.
Leaving that night broke your heart. But it would've broken your heart even more to know that Graham would've dropped everything for you. He was the first man who saw you as a person, not as another way to add to their body count.
Hot tears spilled down your face, blurring your vision as you tried to find a place to go.
Settling down in a bar, you asked for a pen and piece of paper. Once you had what you needed, you sat down to give the man you loved an explanation.
------------------------------------------------------------
Warren went straight to Eddie's room after he saw you stumbling down the hallway. Warren was a lot of things, a voice of reason was not one of them.
He and Eddie made their way to Graham's room, knocking gently before entering. He rarely ever locked his door, a habit he knew he should break.
On the edge of the bed, the youngest Dunne had sunk onto the bed, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands as he cried.
Looking at one another briefly before sitting on either side of their friend, Eddie and Warren tried to comfort him in the best way they knew.
Warren rubbed his upper back while Eddie began talking him through what happened.
Between muffled sobs, Graham told them he only wanted to help you.
"She's ruining her life," He hiccuped, "The counter. Cocaine on the counter. Addicted. I can't watch her do that to herself. Tried to help."
Although Eddie could barely make out what he was saying, he managed to put two and two together, "You saw her snorting it and you offered to help her?"
Graham nodded, "She got mad. Left."
He had always been a bit of a softy, but his loyalty was beyond measure. When he loved, he loved hard. This was no exception.
"Graham, man, there's nothing you can do now except move forward." Warren said, still rubbing his back.
Eddie glared at the drummer, "You read that off of a billboard on the way here, dumbass."
"He's right," Graham said, "That's what makes it so much harder."
Shrugging, Warren couldn't help but smile, "You learn a lot driving around."
Eddie smacked him on the back of the head, rolling his eyes, "Are you going to be okay, man?"
"Eventually."
Warren paused for a moment, "Want us to get Billy?"
Both Eddie and Graham immediately said, "No!"
Groaning, Graham shook his head, "No, he'll only say that he was right. He'll say you can't trust a groupie."
"Most groupies are just there for sex, peaches," Warren said, pursing his lips.
"She was different."
"They always are."
------------------------------------------------------------
Dear Graham,
By the time you recieve this letter, I'll have left the city. The way I left things was wrong, and I'm sorry I hurt you. There has to be some part of you that knew if I stayed that I would only be hurting you more.
Truth is, Dunne, I love you, too. But I can't love someone if I don't even love myself. You mean so much to me and you alwaus will. But you deserve to be happy with someone who's healthy. I'm not that girl.
I wish you the best. You guys are going somewhere.
Love,
Y/N/N
------------------------------------------------------------
The letter was found in your possessions are your death. Although labeled as an overdose, what the public didn't know was that it had been a car accident. The man driving you had overdosed. You had been clean for two days, the longest you had gone since you were a teenager.
When the letter was delivered to Graham, it broke him. You loved him—and now you were gone. Unable to get through it on his own, he relied on his music to get him through it. That was the only thing that could get him through it.
And that was moving forward.
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@degenezijde replied to your post “Dinner date”:
Immensely enjoying your bg3 journey. Pasi is also playing :p
I am so LOVING it!! Hope they enjoy it too!
Look at this lovely kitty I just petted :)))
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(TW death, murder, suicidal behavior)
“There’s still time. I could get Caladrius.”
“I’d rather you hold me instead, if that’s alright.”
The funeral is held on a Monday. Roje isn’t invited. He’s barred from going in fact. They’re a little disappointed about that. They have so little of Pasi. Fragments. Stolen moments. It will never be enough. But it never is.
He took the pack of cigarettes from Pasi’s pocket before they dragged him away from the body. He lights one, smokes it. When it’s burned to the filter he lights another.
—
They move Pasi as carefully as they can, mindful of the wet, red spot on their stomach.
“I’m sorry for getting my blood on you,” Pasi whispers against their collarbone.
‘It’s alright,” they reply. “It’s yours.”
–
Isa wants to kill them. Magpie warns them of this fact the day before the funeral, voice clipped and carefully polite. Roje was already aware. She’d attempted to put a knife inside of him the night that she’d found them. Her face had been a jagged picture of grief and rage at the time. That’s not the kind that fades in a day, or even a year. She will hate them for the rest of her life. It’s likely that she’ll begin to hunt them very soon.
She stays the longest, after all of the other mourners have left. Roje watches her from the roof. He smokes slowly through Pasi’s last pack of cigarettes. Her body is a distant speck beside Pasi’s grave. Even from here, he knows she is weeping.
—
“You’re sure this is what you want?” Roje asks, desperate. Their hands are shaking. “You could live. They could save you.”
Pasi reaches up then, their hand against his cheek. Small, cold. They’ve touched him like this before. Roje just wants to make them warm.
“Please.”
Roje settles then. Moves to take Pasi’s hand in theirs. “I’m sorry. I won’t make you stay.”Something in Pasi comes undone at that. They sag fully against them, the tense cord of their spine unknotting. “Thank you. I’m so sorry to ask you to do it. I would-”
Roje hushes them with a press of his mouth to their hairline. A mirror image of the moment they shared-
God, it feels like it was so long ago already. And it will only grow more distant from here. Roje kisses Pasi again for good measure.
“I’ll do whatever you want me to. I understand.”
—
They have no say in what is done with the body. That’s made clear to them immediately. One of the murder snarls to him that the only reason they don’t kill him is because they know it wouldn’t stick. Roje listens. He doesn’t speak.
Pasi’s blood is still all over him. His hands and neck and mouth.
They insist on burying them. Roje watches them put Pasi into a hole in the ground, inside of a box.
They’d only ever wanted to be free.
Night falls, the moon bright and gray. Isa cannot stay forever. Eventually someone comes to drag her away. Roje waits until he is certain that they are gone, then he gets to work.
—
There’d been something tender and real growing between them since the moment they met. It stays between them still. It will be there even when Pasi isn’t. Roje knows this, lets the knowledge of that settle into their bones.
They always knew this day was coming. Every meeting is just the precursor to a goodbye. They chose this grief when they chose to open the raw aching space of their chest up. They did it for Pasi. They’d do it again.
—
The dirt of Pasi’s grave is soft and damp. It crumbles apart easily in their hands. It’s feather light as they lift it out, shovel-full by shovel-full. By all accounts it is an exquisite burial site. Whoever arranged the funeral spared no expense. The headstone is marble and carved with images of flowers. The coffin is beetle black. The body inside is beautiful.
“I told you I would always come to find you.”
—
“Can I be selfish?” Pasi asks them, and their voice is very small. Their teeth are pink with their own blood.
“I never told you that you shouldn’t be.”They smile at him then, but it’s not right. It’s not like the one at the beach. This too is so desperately sad.“Will you come find me? When it’s all over.”Roje cups the back of their head in his hand, tilts it so he can look them in the eye.
“I will never let you be alone.”
—
It’s a quiet drive to the ocean. They took this route once before. One last bright spot before the world ended. Pasi curled beside them in the car, long fingers fiddling with the dials of the radio. They don’t do that now.
By the time they reach the beach, the sun is nearing the surface of the horizon, washing the distant sky in gray and blue and lilac.
Coming here is like walking on glass. Roje’s familiar with grief at this point. The memories will always cut them this way, these jagged, beautiful shards. Pieces of their life where Pasi was alive with them. Here is the sand where they sat side by side, watching the sun rise. Here is the place where Pasi turned inside the circle of their arms to face them, their laughter bright and crystalline.
—
“Does it hurt?” Roje asks them. The signs of blood loss are growing worse. They’ve begun to shake.
Pasi looks at them and nods, mouth trembling. “I can withstand it.”
“You shouldn’t have to.”
—
They swim with Pasi for a very long time. Roje belongs to the water as much as he belongs to the dirt but Pasi’s body drags behind him, skirts billowing. They’d been so nervous the first time Roje took them here, convinced they couldn’t even manage to learn to float.
The sun kisses the sky in an outpouring of gold. Roje holds Pasi’s body and watches it rise. The shore is a distant line behind them. They will swim back to it alone.
“I do wish we had more time,” Roje says into Pasi’s hair. “I think I would have loved you very much. I think I will even if you’re not here to see it.”
When the sun breaks free from the horizon, Roje takes one final breath and he dives.
—
“Roje,” Pasi whispers. “You don’t have to either.”
“I think you deserve to not hurt anymore,” Roje says. It will take at least another hour for them to bleed to death. This will take markedly less time.
—
There’s a point in diving when the weight of the water above neutralizes buoyancy, where the body can sit in place, not sinking, not floating. It is here that Roje stops their descent.
They press one last kiss to Pasi’s face. Then another. Then another. They do not say goodbye.
Pasi will become part of this sea. The sand. The coral. The endless, teeming life that pulses with every movement of the tide. He will come here often. He will miss them terribly.
—
He wraps his hands around the soft column of their neck. Pasi’s eyes are bright and wet with tears. They look at him as if he has given them the world. As if he has returned a piece of them that has been missing for an unbearably long time.
Roje breaths. Tightens their grip.
—
They return to the surface alone.
@gcdhoods
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About to go on holiday with my family! Wish pasi luck!
Leaving on holidays with pasi is the best because they carry all the mental load of the packing :') much more relaxed than with my family. But they can't take over the reins for the rest of my family (even if they wish they could) so we are stuck with bad planning and communication on that side.
My eldest niece has hit puberty, and my dad (her grandfather) somehow works like a red cloth on a bull when it comes to teens. I vividly remember how the way he acted with me as a teen grated me and it caused a lot of stress and discussions. And I notice the exact same thing in my niece.
My sister, BIL and youngest niece have circumstances that mean they'll be coming two days after, but the eldest two can come along today, which means either we or my parents take them along on a 2-3 hour car ride. As soon as I knew this was the case, I offered to take them in my car. My dad is very bad with traffic stress (extremely so... For a man who spends most of his day in a car... His poor heart) and being stuck in a car with him is Not A Good Time, especially as a teen. Kids were immediately in favour. We've brought the driving plans back up whenever the planning of the holiday was mentioned (pasi: "I just know they will forget otherwise")
Meanwhile, this week, pasi's Planning Mode went into full gear, so time to ask my sister when the kids would be ready for pick up. No reply. Ask again a few days later. A Non-reply.
Yesterday, 10PM, a message in the group chat: "Hey, who's taking our kids? They should be ready around 2pm."
Message at 10.30 PM: "According to them they're driving along with their aunts?"
(:
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𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐌𝐄 .
── from @thecaladrius .
tw ── violence, death, grief.
here is a thing few understand about isabele: in the face of death, her grief is as boundless as her thirst for vengeance. they both warp her face into a monster’s, as siren turns into gorgon ── something that cannot be looked directly in the eye. look into hers and find unbreakable ice, frozen - over flame, a heat not tamed but engulfed entirely by coldness. it is easier to let fingertips skim the fire than it is to lose them to the cold. it is a fate less cruel, to face an angry isabele than to see her thirst for vengeance ── and seek it out, to even the scales by her own hand.
caladrius is the first person on her list.
her footsteps are filled with determination, the clicking of high heels against flooring. hands tucked into pockets. purse filled with the contents of a plot strung together by a mourning mind. darkness - stained already, if a grave’s dirt is still under her fingernails, why not employ those hands for something gruesome ? they have yet to be cleansed. maybe they never will be, fully. maybe she’s okay with that if it means that everything that must happen, will.
dear javi,
my friend, i write to you because i have a confession to make: i have not been well. it has struck me in ways i could not have imagined. i have mourned before, spent a lifetime grief - struck, yet this … it’s unimaginable. i have been turning to my dearest friends, asking for company. i’ll be in hotel cecilia’s rooftop garden tonight.
please tell me you can heal a broken heart.
love,
─ isa
delivered at his doorstep. there are teardrops scattered along the page, and in secret, isabele cannot tell if they are entirely birthed from feigned grief or if they are a symbol of escaped sorrow. if it’s snuck out of her like a secret breathed out into the air, said aloud.
of course he shows up that night ── why wouldn’t he, when his friend now has reason to dress in all black ? she’s clothed in the colours of mourning. she’s wearing a jacket and trousers this time, unlike her usual penchant for dresses. severity and formality linger in the lines of the clothing, adorn her with them.
❛ thank you for coming, javi. i was expecting you. ❜
this is not the sight he was expecting ── she can tell easily. javi isn’t hard to read. he’s frowning and his eyes scour her form rapidly and messily, drawing a haphazard analysis of a situation he can’t understand. she walks past him. locks the door.
❛ isa, what are you doing ? ❜
isabele pulls out a gun.
❛ what does it look like i’m doing ? ❜ isabele’s reply is defiant as javi raises both hands, setting a frail barrier between the two of them. it can be torn down so easily, can’t he see ? hands are capable of so much, from holding another’s to claiming a life by wrapping around the throat, or knuckles connecting against flesh, or tearing, or hitting. but hands cannot stop bullets.
❛ you aren’t thinking straight, isa. put that down. ❜
a laugh, wicked and verging on maniacal with its harsh edges ── not meagerly torn up like paper, but sharpened like the dagger strapped to her thigh at all times. she’s learned how to wield it since it was used against her by lawrence. the gun in her hand is the one she’s kept tucked away for emergencies and heists only. taught to use it by mateo. funny, how the murder has acted as such an influence for her ── self defense as the origin of both, yet a twisted isabele now wields them with a newfound thirst to stain them both crimson. let it bathe her hands, too, leave an indeleble mark ── fuck it.
what does she have to lose, if she’s already lost herself to the hands of death ? she has risen in the ranks from being the dirt under the reaper’s shoe to its servant. she acts in death’s name. an eye for an eye, tonight ── a life for a life.
❛ no, ❜ she hisses. ❛ i will not put this down, javi. you know why ? because you had no right to make that call ── it should have been me. not them. not pasi. ❜
he’s paled ── does he see it now, the weight of her grief ? ❛ it was what they wanted. isa, they were begging me to save you. it was the only way. ❜
❛ it should have been me, ❜ she insists. ❛ but if it wasn’t … i suppose it must be you. ❜
javi moves to run, and isabele laughs again as she steadies herself ── the voice of the nightingale, distorted, the last sound he’ll get to hear. she aims. fires.
ah, a perfect shot. right where he’d placed it on their body. how poetic.
they would have loved it.
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Hey shawty
Jesus fucking christ pasi 💀💀
This was a jumpscare cuz i opened the ask on the app
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OMG BUNNY YOUR THEME IS JUST😻🤍 also I wanted to ask if I can spam reblog because I am planning on reading jjk stuff after my exams are over :)) Have a nice day.
thank you sm pasi 🥺🥺❤️ and of course you can reblog my posts whenever you want to there’s no such like as a limit in reblogging 💖
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Good morning TUMBLR - March 7th - 2024
''Mr. Plant has owed me a shoe since July 5, 1971."
Ch. VIII - 1985- 1989 - Bahrain - Part 2
Construction progress at Sitra GPIC Ammonia & Methanol Complex - Bahrain.
Tree of Life - Bahrain Desert
With collegues Mr. Mastronardo and Mr. Gigliola on the way to Tree of Life - Bahrain
Italy's Bahrain National Football Team
LIFE IN AWALI
Life continued, but I couldn't handle the 3 fellows Italians that were sharing the wooden villa with me.
There a guy, Mr. Mura, a Sardinian who was part of the start up team (the first of a long series of Sardinians with whom I realized that, in the long run, you can't avoid quarrelling with). After a few days he began to dissociate himself from us, and started cooking tons of sauce and pasta just for him.
Then Mr. Pasi , a guy from Romagna, always looking for a reason to spark discussions (for example that once you used the soap in the bathroom, you had to wash and dry it - the soap - before putting it back on the sink)
Ronci had gone to live in another house (thank goodness…) but had been promptly replaced by another Italian, Mr. Serafino Girolami, from Ascoli Piceno. The onoly good and polite person of the group. We had hired an Indian as ''butler'' for the house: as per tradition in his country, he washed, ironed and prepared dinner if requested. And then he cleaned the oysters that we collected on Fridays at the seaside. We had bought a small used boat, and than one day we went to Manama to buy the engine at the Mercury dealer. We bought a new 35 hp outboard engine, loaded it into the pick up and left the dealer's yard. After a few meters, Mr. Pasi objected that 35 hp had too little power for the size of the boat, so we went back to the dealer and told him that we wanted to return the engine we had just bought and get a 50 hp one.
Yes but now this one you got is second hand – objected the Arab.
As second hand, it is still in its packaging! Mr. Serafino replied.
Yes – said the Arab – but if you want a 50 hp I can give you a good price.
In short, as usual the Arab prevailed, and within a few minutes we lost 170 dollars.
Every time we returned from collecting oysters from the sea in front of the Emir beach, Mr. Kutty's face betrayed how much it bothered him to wash and clean all those oysters! An Indian of the Hindu religion, Mr. Kutty told us that he did not drink alcohol – in practice, taking advantage of our absence, he chugged from the bottles of whiskey and cognac that we kept in the living room. He was told several times:
- Mr. Kutty do you drink whiskey?
- No Sir, I don't like alcohol.
- Ok Mr. Kutty, but in case you decide to drink from our bottles, you can do it…. BUT DON'T REFILL THE BOTTLES WITH WATER, UNDERSTAND???? BECAUSE YOU SPOIL THE TASTE!!!
- Yes, Sir, understand Sir….
But Kutty continued as if nothing had happened to put water in the bottles from which he drank, to make it appear that the level had not dropped ….
No longer able to stand my housemates, I asked and obtained from the Chief of Staff to move to live with Mr. Ugo Cipriani - after obviously asking him if he agreed. He was one of the most respected elements of the start up team, to the point that once the plants were put into operation he remained as head of the operation of the methanol plant. Originally from Bolzano, he had built a house on a plot of land right below Montevecchia, my father's village of origin. Intrigued by my surname, Ugo one day asked me if I was originally from Montevecchia, where my surname is very common. Knowing that Montevcchia was my father's hometown, a lasting friendship and mutual respect began.
Being one of the ''Chiefs'', Ugo lived alone in a small house with two bedrooms, so my move to his house was no problem, with the understanding that I would have to move out when his family would arrived.
STAFF
COMERINT had divided the staff and the various nationalities according to the plant they followed: the Italians, with the support of Indians and Bangladeshis, managed Methanol and Utilities - the English with the Pakistanis, were taking care of Ammonia plant.
The participation of Italians in the operation of the plants and their maintenance was therefore widespread. They mainly came from the three chemical centers in crisis in Italy, namely Ravenna, Porto Torres and Gela. I therefore had the opportunity to meet a whole series of more or less valid characters, both from a professional and human point of view. And the latter was a source of more disappointment than satisfaction. For me the four years in Bahrain – side by side with so many different nationalities, represented a great school of life.
Mr. AMADEI ''The African''
Ettore Amadei, a methanol plant operator, was originally from Ravenna. We had made our first trip to Bahrain together – Ettore was coming from a somewhat traumatic experience in Somalia. Craxi's Italy, given the relations he had with the then dictator Mohammed Siad Barre (who had studied in his youth at the Military Academy of Modena) in the framework of cooperation in the former colony, had sent some technicians and a total of 7 .5 billion Italian lire in aid, with the aim of restarting a fertilizer plant in the capital Mogadisho. Ettore was one of those people who was a victim of that particular malaise called ''Africa sickness'' which affects many individuals after a stay in Africa. He had left a piece of his heart there in East Africa, and as soon as he met a black woman in Bahrain (a woman of Cuban origins) he immediately invited her to live with him. Our man had come to Bahrain with his beloved Bianchi racing bike in tow, and all the equipment to use it (boots, super-tight overalls, helmet, etc.).
One day the Ministry of Sports of Bahrain organized a sporting event, one of those bicycle rides open to all cycling amateurs, that are also held in Italy. Ettore immediately signed up for the race. Obviously in his free moments he had trained conscientiously to make a good impression at the event. On the morning of Bahrain National Day everything was ready for the amateur cycle race: 45 km of ups and downs with start and finish line at the National Stadium. The participation of competitors and the public in the event was exceptional and enthusiastic. Ready to go and instead of tackling the first ramps leading towards Awali together, the participants began a dizzying event, at very high speed. Ettore, somewhat surprised, followed. We, his fans, were following in a car observing the unexpected development of the race. The more experienced among us commented that ''in Italy we don't do it like that, at least for the first few kilometers we're all together''. Somewhat worried, we followed the race, while in the meantime it was starting to get hot. After just a few kilometres, when he was facing a small climb towards the village of Riffa, we saw Ettore slow down his action and lose ground towards the group, until he stopped on the side of the road. We stopped the car, and suddenly we saw Ettore collapse on the ground!! We rushed to help him, while someone called the medical service. The ambulance arrived a few minutes later and took Ettore on board, who appeared conscious but extremely tired. He was admitted to the Bahrain General Hospital, where he underwent a series of examinations and tests with negative results, and discharged after two days of hospitalization. The diagnosis: simple illness caused by heat stroke.
We, the colleagues, relieved by the positive conclusion of the affair, prepared a special welcome for Ettore's return to the plant. The entrance to his office in Main Control Room was carefully decorated, and a welcome sign taped to the door read:
- WELCOME BACK ETTORE! FROM NOW ON, IN CONSIDERATION OF YOUR AGE, YOU MUST MAKE A DEFINITIVE DECISION: EITHER THE BIANCHI (''The white bike) OR THE BLACK (The Cuban's woman.)
But Ettore was not only passionate about cycling, he was also an animal lover. At the bird fair in Manama he bought an Indian blackbird. The bird soon learned a few words including the name of its new owner, so when Ettore left the bird in the cage on the terrace of the house - to the happiness of the neighbors - it repeated over and over again:
- ETTOREEE….ETTOREEE…. ETTOREEEE….
A problem arose when Ettore decided to bring the blackbird to Italy, where his family - wife and four daughters - managed the Charly Brown bathing establishment in Marina di Ravenna. How to transport the blackbird? Someone suggested the solution that Ettore made for him: a few hours before leaving for Italy, I gave the blackbird a teaspoon of whiskey!! The blackbird traveled wrapped in a blanket inside Ettore's hand luggage - no one noticed anything (at the time the scanners in airports were not so efficient) and the blackbird woke up after 7 days in its new home in Ravenna.
ENG. CATALANO
Engineer Catalano was our Direct Boss. Born in New York, he was living in Trieste, North/East tip of Italy. He was a man his '70, of encyclopedic culture. He spoke 5 languages fluently in addition to Italian and on the occasion of his final departure - to the amazement of the Arabs present - he gave his farewell speech in Arabic. The Arabs were looked at each other in the face and a question shone through their expressions:
-How come, in all this time did he understood the jokes we were saying behind his back??
A mechanical engineer, he didn't understand anything about mechanics, but managed to get by brilliantly when the discussions became 'too technical'. On one of his first tours of the plant, passing in front of the large MACCHI boilers of the Utilities, he blurted out:
''Of course these methanol furnaces are truly gigantic!''.
Catalano had been married to his Lady for 40+ years and the couple had no children – one day I asked him:
- Mr. Catalano, have you ever thought about adoption?
The Engineer almost spilled the cup of coffee he was drinking….
Are you crazy?? he addressed me! Never, ever have my wife and I thought about adopting a stranger's child!! Who could assure us that we wouldn't bring home a deranged person? Or a serial killer? Or worse yet: A POSSIBLE FUTURE COMMUNIST !??
Mr. Catalano was literally terrified by President Tawfiq, and therefore had asked all of us to follow his moves, warning him in case Tawfiq left the so-called ''White House'' (where the President had his mega office) and approached the Technical Building , where Catalano used to massacred his nails.
Mr. ROSARIO CROCETTA
Among the Italian colleagues worthy of note, there was a future politician of the Demotrtic Party and governor of Sicily. At the time he was head of the plant's data processing department. Extremely feared by his subordinates, he bossed them around and shouted unrepeatable curses and insults at the unfortunates in case of mistakes. When we moved to Manama to a new condominium rented entirely by COMERINT for us employees, Rosario was one of my neighbor on the fourth floor. Strange characters visited his apartment, but he justified himself by saying ''I'm learning ARAB Language.''
On your next holidays are you going to Italy, Rosario?
Well look… I think this time I'll stop in Egipt during the holidays, you know… to continue learning Arabic.
Mr. PALMIZIO GIUSEPPE
Giuseppe was brought in from Italy following Tawfiq's dismissal of the fire chief. Originally from Palermo, he had lived in Gela for years and worked at the ENI refinery. Pleasant and ironic person, full of Sicilian anecdotes, jokes and proverbs - excellent cook, usually upon returning from trips to Italy he would delight us with his ''ziti con le sardines''. He took his wife and daughter to Bahrain, where they stayed for a whole year, and they went on to form that group of Sicilian families who were the protagonists of a not exactly edifying episode. Unfortunately Giuseppe was the victim of a serious accident while carrying out his duties. Among the tasks of the fire brigade team that arrived from Italy was the training of local elements who would one day have to replace the expatriates. To train future firefighters, special containers had been set up, with a sort of zigzag path inside, where bins with diesel had been positioned and set on fire.
. Wearing his firefighting suits, Palmizio accompanied 2 aspiring firefighters at a time through the fire, to ''get them used to'' a possible fire which in plants like the one in Bahrain could occur at any time.
The first two passes inside the containers and through the fire went well. On the third pass, Giuseppe and the two Bahrainis did not exit the final door of the container! The rescue team, positioned outside, immediately intervened with fire extinguishers and oxygen masks. They were carried out in arms, after being found lifeless on the floor. Outside, after having resuscitated them, a serious mistake was made by the rescuers: they forcibly removed the Silvani fire suit from Palmizio, who, being on his third passage through the fire, appeared to be in the worst situation. The skin on his legs and partially on his shoulders and arms remained stuck to the suit, causing serious burns. Giuseppe was transported to the burn center in Manama, where he remained for 30 days in an aseptic room. We visited him regularly, talking to him through a microphone. The worst moments, he told us, were those of the daily bath.
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Evaluation of sensible framework with regard to professional sounds maps: An incident study.
And our studies regarding male-band associations, agonistic connections in between groups in addition to their everyday actions point out the particular plasticity associated with coati interpersonal composition, and its particular possibility of future marketplace analysis scientific studies.Several reductions subtractive hybridization (SSH) cDNA your local library have been built to spot differentially expressed salinity tension reactive body's genes regarding black tiger woods shrimp, Penaeus monodon exposed to minimal (Several ppt) salinity situations. Onward as well as change SSH cDNA collections have been developed in the gill as well as stomach flesh regarding shrimp as well as imitations obtaining card inserts greater than 300 british petroleum ended up unidirectionally sequenced. In line with the series homology lookup, the particular recognized family genes ended up labeled for their putative features linked to a wide range of organic functions, like nucleic acidity legislations and also copying, resistant reply, electricity as well as metabolism, mobile signaling, cellular method, cytoskeleton along with membrane structure, tension along with osmoregulation. Gene term quantities as a result of low salinity circumstances from 2 weeks publish salinity strain involving 12 selected differentially portrayed body's genes determined via SSH cDNA libraries (14-3-3 such as health proteins, crustin, lysozyme, l-arginine learn more kinase, Na+/K+-ATPase alpha-subunit, intra cellular fatty acid presenting health proteins, cathepsin T, anti-lipopolysaccharide factor, ferritin, ubiquitin conjugating compound E2, calreticulin, innexin Two as well as heat jolt necessary protein 21 years old) have been analyzed simply by RT-PCR. The highest gene appearance amounts were witnessed pertaining to Na+/K+-ATPase alpha-subunit (34.28-folds) in gill flesh, intra cellular essential fatty acid joining necessary protein (13.30-folds) within stomach flesh and innexin 2 (Fourteen.43-folds) within muscle tissue respectively. Your differential along with important numbers of gene phrase suggest the important part of these body's genes within shrimp salinity strain adaptable components. (Chemical) The year 2013 Elsevier Limited. Just about all protection under the law set-aside.History Pores and skin impacts sufferers both physically as well as emotionally. Objectives To analyze the consequence regarding comorbidities on health-related standard of living (HRQoL) and also to determine whether infliximab increased HRQoL in the presence of these types of situations. Methods On this multicentre, double-blind review, 835 sufferers along with moderate-to-severe plaque skin psoriasis had been randomized to get infliximab Three or perhaps Five mg kilograms(-1) or even placebo in several weeks 0, Two as well as Six. Infliximab-treated sufferers had been re-randomized from few days 14 to get exactly the same therapy each 2 months or perhaps when needed by means of few days Forty six; placebo patients entered to infliximab Five mg kg(-1) with 7 days 16. Illness severeness (Epidermis Place and Intensity Index, PASI) and also HRQoL (Skin care Life Quality Catalog, DLQI; 36-item Short-Form Wellbeing Study, SF-36) were tested in numerous moment details. The result regarding affected person comorbidities in basic HRQoL was considered making use of a number of regression versions. The outcome of crucial comorbidities on infliximab therapy influence was also considered. Results Condition seriousness (PASI), depression as well as psoriatic osteo-arthritis (PsA) had been predictors of very poor standard HRQoL. At week 12, infliximab Several and also Your five milligrams kilogram(-1) drastically improved mental and physical wellbeing proportions of the SF-36 along with the DLQI (most R < 3.
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Pasi!! First of all congrats on your milestone 💗💗 Your blog is such a safe space for so many people and I am very happy to have you as my friend 💗 You are so sweet!! If you still have open spots, I would love to book a seat for your event. Can I have detention with Sukuna please? Maybe being stuck in an elevator with him! So far I only know him as the playful type but now he sees me scared for the first time because of that elevator and he comforts me? THANK YOU SO MUCH BABE 💗 I love youuu
°🖇᭡ 𝑳𝑶𝑽𝑬 𝑺𝑪𝑯𝑶𝑶𝑳 🐇𓍢ִ໋
꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ 𝑫𝑬𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑰𝑶𝑵
elevators can be scary. and today was ckeadky not a good day when you got stuck in one during a storm while on your way to home. and you know the worst part?? the infamous sarcastic team leader sukuna from the marketing department was in there with you. you remember him flirting with you a few times and he came off as goofy but you were sure he is just does that to sleep with everyone.
what sin did you commit for things to take such a bad?
the elevator stopped at the 12th floor and you were continuously eyeing the 12 button blinking red. when you heard the thunder, your fingers panickingly started pressing the open door button, making clicking noises repeatedly but nothing worked.
"not gonna work even if you do it a hundred times."
great. negativity is what i needed right now.
you whipped out your phone to hopefully call maintenance but the signal bar was empty and all that was visible was emergency call.
you heard another thunder and panicked. shit shit shit. you wished you left earlier so you would be in your bed with headphones in. storm triggered the worst memories and you hated it. you felt your breath choking up at your neck, heart pumping fast. you fell to your knees and tried your best to calm down. sukuna took his eyes off the phone and immediately held your arms with his strong hands.
"hey you alright? what's wrong?" you couldn't form words, only tear up and your horrified expression made him worry.
"are you claustrophobic or something?" you didn't reply but cry more. sukuna removed his jacked and wrapped it around you, holding you in his embrace. you looked at him with knitted brows and blurry eyes. "shhh. close your eyes. we're fine." he ran his hand against your forehead. "m not very good at singing but i will hum for you, mkay?"
you found it so comforting even though his voice was raspy that your heart beat went back to normal and your sobbing bad stopped.
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