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aesthetic-bbyg · 1 year ago

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BEACON OF HOPE ~ Sanji

LA!sanji x fem!reader

Warnings ! : being yelled at, daddy issues bc it’s the best fanfic seasoning, angst, fluff, abuse from parental figure, double standards, misogyny (or sexism?)

Nattie speaks: a lil something to y’all fed + I need a man like Sanji to comfort me and my daddy issues🙏

ZEFF WAS IN SOME SORT OF MOOD that day. The harsh trudging of his footsteps as he exited and entered the kitchen while bellowing orders was more then enough evidence to prove your point. Nobody in the kitchen even dared to breath the wrong way, afraid of the ex-pirates response. Even Sanji had managed to bite his tongue and hold back any snide remarks to keep the Zeff’s anger at bay.

You avoided any trouble all day, not causing a disturbance when a costumer was being particularly rude. You simply did you’re job was a waitress, took down orders and dropped them off at the kitchen, later coming back to collect the food and give them to the diners. You’d refused to even think about slacking off just a bit, not going over to Sanji for a couple flirtatious exchanges like usual. The Baratie was flooded in a thick tension but all was well, for the most part.

The business was booming with people, that certain point of the day where all the seats were filled with snobby, rich people. You’d been rushing between tables, taking down orders as quick as possible since these people didn’t recognize patience. It was overwhelming and overstimulating, making your temple throb in pain as you dragged you feet into the kitchen. You called out the order in a loud voice, sticking the scribbled notes onto the overhead where Carne cooked up a steak.

“Table 8 says they’ve been waiting for their drink for twenty minutes, y/n, hurry it up!” Zeff’s voice sudden boomed as he marched into the kitchen, you nearly flinched at the sound of his voice, swallowing down a remark about how those twenty minutes was actually a dramatized two minutes. Nonetheless you collected a few cups and took them straight out to table 8, some rich couple and their equally rich kids.

You gave them a kind smile, despite wanting to desperately slap their cocky smirks off their faces. “And are you ready to order?” You questioned in a chirpy tone, reaching for the notepad in your pocket and the pen tucked behind your ear.

“My, we just got our drinks, give us a minute to look over the menu.” The woman scoffed, you sucked you teeth in, blinking slowly and offering another wide grin.

“My apologies, I’ll be back in a bit.” You shoved the notepad back in its place, walking to a booth that was empty, though the table crowded in a mess of dishes. You reached for the sliver platter that held the receipt and a pitiful amount of berry left as a tip. “Assholes.” You mumbled, taking the money and collecting a few plates and cups.

The brewing storm in your head had begun to cloud your vision, sometimes you just wanted to quit and make a dramatic exit out of the shitty restaurant but you never had the balls to. The whole service you’d been good, held your shit together despite wanting to break down on the inside, bit your tongue, but the one moment you got vulnerable ended in tragedy.

In a fit of cursing out some of the customers out in your head, you didn’t take notice of the waiter coming out the kitchen at the exact same time you were entering. The collision led to the shatter of two plates, one cup and a mess of silverware clanking on the floor.

“Fuck.” You mumbled, watching as the waiter scurried away nervously, leaving you at the scene to deal with the approaching man.

“What the hell are you doing!” Zeff shouted, tone practically rumbling the whole restaurant as you stared up at him in utter shock. You felt like a kid again, having to guiltily stand there while an adult went on off on you. The man threw insults that he’d probably regret the next day, humiliating you over a few broken plates. You just stared down at the dirty floor, feeling tiny compared to him. “Clean this up and get out of sight!”

He walked past you, leaving the judging eyes of the kitchen crew to watch as you bent down, slowly picking up the larger chunks. You didn’t even realize that Sanji was approaching till the shadow of his figure loomed over you. You jumped, backing away in fear as you wide eyes met his. The boy frowned, taking notice at the tears pooling in your eyes and you’re quivering lip. You looked like a kicked puppy, that was enough for him to toss the shards of porcelain and help you up.

He took you out the back door, away from the staring eyes as he heard small whimpers escape your mouth. “It’s okay, darling, it’s okay.” He whispered, arms wrapped around your figure, his hand coming up to brush your hair. “The old man is just giving a hard time because he has a stick up his arse.”

You let out silent cries, tears dripping down your face and onto Sanji’s apron, his soothing tone helping ease the tightness in your chest. You felt stupid, and weak, crying over getting reprimanded for something that was your fault. Now your were taking valuable time away from both you and Sanji’s jobs, that’s all you thought about and it made you cry harder.

Funny enough, Sanji was thinking the opposite. He didn’t care about his job, or the broken pieces still laying on the kitchen floor, or even the fact that Zeff could come out any minute and yell at the two for slacking. All he cared about in that moment was you, making sure you cried all the tears you had, making sure that your trembling hands stilled. He placed chaste kisses on your head, standing there until your sobbing quieted down.

He slowly pulled away, hands still placed on your shoulder with a cautious look. “You look lovely, darling.” He chuckled at the sight of the black mascara that began to run down your cheek.

“Piss off.” You muttered humorously, taking the clean rag he offered and wiping away any evidence of your breakdown. “I hate today.”

“I know you do.” He whispered back, taking the cloth and gently swiping away the parts that you missed. “Beautiful as always.”

“Why are old people such assholes.” You shoved your head into his chest, words muffling as you did.

“Because they can’t get it up anymore without breaking a hip.”

You let out a chuckle, smiling against the material of his shirt, his chest vibrating with his own laugh and it calmed you down even more. You took in a deep breath, hands reaching down low, making the cook tense. You grabbed the pack of cigarettes he always had in his pockets, lifting the box with a sly smile.

“Get your head out the gutter.” He laughed quietly, reaching for the lighter in his other pocket as you shoved a cigarette into your mouth.

“Ready to go back in?” He questioned, watching as you puffed out a cloud of smoke.

“Yeah.” You replied quietly, taking a long drag while Sanji opened the door, allowing you to step in first. Gentleman, as always. “If Zeff smells this thing, I’m blaming you.”

The older man hated the stench of burnt out cigarettes that lingered in the air because Sanji had bad habit of lightening one every few hours. The ash tray on the extra table shoved in the corner of the kitchen was full, and Zeff always lectured the blonde on it, Sanji typically never cared enough to stop.

“Blame me all you want, darling, I’ll take the fall each time.” He winked at you, grabbing a dust pan and broom. He lazily swept up the mess, dumping it into the nearby garbage bin, something he knew Zeff would also yell at him about.

“He’s gonna kill you.”

“I’d like to that old man try.” Sanji smirked, giving you that classic flirty look that made the butteries flutter in your stomach. “Now, get back to work.”

You mocked a salut, rolling you’re eyes as you made your way to the kitchen doors, “Yes, chef.”

THE REST OF THE DAY HAD GONE smoothly, the sun hid itself behind the horizon as the dinning area emptied. Most of the guest had migrated to the bar, the party boomed at the other end of the restaurant.

You and Sanji were the only two in the kitchen, he was showing off some new dish he came up with, claiming it was the best thing on the VIP menu.

“We have a VIP menu?”

“Yeah, but it’s so secret that none of the guest know about it, not even the old man.” Sanji grinned, hand off the plate to you. “Now, the food critic decides.”

You rolled your eyes with a playful smile, picking up the fork and scooping up a bite into your mouth. The mixtures of taste were perfectly balance, unique flavors creating a wonderful sensation. There something about Sanji’s cooking that made you feel so safe and warm, you always teased that he was like a granny. He was able to create that familiarity in his food, something you eat every once in a while that reminds you of home.

You placed the fork down, dramatically folding your hands on your lap as you chewed down the food, “This dish, its…absolute shit.” You held back a smile, looking up at the cook.

Sanji glared at you, hands placed firmly on his hips. “You’re starting to sound like Zeff.”

“Ugh,” You groaned, “Don’t remind me.”

“I can’t believe he made you cry.” Sanji slid off into the seat right next to you, watching as the memory of his yelling flickered in your head, lips dipping into a soft frown. “Fuckin’ arse.”

“It really was my fault.” You mumbled back quietly, “But it was the fact that he yelled at me, you shoulda’ seen that look in his eyes.”

“I see it every day, darling.”

You didn’t like to reminisce on the past, especially since it was such a pain to even think about, both physically and emotionally. You didn’t open up about your family, or the crew you use to be a part of before running into the open arms of the Baratie. You were truly a mystery, you’re past locked up in a box and buried deep in the sand. Though sometimes, it escapes, poisoning you’re mind and breaking you down.

Zeff’s blow up triggered that poison, it spread like a virus, clouding you’re head for the rest of the day. Even now, you’d begun to dig up memories you didn’t want to remember. It was enough to make a fresh wave of tears build up, but you refused to cry this time, not allowing a single droplet to escape as you blinked them away. Though the quiet sniffle gave you away as Sanji glanced over at you, taking notice of the redness under your eyes, a silent confession that told him you were upset.

“You all right, darling?” He asked quietly, brows creased with worry, “Zeff isn’t here, he can’t make you feel like shit anymore.”

“It’s not that.” You whispered back, inhaling a shaky deep breath, “I’m just..thinking.”

“Thinking about what?” He asked, a comforting hand coming to hold yours. “If you need to talk about something you can talk to me.”

Silence filled the room as you struggled with making a decision, the truth was you’d probably start crying your eyes out if you opened your mouth. But the longer you held in these memories, the more toxic the venom became, it was tug-of-war between yourself and your conscious. Then again, the same trauma of the memories is what makes it such a hard task to open up.

You licked your lips, squeezing his hand gently and looking down. “I came from a pirate crew, but this pirate crew in specific was my family. Everyone on the ship was made up of all my relatives, mom, dad, siblings, cousins.” You saw the man nod from the corner of your eye, silently confirming his attendance. “My dad was the captain of the crew, and god he was a fuckin’ pain in the ass.” You voice cracked, words beginning to distort as you sucked in a deep breath. “My job on the crew was to basically be a maid, to pick up after the messes he made. Scrub the bird shit off the ledge, mop the deck, shine his shoes, serve him food, serve him drinks, anything a basic human can do I had to do for him.” You’re sadness had slowly began to turn to anger, your eyes lifting to finally meet his. “I got nothing in return, not even a few berry for the trouble.”

Sanji frowned deeply, rubbing the back of your hand with his thumb. “Why would your father do this to you?”

His questioned made you scoff, because it was the same thing you asked the eighteen years your spent on the torturous ship. It wasn’t until you grew out of the naivety that you realized the answer. “Because I was a woman, and as a woman it was my job, my place, to provide service for the men. I was treated like shit all my life, and no one dared to say a thing.” You stood up, hand pulling away from his as you ran it through your hair frustratedly, moving to pace the kitchen. “The men believed that it was the job of a good wife to give and give, while they just take. I seemed to be the only one who didn’t believe this. But no one could ever speak up to the man, the captain himself, god forbid you disobeyed that asshole because he was never wrong, no matter the situation.” You finally sat back down, picking at your nails. “For years I was treated like nothing more then a slave, yelled at for being to slow, never praised for my work, only picked on what was wrong. It changed my way in seeing people, and it permanently left a scar on my everyday life. Hearing Zeff yell at me that way, it’s just..”

“I know, darling, I know.” Sanji cooed, for soft and tender, “That day, when you first arrived at The Baratie, you had a mark on your left cheek.” The cook swallowed thickly, recalling the day you’re feeble body came to the doors of the restaurant and begged for help. “Was that from him?”

The day before you escaped the ship you’d been refused food, as a punishment for not finishing your chores in time. When you spoke up about being hungry and the unfairness of it all, you received a harsh slap across the face. That was it, that was the last bit of disrespect you’d take. So you set off to steal a life boat and run away from the horrible treatment. “Yes, it was.”

“Bloody hell.” Sanji muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What was the name of your families crew?”

“The Calavera pirates.” You replied, Sanji leaned in closed, placing a finger on your chin to lift your gaze towards him.

“I’ll remember that name until the end of my life, and the day I find them, know that your same pain will be brought upon them.” His tone was so serious and low. His threat sent a chill down your spine, and not because you were scared of it, but because you knew he meant it. “You deserved so much better, darling.” He whispered, bringing you into his arms and planting a kiss on your hairline.

Sanji so desperately wanted to open his mouth and say that he’d treat you like a queen if you’d just give him a chance. But the man’s feelings were shoved down before they could tumble out his mouth. He chose to remain silent, allowing his actions to speak for him. With this new confession he made it his mission to take the extra step in making sure you were treated right. He would be your shoulder to cry on or someone to love, whatever you wanted. It was painful, the amount of love he held in his heart and he was unable to fully show you it.

But if he must wait all his life, he will.

sobbing but wanting to smash at the same time

lord pls send help.

#vinsmoke sanji #Sanji #blackleg sanji #Sanji opla #Sanji one piece #Sanji x reader #vinsmoke Sanji x reader #Sanji x you #sanji imagine #sanji live action #opla #one piece #one piece live action #one piece show #one piece fics #one piece imagine

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sashaisready · 11 months ago

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Chapter Fourteen - A new development

Bucky Barnes Mob AU x Femme Reader

You're hard at work in Pepper's Bakery when notorious mob boss James 'Bucky' Barnes darkens your doorway one typical afternoon, and life is never the same again

Warning: Near car/pedestrian collision, angst! Bucky still being terrible, but don't worry - a taste of his own medicine is teased in this chapter..

18+ - see Masterlist for full list of warnings

Chapter 15

Series Masterlist

It had been nearly a week and you hadn't heard anything from Bucky since That Morning. You had replayed the events over and over in your head but you still didn't know what you'd done wrong, how you'd gone from falling asleep in Bucky's arms with his tender whispers in your ear...to being unceremoniously barged out of his house with the offer of fifty dollars for your trouble. Your best bet was that he wanted to sleep with you after all your back and forth over the last few months, and now he'd achieved that, the mask had slipped and he had no reason to play nice. Another notch in his bedpost. Another item off his to do list.

You knew at the time you should've asked him outright what exactly had changed, but you were hurt and embarrassed, and you lashed out in anger like you always did. And you didn't want him to think you were weak and pining over him.

Wanda had been shocked by the evening's sharp left turn after she'd gone home. You had caught her up in the bakery and she was disgusted by Bucky's actions. She had stood there angrily frosting a birthday cake while you recounted what happened, uttering a series of curses under her breath in response. Some were in Sokovian – you didn't know what she said but could tell they were bad.

You were hurt. You knew sleeping with someone didn't mean you were exclusive or they owed you anything, but you expected a bit more kindness and respect – especially from someone you had got to know quite well over the last few months.

But maybe that was your own naivete, you knew what Bucky did for a living – it wasn't a stretch to imagine that he would be just as cold in his personal life too.

It was a relatively quiet morning in the bakery when the bell went. You looked up smiling ready to greet the customer when you felt a wave of nausea hit you as you saw who it was.

Bucky walked in...with a beautiful blonde woman on his arm. She was stunning. Of course she was. She smiled at you sweetly and you managed a small one back at her before your eyes flicked over to Bucky.

He was stoic, unreadable. You glared at him, doing your best to convey your anger to him without completely losing it. He gave you a smirk in return.

Asshole.

Bucky knew this was a risky game. He hadn't spoken to you since you stormed out of his home and he missed you. He didn't know what to say, how to make it right. He knew he should stay away, he'd tried, he knew that you were too good for him – but he couldn't resist. You were like a magnet he couldn't avoid. He knew you were angry and he wanted to apologise but his pride was getting in the way.

He had drafted countless texts but sent none of them, he frequently brought your name up in his contacts and tried to summon the courage to press the call button. He wanted to go back to how it was before, teasing each other, bantering and besting one another. He thought if he could bait you into an argument then he could draw you out again, rile you up and see that electricity in your eyes he loved so much.

And what better bait was there than another woman?

You cleared your throat and greeted them sweetly. "Hi, welcome to Pepper's Bakery. How can I help you today?"

Thankfully your voice betrayed none of your true feelings. That was years of customer service experience paying off.

"Oohh..." said the blonde. "I mean it all looks so good but I'm on a diet right now and shouldn't be eating sweets...I'm sorry, I'm probably the last person you want in your store!" she giggled.

You had no interest in being cold to the woman, no interest in punishing her because of Bucky's childish little games. She hadn't done anything wrong, and she seemed nice enough. No, there was only one person to be angry at here.

"Well if you're ever in the neighbourhood and having a cheat day you're always welcome here" you told her warmly.

She smiled back at you and nodded encouragingly as she looked over at the display cases. Over her shoulder you looked at Bucky. You kept your face frozen, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of getting worked up, but your eyes made it clear you were unimpressed.

"I'll take a couple of danishes, and a cannoli" he told you gruffly.

Prick. And what ever happened to 'please'?

Your hands began to build the pink box on autopilot and you wordlessly packed his order.

Bucky frowned. He was hoping for fireworks, to push you that little bit further and ignite that anger within you, resulting in his favourite back and forth. He wanted to see the fire from you which always sent a quiet thrill through his belly.

But no. Nothing.

Your face was neutral, there was no fight in you. No appetite to go toe to toe with him.

He realised suddenly that he had gone too far. You weren't angry. You were hurt.

His eyes searched yours as you pushed the box over the counter at him and he pulled out his wallet. He was almost trying to communicate with you telepathically, telling you his true feelings and that you were all he thought about. You only stared back at him defiantly, eyes narrowing as you handed him the card reader. Your mouth was a thin line of disappointment.

He tried to smirk to see if that would light the fuse for the reaction he so desperately sought but you merely dropped his gaze.

He pulled a hundred dollar bill out and slid it across to you but you grabbed it from him, crumpled it into a ball with your fist and flung it back at him. He flinched as it struck his chest, then swept it back into his wallet.

"That won't be necessary" you said coldly, eyes burning into him again.

He tried to say something but you cut him off.

"Thanks for your custom Mr Barnes" you deadpanned, making it clear that this interaction was over.

"And lovely to meet you" you said to his companion in a kinder tone.

She earnestly grinned back at you. "I'm Allegra by the way".

Allegra then gushed about how lovely the shop was, peacefully oblivious to the tension in the room.

Wanda watched nervously from her side of the store as the scene unfolded, examining your face. She knew you were hanging on by a thread.

Bucky opened his mouth to speak but closed it again quickly. He wanted to apologise, to take it all back. He thought about how you felt in his arms. How your moans had sounded in his ear. How thrilled he'd been to finally get to that point with you...and now he'd ruined it. Ruined everything. Destroyed the foundations of everything he'd built with you. Guilt and shame overwhelmed him but he still wore his stoic mask.

You just continued to glare at him as Allegra spoke, your brow furrowed. You felt nausea rising up inside you once more. His eyes looked different now to the smugness they'd reflected when he walked in. Was there...regret in there? Surely not. He was probably relishing your humiliation.

Allegra hooked her arm with Bucky's and guided him to the exit as she shot you a cheerful goodbye. Bucky followed meekly, watching you intently over his shoulder as he left the store. His eyes were on you for as long as possible until he disappeared out of view.

You waited a moment before your knees finally buckled and you crashed onto the counter as the tears finally broke the dam and began to fall. Wanda was on you in an instant, her arms wrapped around your torso as she nuzzled her head into your back, quietly soothing you.

You were feeling a little more together when you closed up, locking the doors and stepping out onto the street. You had cried a bit in front of Wanda, embarrassed for her to witness your vulnerability but grateful for her comfort. She had asked if she could do a spell to punish Bucky which cheered you up, but you declined, insisting she shouldn't waste her precious energy on such unimportant subjects. You had managed to power through the rest of the day, throwing yourself into work and distracting yourself with customers as the clock finally rolled around to closing time.

Your tears had dried but you still felt awful. Embarrassed. Hurt. You didn't expect to marry Bucky after your night together and you knew that neither of you had made any commitments to one another. Still, cancelling your date and rubbing another woman in your face at your workplace was uniquely cruel. You felt stupid for allowing yourself to get caught up, to have feelings for him, for entertaining the idea that he might like you too. It was clear now that you were nothing but a plaything to him. A toy to wind up and watch it go. Something to amuse him, a way to blow off steam between whatever hideous mob business he was getting up to in his 9-5.

You understood now.

And that Allegra woman he was with - she was the type of girl he wanted on his arm. Tall, willowy, beautiful. The type of woman who looked like she'd stepped off a fashion magazine. A walking Instagram filter. Not you, who was pleasant enough to look at and fun for a quick fuck, but not someone you want to show off - not beautiful. How stupid you were.

You were lost in your thoughts as you wandered towards home. But not so oblivious as to miss the black SUV parked across the street, as subtle as a pink sock in a drawer of white ones. You waved mockingly at it and it slowly rolled around the corner out of view, but you could still glimpse the back of it if you squinted. You knew he wasn't in it as he would've made an appearance by now. Just his goons inside, most likely. Was it not enough that he'd humiliated you, he had his little lemmings following you again??

Your hurt began to mutate into anger as all of your emotions twisted and fizzed within you. All of the fury and outrage you felt towards Bucky was now channelled like a laser beam onto this stupid car. You let your rage lead the way as you stormed towards it, determined to give the occupants a piece of your mind regardless of how big or terrifying they might be.

Any common sense evaporated as you marched into the street in pursuit of the SUV. In fact, you were so single minded that you didn't even notice the yellow taxi speeding towards you until you heard the screech of brakes and tyres squealing on asphalt. You turned at the last second and caught a glimpse of the driver's panicked eyes before you realised it was about to hit you, and it was too late for you to move...

You squeezed your eyes shut and braced for impact as a forceful pressure wrapped itself around your torso and yanked you onto the sidewalk. Suddenly you were on the ground, trembling as you realised you were looking at the sky - wondering where the car had hit you. You thought it would hurt more than this, was it a bad sign that it didn't hurt? Oh god, were you paralysed and that's why it didn't hurt?! Wait...something else had hit you...

A handsome man with sandy brown hair popped into your view, his forest green eyes filled with concern as he watched you carefully. You glanced at him, realising you were laying on your back in the street.

"You all good? That was a close one huh??" he said. His voice was friendly, warm.

He turned to the cab driver who had parked up and was watching you just as nervously.

"She just came outta nowhere...I tried to stop but...I mean if you hadn't been there..."

"It's alright" said the green eyed man calmly, cutting him off. "She's fine, she just had a shock. Don't worry, I'll make sure she's okay".

The cab driver muttered angrily as he stepped back into his car and pulled away.

"Do you think you can sit up?" asked the green eyed man.

A few passers-by were watching with morbid curiosity. The man extended his hand to you and you took it gingerly, pushing yourself up as he pulled you upright so you were sitting up on your knees. You blinked, looking down at yourself to check you were still in one piece. You certainly seemed to be. Just slightly winded by how you hit the sidewalk.

"I'm okay" you said nervously as you wiggled your fingers and toes to check for any pain.

"Oh good, phew".

He sounded genuinely relieved. And kind.

"Did you...save me?" you asked with trepidation.

He smiled. "Saving is a bit of a strong word but right place right time I guess" he grinned. "I'm just sorry you had to eat sidewalk in the process".

You felt yourself soften at his caring smile, all of your anger and upset about Bucky suddenly gone. He seemed...nice. Really nice.

"Thank you. Really, thank you" you smiled bashfully as you stood up, brushing yourself down. "If you hadn't been there..."

You trailed off as you looked him up and down. He was dressed casually in a red leather jacket and dark jeans. A far cry from Bucky's expensive tailored suits. You could tell he was in good shape though, sturdy and strong. Handsome...

"I'm Peter" he said happily as he extended a hand to shake. "Peter Quill".

You took his hand and shook it shyly, giving him your own name in return.

"Of course you have a beautiful name too, why I am not surprised?" he said.

You blushed at the compliment, visibly taken aback by his forwardness. You weren't used to men picking you up so openly. It was a refreshing contrast to Bucky's little games – not having to wade through words and implications and figure out what exactly was meant.

He screwed his face up in embarrassment. "Oh God. I'm sorry. That was cheesy..." he said, his voice pained.

You chuckled, feeling yourself smile widely for the first time all day. "Actually it was very sweet" you countered.

He grinned at you, his eyes drifting over your dungarees. You felt a bit underdressed in your work attire, covered in flour and icing stains, suddenly wishing you were a bit more presentable.

"I like your overalls" he said.

"Thanks" you replied, fingers pawing nervously at the buckles.

"I work at Pepper's Bakery down the street. Although I did realise earlier I'm wearing a yellow t-shirt with them today so I look a bit like a Minion..." you joked.

Peter's eyes widened with amusement. "Oh my god...you kinda do..." he spluttered.

You laugh uproariously. "You're not supposed to agree??" you snap incredulously.

"I'm sorry but it's true. But the minions are super cute right? So you fit right in..."

He shot you a wink and you felt a surge of warmth in your stomach. This was exactly the balm you needed after a horrible day.

"Pepper's huh? Love that place" he grinned.

You light up at that. "You do?? Oh that's great to hear. Yeah it's a nice place to work".

He nodded earnestly. "Best danishes in the city, in my humble view".

"I'll have to save you a few when you next come by. Y'know, least I can do for saving my life and all". The words seductively roll off your tongue before you even realise it.

You stop dead, wondering if you've been too forward with him. Bucky had really thrown you for a loop when it came to interacting with men. But Peter's grin just grew wider and he leaned in closer, his face near yours.

"And tell me...do you get much downtime? Time away from the bakery? Or is it all work and no play?"

His voice had dropped an octave as he moved in and his eyes locked onto yours. You find yourself instinctively leaning towards him too as your heart beats heavily in your chest. You're so close you could almost...kiss him.

"I do work shifts so my days off can be different. But I always have at least two off a week" you smile.

"Oh that's good, so a lotta free time to spend with your boyfriend then?" he asks coyly.

You giggle and your face flushes at yet another direct question. "No boyfriend, currently..."

Absolutely no-one, actually.

He nods again. "So, hypothetically...if I were to ask you out...you'd be able to meet me for dinner one evening?"

"Absolutely, hypothetically. But maybe we should stay away from cabs" you quip.

He laughed. "Sure. But I may need some pointers on where to go as I have no idea what minions eat..."

You exchange smiles as he passes his phone to you to add your number, which you give him gladly. You chat for a bit longer and suddenly Bucky feels like a distant memory. You've even completely forgotten the reason for your impulsive stroll into traffic.

As you say goodbye to Peter and practically skip home with glee, the SUV emerges from its poor hiding spot and follows you from a safe distance. In the passenger seat Clint pulls out his cell, hitting the first number on his speed dial.

"Boss...uh, a new development for you..."

#mob bucky barnes #mob bucky x reader #bucky barnes #mob bucky au #mob bucky x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #james bucky barnes #sweet and sour fic

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noxturnalnymph · 11 days ago

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Believer

Dave York x F!Partner(FBI), Chubby Dave York vs Tractor Beam (2.3k)

Summary: Submission for Beef’s October Fic Prompt Challenge - Dave York Made Me Believe:

Someone must be a non-believer (reader or Dave)

The following wording: Dave was not one who liked to be influenced to do anything, let alone that.

The X-files must be mentioned or referenced at least once.

Warnings: spooky pacific northwest vibes, all-around silliness, no sex, references to tall blue vibrating aliens (iykyk) A/N: Thank you to @strang3lov3 for green-lighting this premise and for editing away all my many mistakes. I love you @beefrobeefcal. I told you I would only write about aliens of the Ice-Planet-variety and I think this fits the bill. Happy Halloween!

Dave’s partner simultaneously snaps shut her flip phone and guns the engine, causing the car to lurch forward and the Big Mac he’s holding to slam against his chest. Special sauce dribbles down his tie as Dave shoots her a deadly side-eye.

“That was the division director we met on Tuesday,” she offers by way of explanation, typing in an address in the GPS as she drives, oblivious to the burger collision she’s just caused. “He gave us this location he wants us to check out,”

“Is there a lead on the shipping container theft?” Dave mumbles with his mouth full, as he smushes a napkin to his tie, smearing the greasy sauce further into the fabric.

“No, it has nothing to do with that, but we’re the only critical incident response unit in the area so he wants us to make contact right away.”

She finishes speaking and then immediately turns her music - an Alanis Morissette CD she’d shoved into the deck - up as loud as she can. Dave has only been working with this agent for a week and even though she came highly recommended, he finds her to be quite irritating. He tries to dab more sauce away from his tie as he finishes his fast food dinner, opting instead to remove the tie completely by the time the car comes to a halt behind a sole forest service cruiser on a long, foggy stretch of road.

“We’re here,” his partner says, grabbing his milkshake and taking it with her out of the vehicle.

“We’re-, where the fuck are we?” Dave says to an empty car as she closes the door and starts walking towards the woods.

Dave exits the vehicle and trudges into the tree-line where he saw his partner disappear, his footsteps crunching on dried pine needles and the crisp air of the approaching evening creeping down his open collar. He wishes he had worn his suit jacket today but since he’s put on a few pounds it doesn't fit him very well anymore, so he left it at the hotel.

He emerges in an eerily still clearing to find his partner standing alongside a forest ranger who appears to be speaking with two hunched figures, huddled under thick blankets. She swivels her head, eyebrows climbing up her forehead as she spots him, and heads towards him with bounding steps. As she approaches Dave grabs the milkshake container out of her hands only to find it empty.

“That was mine,” he grumbles.

“You can afford to share,” she snarks, motioning towards his distended belly. “This is really interesting; see those two girls over there?” she points to the only two people besides government employees in the small field.

“Yeah, I think so,” Dave mutters sarcastically.

“They’re claiming they were abducted by aliens,” she exclaims.

“Aliens?” Dave repeats.

“Isn’t that awesome?”

“What the-, like little green men, aliens?” Dave huffs, incredulous that they’d be pulled away from a major port theft investigation to be sent to the middle-of-nowhere north of Seattle for this insanity; a couple of local kooks claiming they were probed by space men.

“Hopefully big blue aliens,” she replies excitedly.

Before he can ask what she means she is practically skipping back towards the small group, and Dave doesn’t have it in him to join. He knows she’s experienced enough to handle this kind of call - a complete waste of his time - and so instead he shuffles around the clearing. He takes a small flashlight out of his pocket to fight against the encroaching darkness settling as the sun dips behind the evergreen treeline.

Flashing his light on the ground he notices the tall grass is still wet from the morning dew, as if the sun didn’t get a chance to touch this little clearing in the woods today. He walks around the edges of it, noting how odd it is that there seems to be a perfectly oval patch of trees missing among these thick woods. As he rounds the circle he approaches the group and can see now that the huddled figures are two women, both pale and shaking.

He makes eye-contact with the forest ranger - an older gentleman with a graying mustache - each of them giving the other a subtle nod as he passes by. He watches as his partner writes on the small spiral-bound bound notebook she keeps in her blazer pocket. He can’t say she’s not a good agent, she’s been very knowledgeable and thorough so far, but she’s just so-. Dave loses his train of thought as he tunes into the conversation.

“I’m not sure,” the young woman with glasses whispers. Dave spots floral tattoos cascading across her chest before she draws the blanket closer together. “Colette would have had a better view of them since I was face down on the table the whole time.”

His partner - eyes down and still writing notes - turns to the other woman, whose long, dark hair is unbound by the blanket she is bundled in and is gently blowing in the breeze.

“So, how would you describe them? Were they tall, maybe over seven feet? Would you describe their coloring as a shade of blue or steely gray? Did you notice any horns on their heads? Or fangs?”

“Well- Ummm,” the woman stammers.

Dave puts his hands on his hips and gives his partner a look that he hopes communicates the ‘what the fuck are you doing?’ thoughts screaming inside his head.

Before he can give voice to any of his thoughts he notices the long-haired woman has stopped speaking and is staring at him, slack-jawed. His partner looks back over her shoulder and sees his pissed-off look, mouthing ‘what?’ and then beckoning him forward. He shook his head. Dave was not one who liked to be influenced to do anything, let alone that. He would absolutely not be participating in this charade. His partner turns back to the conversation and since she got no response from the second woman - Colette, apparently - she turns back to the tattooed woman.

“Did you hear them speaking any kind of words you could understand?” his partner questions.

“Actually, yes, but I don’t think you’re gonna believe me,” she answers.

“What did they say? Maybe you heard a kind of humming or a vibrating resonance too?”

Dave rolls his eyes and sees the second woman still staring at him, her eyes glazed over. He feels like he’s being punk’d, that this trip out to the damp, darkening woods is someone’s idea of a poorly-executed practical joke. Annoyed that his time is being wasted when he could be back at the hotel with his feet up and his pants unbuttoned, he turns away from the group and continues inspecting the area. He shines his flashlight back and forth as he walks, seeing nothing but his shoes getting more muddy with each step.

Suddenly, his light catches on a small, shining piece of silver. Bending over with a huff, he picks it up, turning it over in his hands. It’s a cylindrical shape the size of two of his fingers with a rounded end, like an oversized rivet. He doesn’t think aliens would use such primitive technology and tosses it into the air, chuckling to himself as he catches it and tucks it into his pocket.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees a small light flashing inside the forest that continues beyond the small clearing. He turns to say something to his partner but she’s busy talking and he’s a bit creeped out by the fact that the long-haired woman is still staring at him with heavily lidded eyes, mouth still slightly ajar. He ducks into the dark provided by the heavy tree cover and heads towards the strange blinking.

He continues walking, the light farther away than he initially thought. He has to heft himself over a large fallen tree trunk that spans left and right as far as his eyes can see and then hop a small creek that runs through the low point he’s come across. On the other side of the running water he sees the blinking light, larger now that he’s up close. The only problem is that it’s about 10 feet up in a tree, making it almost impossible for him to see exactly what it is.

He can’t hear his partner talking this deep in the woods and any leftover sunlight from the opening in the forest behind no longer reaches him. He’s thinking how glad he is to have his flashlight with him as he draws the beam of it up the trunk of the tree to the flashing device. He halts any movement, sucking in a breath when the trembling light reaches it and his eyes grow wide at what he sees.

The device is being held in tiny hands between two small, yellow, cylindrical-shaped beings wearing what look to be denim overalls, who stare at him with large eyes blinking behind silver-rimmed goggles. One is about two feet tall with one eye and the other is over a foot taller with two eyes and a stalk of hair that sticks straight up.

They are all frozen in place, staring at each other until he hears a sound behind him, like tiny feet shuffling on dried pine needles. He slowly turns to look back and sees an even smaller two-eyed being holding something out in his hands towards Dave.

“Bah-nah-na?” it asks, in a high-pitched nasally voice.

Dave doesn’t have time to think about how much whoever put him up to this must be laughing, he only thinks about getting the fuck out of there, and he immediately turns and starts running away. He doesn’t scream when both legs go ankle-deep in the cold creek or when he catches a foot under a root, twisting his leg at an unnatural angle. He does, however, let out a loud grunt when he slams his overweight body into the forgotten fallen tree trunk, prostrating himself against the ground, knocking all the wind out of his lungs.

He begins to mutter curses but freezes again when a bright light beams down on him from above, illuminating a blinding circle around him. No fucking way, he thinks. Then he feels it, a force drawing him upwards towards the light. It lifts his arms first, then his legs, his head leaves the ground and he begins to reach out, belly still touching the forest floor, clawing at the ground in a desperate attempt to find something to grab onto.

Twigs and leaves crunch beneath his hands, his futile attempt to clutch onto something failing as his heavy middle is lifted several inches off the ground. He puts his arms and legs beneath him and then - on all fours - scrambles out of the beam of light. It seems to take a moment for the light to find him again, he watches as it zig-zags around the ground, before finally locking onto him several feet away.

He hasn’t been able to get very far and he’s panting, winded at the physical effort, when the force begins to draw him up again. This time he does cry out, he screams for his partner only for the sound of his voice to be sucked above him, like screaming into the raging wind. He is lifted fully off the ground now, several feet up, and he’s still shouting and pawing wildly at the air.

He hears a metalling ‘clunk’ sound and hears several items drop onto the ground beneath him. Before he can wonder what they are he sees them float past his face, more rivets like the one in his pocket. The light dims for a moment as the force lessens slightly, dropping him halfway back to the ground. When it resumes its upward pull on him it appears to struggle, moving even slower than before. He hears several more clunking noises and then the light goes out completely, the invisible force dropping him back down to the ground.

He lets out another groan as he hits the hard ground once again but this time he doesn’t waste any time, jumping to his feet as quickly as possible and heaving himself forwards. He bursts back into the clearing - now completely dark - and two flashlights point at his red, damp face.

“York, what the hell?” he hears his partner’s voice from behind one of the flashlights.

He heads towards the voice as she moves the flashlight along his body, most likely seeing the evidence of his time scrambling in the dirt and his mad dash through the dark woods. He feels the bones in one of his feet throbbing and knows there are scratches all over his face from branches he ran into during his escape.

“I-, there-, it-, they-”, with each word he manages to get out he stops to take three gulping breaths.

“York, relax, you’re gonna give yourself a heart attack, big guy,” she says, as the ranger offers him a canteen of water, which he gladly accepts and begins to swallow down.

“I- I saw them,” Dave finally sputters, the canteen rattling in his trembling hands.

“Who?” she asks, brows knitted together.

“Them,” Dave whispers, eyes wide as he looks upwards at the sky.

“Very funny, York, ha ha,” she says, dripping with sarcasm.

“No, I-”

“I know this isn’t your thing but don’t worry, there’s two other agents who just showed up and they’re gonna take this case off our hands.”

“What? Who?” he says, eyes scanning the treeline in the dark - for people or creatures unknown.

“I dunno, some hot guy and a pretty little redhead. Let’s get back to the car, we can stop at Dairy Queen on the way back to the hotel and get you another milkshake.”

#dave made me believe 2024 #dave york fanfiction #Ice Planet Barbarians reference #noxturnalnymph #pedro pascal characters #IPB mentioned #pedro pascal characters fanfiction #beefrobeefcal #👽👽👽

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elenauaurs · 5 months ago

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“As members of a society that pursues peace, harmony is strictly necessary. Please try to see it this way: Just as a contract is only made with mutual consonance, Those who lack the ability—or rather the brilliance—to maintain their usefulness and cooperation are not befitting in this society... And my role, you ask? To reshape them all until they fit”

A mysterious figure among the IPC Strategic Investment Department, responsible for the role of disciplining their fellow co-workers and representing Diamond.

Bort can be described as an cunning individual and extreme perfectionist, although ironically they committed several rule breaks for the sake of showing their worth. They are straight-forward about their goals and ideals, believing that people who have no contribution to society have no place in it. Surprisingly, they have some empathy for these people and wish to help.

In the IPC, Bort is not considered a being of his own with freedom and rights, but rather as an extension of Diamond's power—That said, despite being part of the IPC, they are not exactly one of the ten stonehearts and occupy some of the roles of Diamond.

(Click on the image for better quality)

When Diamond decided to remove all his impurities and imperfections in the form of a shining meteor, a being made of stone was created from the collision of that meteor against the ground.

Bort is a strict person, known for always keeping a somewhat dull smile on their face and correcting their department's mistakes. They are normally reserved, however a person with great aptitude in social matters. Despite being considered obedient and intellectual by their peers, Bort actually has a hard time understanding their own feelings and negligence them, preferring to follow orders than worry about this silly things.

Before being completely under Diamond's command, Bort was responsible for missions on very dangerous planets and ended up developing an obsession with battles and now is very angry at not being able fight as much as they did in the past.

"They are extremely smart and pleasant to talk to, but it is a dangerous trait... They always preferred satisfying their intellectual curiosity, over using his skills for the benefit of others"

- Unknown Senior Manager

. . .

VOICELINES

First meeting

"Bort" of the illustrious IPC's Strategic Investment Department— or, as those closest to me refer to me, Ballas—is at your service. To whom do I owe the honor, my dear nameless companion?

Greeting

Straighten your posture, lift your head and leave behind any trace of laziness before greeting someone. Never underestimate the importance of body language—as a Trailblazer, you will certainly need it.

Parting

In a formal meeting, time is meticulously measured, from hours to milliseconds. I usually don't mind it... However, I'm your presence i feel like time is… too fast. Sigh… What a pity.

About Self: True Desire

What do I truly desire? Uh, well... that's rather a silly question. Anything that Diamond wants too. If he's happy, i'll be more than satisfied. :)

About Self: Old Self

I no longer recall what I was like, but that's only natural. If i expect a lot from others, I must hold myself to the same stantard, even if it means sacrificing who I truly am.

Chat: Food

I have often heard about the benefits of food, not only for bodily functioning but also for overall well-being. Personally, I have never savored the pleasure of eating, and in my form it's unlikely that I ever will... So, I kindly ask you to accept this money and buy some food. Even though I won't enjoy it with you, I'll feel happier seeing you healthier.

Hobbies

Even though I don't need it, I take great pleasure in sleeping. It makes all the worries of the world disappear for a brief and comfortable moment

Annoyances

The intense feeling of failure, especially when others have high expectations of you, can be incredibly... infuriating. I feel powerful under the pressure they put on me, but I can't help but feel an inexplicable pain in my chest...

. . .

Ok, it ended up being a bit big because I ended up getting excited hshqhdhwhdha

There are still many things left to say about them, such as their backstory and their relationship with other people like Aventurine, Topaz, etc... But that's for another post

I ended up changing a few things slightly from the little intro I made previously so... Here are some curiosities

They are genderless

They can't eat, drink, have no organs but can sleep for lore reasons

Sometimes they give off a weird vibe to others so no one messes with them

They are dependent on Diamond

They like fish and stars!

(and also, the phrase I left below the cut comes from houseki no kuni)

#honkai star rail #honkai sr #honkai star rail oc #bort #diamond #diamond hsr #ten stonehearts #ipc #ipc oc #strategic investment department #hsr aventurine #hsr topaz #hsr jade #hsr opal #hsr ipc #hsr pearl #hsr obsidian #hsr #hsr oc

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sekiromi · 7 months ago

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A Devil You Do, ch. 2

pairing(s): Raphael x Tav/Reader, Astarion x Tav/Reader themes: reincarnation, soul bond, past lives, lost memories, pining, slow burn cw/tw: canon-typical violence, gore word count: 3.3k

previous chapters: [1] [read this fic in all its glory on ao3!]

Chapter Two: Infernal Delights

You shouldn't have wished to live in more interesting times.

The afternoon was mild, sun softly kissing warm cheeks and breeze tousling loose hair. It felt almost peaceful, normal, if you ignored the dull ache behind your eye socket where the tadpole was wriggling around, burrowing deeper, pushing against your optic nerve. You spared it less than a thought, trying to ignore its grating presence, as you pushed forward towards the crumbled bridge that would take you one step closer to the person who was supposed to be able to cure you of your condition.

Before you were able to get across, though, something interrupted. You felt the static in the air first, an almost imperceptible change of pressure nearby, then heard the crackle of dying embers. A scent of something sweet, sour, and musky lingered on the air. Astarion’s nose wrinkled at the smell.

“My, my, what manner of place is this?” Caught a little off guard, you turned with only a small jump to face the interloper. “A path to redemption, or a road to damnation? Hard to say, for your journey is just beginning.” He had a smooth voice, it weaved its way through your defences and set your heart at ease embarrassingly quickly, soothing the instant trepidation. Cinnamon hair tucked behind rounded ears framed a handsome face, lips tilted into a small not-quite smirk, not-quite smile. “What would suit the occasion? Hmm…the words to a lullaby, perhaps. The mouse smiled brightly: it outfoxed the cat! Then down came the claw, and that, love, was that.” Perplexed, and a little amused, you tilted your head as you continued to appraise him, evaluate him. He paid your analytical gaze no mind, and carried on. “They do know how to write them in Cormyr, don’t they? Well met. I am Raphael. Very much at your service.”

Nothing good would come of this interaction, you could tell. Still, you spared him the benefit of the doubt and decided to entertain him. After all, there was something strange about him that piqued your curiosity more that you would have expected, had you dulling your usually sharp tongue to deliver a more placative response.

“Am I talking to the mouse, or the cat?” You queried, unsure if you would like the answer.

“Neither. The fox, rather, hiding in a word, a silent observer – about to break the silence.” Your left eyebrow raised of its own volition. “Of course, what I have to say merits some privacy, as well as some more…let’s call it, refinement.” He looked around, gesturing to the landscape you had become only too familiar with over the past few days, and nodded to himself. “Yes, this place is decidedly too middle-of-nowhere for my tastes. Come.”

Before you could respond or object, you and your companions were engulfed in a cloud of sparks and smoke. You felt your body shift through the planes uncomfortably, evoking a feeling of endless falling, and tried to suppress the rising panic in your throat, a vague awareness of what sort of being you had the misfortune of encountering that day might be.

When the mist dissipated and you were solidly on your own two feet again, you quickly examined your surroundings to try to figure out where you had been summoned. The latent heat of Avernus clung to the air, even inside the cool room, you would recognise the smell of the first layer of the Hells sooner than your own face in the mirror, though you could not say why. Apart from when the Nautiloid came careening through on its collision course, to your knowledge you had not been here before. Other than that, you perceived you were in a dining hall dripping in crimson, a large table filled with a feast fit for a king, flames roaring in a huge fireplace that you thought was too large for the room it resided in. And there, in front of it, Raphael.

“There. Middle-of-somewhere.” His smile was entirely too cocky, you decided. You shared a look with Lae’zel, conveying a silent understanding to be ready to fight should the need arise.

“Can you be more specific than ‘somewhere’?” Voice guarded, you turned your gaze back to Raphael, who was only too happy to oblige. He gestured around himself with a flourish.

“The House of Hope. Where the tired come to rest, and the famished come to feed – lavishly. Go on! Partake, enjoy your supper, after all…it might just be your last.” His gaze was unsettling, perceptive, dissecting. It made you feel entirely too exposed, so you looked away as you folded your arms in mild impatience. After all, it was not like you had all the time in the world for these distracting dramatics.

“Are these theatrics leading somewhere?”

He chuckled, a melodious sort of sound that reverberated in your ears and imprinted itself on your mind in a way that concerned you.

“Are you not entertained? Well, far be it from me to disappoint.” That grin again, all-knowing and too confident. There was a sudden flash of fire, you could feel the heat against your cheeks from where you stood, and Raphael assumed his true form before you, just as you had suspected: a cambion. Still, you stepped back a little, both to avoid the flames and also to get a better sense of what you might be up against should this descend into violence. After a few seconds, you realised that turn of events would have only one outcome: your untimely and almost certainly gruesome deaths. You were suddenly glad for your decision to be pragmatic about this encounter.

The devil was larger in this form, more intimidating, more impressive, dare you say. Skin turned clay red; scarred wings stretched out wide as he shrugged into this form as if trying on a new outfit. Rough, jagged horns emerged from his scalp, and nails grew into long, sharp claws. It was not until your eyes had raked over every inch of him, and he had started talking again, that you realised your mouth was hanging open slightly.

“What’s better than a devil you don’t know? A devil you do.” Suddenly you became soberingly aware of the fragility of your little mortal life. Something about this cambion seemed different to the few others you had encountered, the ones you had read about. There was a nobility about him, a grace and well-practiced manner. All devil’s had silver tongues, but his was polished to perfection. This was a spawn of an Archdevil, and a very powerful one at that, you were sure of it. “Am I a friend? Potentially. An adversary? Conceivably. But a saviour? That’s for certain.”

Regarding him for a few moments, you thought of how to respond. Starting a fight was out of the question, and he seemed amicable, for now. Best to play nice, you supposed.

“What makes you think I need saving?” An answer he had been expecting, it seemed, judging by the smile revealing his pointed teeth.

“Come now. Why play hard to get when you’re in deep over your tadpoled head? One skull, two tenants, and no solution in sight. I could fix it all, like that.” He snapped his fingers, conjuring a brief lick of flame, and watched you eagerly, hungrily, like a predator stalking its prey. He had lied before, you decided. He was no fox, nor was he a simple house cat. He was more like a tiger, masquerading as something less deadly, appealing to your humanity with a delicately crafted mortal guise that pleased both the eye and the heart. With it now gone, you could see him as he truly was. Dangerous.

Your eyes drifted to the rather self-indulgent portrait of the devil above the fireplace, the depiction stirring a recollection of something you could not quite grasp. You shook your head, ignored the gnawing doubt creeping in to share the space with the worm.

“You’re mad if you think I’ll make a deal with a devil.” You retorted almost automatically, hoping it would not offend your host (or kidnapper, whichever way you were looking at it). Luckily it did not, in fact it delighted Raphael. He so loved it when his clients put up a fight, it made their inevitable failure all the more delicious for him, gave him more despair to feast on. And he had a feeling yours would be particularly divine.

“And what is madness but a denial of reality? Still, I’ve a feeling you’ll change your mind. Before it’s changed for you…” Allusion to the fate that almost certainly awaited you made you shudder involuntarily. “Try to cure yourself. Shop around, beg, borrow, and steal. Exhaust every possibility until none are left. And when hope has been whittled down to the very marrow of despair – that’s when you’ll come knocking on my door. Hope. Hahaha! Such a tease.” You did not linger on the feeling left by the way he said the last few words. He did not miss the slight dilation of your pupils, and tucked that away as a potential exploit for another day.

“And if I do want to take this deal – how will I find you?” You asked with a slight reluctance. Whilst you had no genuine intention of entertaining his offer, you supposed it was best to keep your options open.

“I’ll be around. Watching you squirm like a tadpole through a nice juicy brain.” That summoned a pretty visceral image you would rather have done without. “All those pretty little symptoms – sundering skin, dissolving guts – they haven’t manifested yet, have they? One might say you’re a paragon of luck. I’ll be there, when it runs out.” A promise, although an unwelcome one. Before you could think of a witty retort, you were enshrouded in mist and smoke once again and returned to the land the devil had plucked you from. Your head swirled, although this time not just because of the tadpole, and as you swayed unsteadily on your feet you wondered: why the Hells did this have to happen to you?

You talked at length with your companions about the interaction, most strongly advising against considering entering into any deal with a creature of an infernal persuasion, despite the growing direness of your situations. You had to agree with them, although you found Wyll’s insistence on the subject matter interesting considering his own predicament. Still, you tried not to judge too much, and just nodded along in easy concurrence. Gale, however, offered a slightly more balanced perspective, which surprised you.

“Look, all I’m saying is there might be more to this devil than meets the eye. It’s rather convenient that he offers to take our tadpoles, evidently powerful things, as unpleasant as they are.” He winced towards the end, his parasite moving uncomfortably in his brain. You could feel yours wriggling about too, and willed it to settle down while you ate your meal in front of the campfire.

“Surely he’s just looking for an easy target, right? I read once that devils can smell desperation, he must’ve sensed us coming a mile off…” You gazed into the flames, the heat pressing against your face reminding you of Avernus, a place you had visited for a combined total of no more than five minutes. That was probably enough for one lifetime, though, you decided.

“Perhaps, perhaps not, time will tell. For now, I suggest we keep him on side, just in case we can make use of him in the future as well.” You shrugged and supposed that made sense, though playing a devil would be no easy feat. They were masters of persuasion, manipulation, entrapment. Even the lowest cambion could sweet talk someone into sin, and the cambion you had the joy of meeting had been no ordinary one. Granted, he was still just a cambion, but better to stay on the safe side and not risk underestimating him. He had been all smooth talking and warm welcomes with you today, but there was every likelihood that could change.

After you finished your dinner and the fire was dwindling into embers, you bid goodnight to Gale and Astarion, the only two remaining members of your party awake, and headed for your bedroll. As you settled in, drawing the covers up to your chin and grimacing at the smell of the wild clinging to your clothes and sheets (should have really bathed before bed…) you mulled over your planned itinerary for tomorrow. The goblin camp had been easy enough to ‘infiltrate’, now you just needed to find this Halsin, rescue him (whatever that entailed), ask him to remove the tadpole, and hopefully your interesting little escapade would come to an end. Then, you could meander back to Baldur’s Gate, return to your quaint city life, and forget any of this ever happened. The smile fell from your lips, aware that there was no hope in Hells things would be that simple. At least, the devil did not seem to think so.

You found your thoughts drifting back to him against your best efforts, recalling the silhouette of his cambion form in all its grandeur displayed in front of the fire, those claw-like wings, jagged horns, and infernal eyes. You could not seem to get his image out of your mind as sleep came to take you quickly, gripping your exhausted bones faster than it ever had before.

And still Raphael’s face did not leave you in peace.

In your dreams you wandered a barren and scorched hellscape, the battlefields of Avernus, ravaged by centuries of war. The heat was suffocating, climbing down your throat, clawing at your eyes, but somehow you were able to tolerate it. In the red of the earth, a more vibrant red polled from scattered bodies: some demons, some devils, tieflings, humans, celestials. Both friend and foe, good and evil. The stench of fresh death gathered all around you, and your face scrunched together in displeasure as you tried to brace against it, stop the bile churning in your stomach. When you opened your eyes you looked down to see your hands dripping with blood as crimson as that leaking from the dead. You felt your heart start to race, panic rising in your gullet. Just what have I done?

A sudden hand on your shoulder sent you into a spiral of dread, and then an oddly comforting acceptance. You turned to see Raphael, his face softer, younger, it seemed, expression impassive if slightly severe.

“Let’s not linger here, my dear.”

Your mouth opened to respond, but before any words could materialise the mirage of the dream fell away, engulfing you in blackness.

In the morning, you awoke with a slight headache, although that seemed to be becoming the norm these days, and a vague sense of a welcome touch, an unexpected comfort. As you pieced together the brief dream, images slowly coming back to you as you laboriously lifted your body from your bedroll and prepared yourself for the day ahead, you realised it felt more like a distant memory.

You tried to shake the feeling off, turning a blind eye to the gnawing sense that you were missing something. There were enough other gnawing sensations roaming your body, namely the one in your head, you could not spare the attention for one more.

By the time the day drew to a close and you were wading through dismembered and eviscerated goblins, all thoughts of the haunting dream were forgotten, replaced entirely with the sights of destruction around you. Splattered with blood, chest heaving with every breath, you let your body slip down the wall you were resting against to come to a squat, barely listening to what Shadowheart was saying as she fussed about you, healing your numerous wounds, chiding you for being so careless in your fight against the goblin leader Dror Ragzlin. It was true, you had been careless and allowed yourself to get hurt a little too much, but truthfully by that point you did not care anymore. You just wanted to get the task over with. She kept talking, trying to engage you, keep you focused. It did not work.

All you knew was that the sun was setting, you were exhausted, and Halsin could not cure you.

The small hope that lived in your heart began to fade, and the world slipped away with it as you fell into a dreamless sleep.

—-

Raphael thumbed through Korilla’s latest report on his new favourite mouse, delighting in all the gory details. Halsin had told you to take out the goblin leaders and the rest would fall into disarray, but it would seem you had taken it upon yourself to slaughter all of them regardless. He had to admit, he was surprised you had it in you. Of course, to most people goblins are detestable little beasts, but they were still people, they still had hopes, dreams, desires…usually grim ones, mind you, but aspirations nonetheless. Yet, you had cut through them all as if reaping wheat, even with the numerous wounds earned from your earlier conflicts. He hoped you would learn to exercise a little more caution in the future, if it were not for the cleric you seemed to be keeping close your injuries may have cost you, and by extension him, dearly. He could not afford your death, not at this point. He still had such big plans for you, after all. As he finished with the report, he started to mull over the details of his next planned visit to you and your travelling companions. He would give you some time to think over your first interaction with him, give you a chance to at least consider what he had to offer, let you fester over his words and his vague promises and leave you just long enough for a sliver of doubt to begin to metastasize within your mind, wondering if you had been too hasty in your refusal, starting to think that you might have missed your chance. Just then, he would reappear, much to your relief, and present himself as your saviour once again.

Only he knew he was anything but.

He could hardly wait.

“It seems like a lot of work for one mere mortal soul,” Korilla mused upon her return, “why not settle for some slightly lower hanging fruit?”

Raphael scoffed and shook his head. It seemed his agent still had a lot to learn in the ways of fiendish contracts and bargains. Although, he supposed there was only so much of the infernal delights she could ever hope to understand.

“My dear Korilla, why bother with the low hanging rots when, with just a touch of patience, I could steal the forbidden fruit from the very top?” He could only imagine how sweet that fruit would taste when finally secured. The dwarf merely looked at him, unconvinced, and he sighed. “You’ll see soon enough why this one is so special. Now, have you any news for me?” He tried not to sound too eager. Korilla pulled out a small notebook she had been using to jot down her observations, scanning them for anything of interest since her last report, and had to suppress a sheepish smile as she divulged the details of the party the tieflings held at your camp in the evening, and what you then got up to in the woods after everyone else had gone to bed.

Raphael’s eyes shone with rapture at the revelation.

“My, my. What a scandalous little mouse.”

Oh, you were going to be an entertaining one, indeed.

[chapter 3]

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate #raphael #bg3 raphael #raphael bg3 #raphael x tav #raphael x reader #bg3 raphael x tav #bg3 raphael x reader #ao3 #ao3 writer #ao3 fanfic #a devil you do fic #sekiromi #a devil you do

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jjungkookislife · 1 year ago

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Quarterly Fic Recs 2023 #3

Hello! I can't believe how quickly we've reached the third list of the year! I wasn't able to read as much as I wanted, but I hope you all enjoy these wonderful fics <3

Namjoon

baby fever @95rkives

summary: what was supposedly a peaceful morning stroll in the park, an unexpected encounter triggers namjoon’s intense desire for a baby, turning him into an adorable, baby fever-filled mess.

drunk in love @joon4eva

summary: you and whiskey are never a good combination. or: you’ve been in love with your best friend for years and you might tell him about it while drunk.

Jimin

menace @eoieopda

summary: Your shithead brother, Seokjin, is throwing his annual Valentine’s Day party. You didn’t want to go in the first place - and now his shithead friend, Jimin, is responsible for getting you there.

all mine @souryoong

summary: your new boyfriend can’t make you finish, but your ex boyfriend sure can.

thank you for your service @jiminniethemarshmallow

summary: As a servant of your kingdom, all Jimin wants to do is please you and service you in any way that he can.

Taehyung

high tide @kookslastbutton

summary: Due to Taehyung’s job as a cruise ship Captain, you are constantly miles away from each other. Weekly phonecalls help and this one gets a little nasty and a lot sweet.

Jungkook

something borrowed @alphabetboyluvr

mafia au

chained to you @hisunshiine

idol au

into the wild @bonny-kookoo

summary: The wolf pretending to be the grandmother, just to later swallow the poor red riding hood whole- is he attempting to gain your trust as well just to feast on your flesh later, once he gets hungry for a meal?

seven days @kithtaehyung

summary: you dump yet another guy that wasn’t up to your “ten day standards,” which leaves your cocky ass, very off-limits roommate to tease your single status yet again. but the teasing is always expected. what’s not expected, is the bet that you make without thinking. the bet that even though you give ten days, he wouldn’t even last seven.

and my man, thank you to my man @darklingjeon

dealer au

because, i love you ch. 12 @readyplayerhobi

summary: According to society, Jeon Jungkook should not be with you. He should be with a younger, hotter and thinner girl instead of wasting his time on you. It’s a good thing Jungkook doesn’t care what society thinks then.

things you don't know @btsgotjams27

summary: it’s been seven years since you last saw the boy that broke your heart. after moving back home, you try everything you can to avoid seeing him around town, but destiny has a wicked way of doing the opposite.

Yoongi

heartache @sailoryooons

summary: Unresolved feelings lead to nothing but heartache when you run into Yoongi at a wedding five years after breaking up. Especially when you realize that despite Yoongi have feelings for you, there is still another woman on his arm.

right here ^

summary: You’re tired of the revolving door of boys in your life. Yoongi is tired of watching you nurse feelings in the quiet of your apartment.

Taehyung

backstage @jeonqkooks

summary: what’s the best way to release energy for someone with an oral fixation?

champagne problems @still-with-koo

summary: you turn down taehyung’s very public marriage proposal. inspired by champagne problems by taylor swift.

Jungkook

6:42 a.m. @bangtanintotheroom

summary: Jungkook is ready to kick off a new day of loving you.

OT7/Multiple Members

cosmic collision @gimmethatagustd

summary: A responsible weedman, Yoongi always tests out new marijuana strains before selling them to his customers. When his supplier offers him a new strain, Cosmic Collision, Yoongi is eager to try it. What he doesn’t expect is the alien that comes with it.

Seokjin

the one with seokjin and without complaints @eoieopda

summary: you don’t want to arrive dateless to a wedding your ex is also attending. enter friend and local hero, kim seokjin.

musical chairs @ugh-yoongi

rival teachers au

lucky ^

things you said when you were drunk

view @noteguk

summary: in which seokjin likes to show people what is his.

sugar sweet @ditttiii

summary: Jin loves sweet things. Jin loves you. add it all together, stir the mixture up, and ta-da! There he has his dessert! Enjoy ♡ Or alternatively where Jin basically uses you as his damn plate and loves every second of it!

wash 'n dry @seokoloqy

summary: The one where Seokjin is the cute RA who catches you doing laundry at 1 AM and you both have time to kill.

thunder @/ppersonna

summary: you allow your best friend Jin to take you backpacking once per year. apparently, this year’s outing would be the wettest yet.

Yoongi

angel @/sailoryooons

summary: Yoongi never meant to keep coming back. You never meant to become Yoongi’s favorite. Being Min Yoongi’s favorite has dire consequences.

carnival of terror @theharrowing

summary: The carnival is in town, and it is unlike anything you have ever experienced. Will you make it out alive?

crescendo @/ugh-yoongi

established relationship

loose lips ^

friends to lovers

baby maker @shadowkoo

summary: You and Yoongi have been relishing the comfort of your newly married life, savoring each moment together. However, there’s an additional want tugging at your heartstrings – the thought of becoming a mother. That’s right, you want a baby. Yoongi isn’t sure if he’s ready for the journey of bringing a baby into your lives. But he’ll agree to anything that makes you happy, and if it’s a baby you want, it’s a baby you’ll get.

on your period @7ndipity

summary: Yoongi looks after you on your period

don't come yet @jl-micasea-fics

established relationship

night short #25 @euphoricfilter

make up sex

Hoseok

sensuous @delugguk

hot emo hobi @minisugakoobies

i'm yours @yoongiphoria

If you're making a mistake, it's bound to be your favorite one.

bad things come in three @hyungieyoongi

established relationship

hoseok drabble @here4kpopfics

brother's best friend

intoxicated @peachypinkygloss

summary: Drugs make everything better. Even sex.

bones @floralseokjin

summary: you were broken from a past relationship, and Hoseok wanted to fix you, but what price was he willing to pay? Would he end up worse off, or would you realise in time, that your best friend was the one…?

Namjoon

signed, sealed, delivered @fresh-outta-jams

summary: You’re in college when your soulmate tattoo finally shows up: an address. Sending a letter couldn’t hurt, right?

the rich man's crochet club @kpopfanfictrash

summary: When they were freshmen in college, Namjoon began a club with his six closest friends. The one thing they all had in common? V i r g i n s as fuck. Obviously, they couldn’t call the club the Virgins Club and so, the Rich Man’s Crochet Club was born. Until time passes and Namjoon is the only one left. Now, the Club has one, final mission: to get Namjoon laid.

not so dinner date @bangtaninborderland

idol au

breakfast @hamsterclaw

summary: Turns out your big dumb goon can make eggs.

everything slow @hobidreams

summary: your boyfriend catches you missing him with your hand between your legs, his name a moan on your tongue. it looks like you need a little help…

tonight ^

how will you spend the night with your man?

love language @rmnamjoons

summary: Exactly one year before one meets their soulmate, their love’s first words spoken to them appear as a tattoo on their wrist. When Namjoon’s tattoo appears, however, it’s not of words, but of the most beautiful set of eyes he’s ever seen.

there was a bug @/kimnjss

summary: you and joon have been best friends for years, unexpectedly his feelings start to grow more than platonic. deciding to keep this to him, joon stays as your best friend and roommate. things are going fine, until one night you’re forced to sleep in his room.

out of my league @ppersonna

summary: Kim Namjoon was never supposed to find out about your years-long hopeless crush on him. And he most definitely was not supposed to find out about it in front of all your coworkers in a company-wide meeting.

will you let me? @bratkook

summary: Namjoon wants nothing more than to see you stuffed full of his cum, and as his mind starts to wander with thoughts of the future, he has to know if you’d let him.

the package thief @/blog-name-idk

summary: You have a new neighbor who is incredibly attractive. Unfortunately, he seems to hate you for no discernable reason at all. Does he think that just because he’s hot, he can get away with being an asshole?

#i truly wish i had read more #but life got rocky for a moment #i promise i don't purposely exclude members #i read what's on my dash mostly #and i've been mostly reading drabbles bc i can't focus for very long #i hope you enjoy these fic recs <3

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rjzimmerman · 17 days ago

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Excerpt from this National Geographic story:

The grizzly bear named 399, likely the most famous bear in the world, was killed by a vehicle on Tuesday south of Jackson Hole, Wyoming, a sad coda to the life of a truly remarkable wild animal, experts say.

At 28 years old, 399 was the oldest known grizzly bear mother in history, birthing at least 18 cubs. She had a yearling cub, Spirit, with her when she died, according to the National Park Service, but its whereabouts—and chances for survival—are unknown.

Not only was 399 a prolific mother, she was a famous sight in and around Grand Teton National Park, attracting a solid fan base of photographers who came to see her ambling around the park with her cub—or, in 2023, her quadruplets.

“I had never encountered an animal like her, and never will again. She was that special,” said nature photographer Thomas D. Mangelsen from the front deck of his rustic log cabin home near Moose, Wyoming, only a few miles from where he first caught a fleeting glimpse of her almost 20 years ago.

Scientists have speculated 399 chose to raise her young around busy park roads and highways to keep them safer from aggressive male bears, though that also put the family at risk of getting hit by a vehicle. Such wildlife collisions are common in the region, and one of her cubs was previously killed by a vehicle, according to the NPS.

Yet her visibility to the public has also inspired countless visitors to learn more about grizzlies and embrace their conservation, Chip Jenkins, superintendent of Grand Teton National Park, said in a statement.

“She changed the way the federal government and state agencies deal with bears, and the way she magnetized public attention put them on notice that a massive number of people care about bears. That kind of overwhelming sentiment didn’t exist before,” says Sue Cedarholm, a Jackson Hole wildlife photographer.

Born in 1996, 399 was part of a wave of bear recolonization pushing out from nearby Yellowstone National Park into wildlands where grizzlies had been largely eradicated for half a century. (Read how grizzlies bears are rebounding in the West.)

In 2007, 399 attacked a hiker who had approached an elk carcass. At the request of the hiker, then-Teton park superintendent Mary Gibson Scott, and Chris Servheen, the former U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service’s grizzly bear recovery coordinator, opted not to kill 399 or remove her and the cubs from the wild.

After that event, 399 became more well known, and onlookers anxiously awaited to see if she would emerge from hibernation each spring.

She often wandered with her cubs through downtown Jackson Hole and its suburbs. Cindy Campbell, a health care administrator and wildlife advocate who has lived in Jackson Hole for 50 years, has filmed 399 on remote video walking near her door at night.

“Even if people didn’t like grizzlies, it was hard not to have goodwill for 399,” Campbell says. “For the most part, our community embraced the heavy responsibility of her living so close to us, and 399 helped us understand our weaknesses.”

In the days after her emergence, 399 would sometimes draw up to a thousand people in what were called “bear jams,” gatherings that often put her and other wildlife at risk of being killed or involved in a human-wildlife conflict.

That’s why “399 was a symbol and a reminder of how we need to constantly be vigilant in exercising self-restraint,” says Servheen, now board chair of the Montana Wildlife Federation.

#grizzly bears #Grizzly 399

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rabbitcruiser · 2 months ago

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Patriot Day

Honor those who died in the September 11th terrorist attacks, as well as those who risked their lives to save others, on the ground in New York and on United 93.

Patriot Day falls on 11th September (also commonly known as ‘Nine-Eleven’) and is remembered globally as the anniversary of the catastrophic terrorist attacks on the USA of 11th September 2001.

Learn about Patriot Day

Embedded in the memories of everyone who lived through it, this was the day four jet planes were hijacked and crashed into the New York World Trade Center and the Pentagon in Arlington, Virginia, causing the deaths of 2,977 people. The fourth plane (United Airlines Flight 93) was directed at Washington DC, but its passengers bravely attempted to take back control and it crashed into a field near Shanksville, Pennsylvania.

The large majority of those lost after the attacks on the Twin Towers were working at or above the points of collision; thousands of people who had gone to work that morning like every other day, found themselves suddenly stranded at the top of a burning skyscraper. A number made the choice to jump from the flaming buildings rather than wait to be caught by the flames or for the building to collapse. No one could forget the terrifying and heartbreaking stories and images captured by the news footage of the day.

In the wake of the World Trade Center collisions, many brave men and women from the emergency services risked their lives to try to help rescue victims of the attacks, and of them 411 lost their own lives attempting to fight fires and rescue people.

History of Patriot Day

Patriot Day is recognized by US law as the official day of remembrance for these tragic events, and has been observed every year since. Each year on this day, American flags are flown at half-staff to honour and commemorate those lives lost. The US President asks fellow Americans to observe a moment of silence at 8.46am (Eastern Daylight Time), the time of the first plane collision into the North Tower of the World Trade Center.

While the events took place within the USA, the shock and grief experienced in response to the attacks was shared across the globe, and for this reason Patriot Day will be observed not only in America, but all over the world.

How to observe Patriot Day

There are a number of ways that you can observe Patriot Day. One way is by paying honor to those who were on the ground on September 11th, as well as those that lost their lives. There are a number of different ways that you can do this. Thanks to the Internet, we are able to reach out to people that we never would have been able to, and so you can always post a message on social media.

If you don’t know much about the attacks because you were too young at the time, it is a good idea to spend some time doing a bit of research about the occasion. On this date, four airliners carrying passengers, which were bound for California from northeastern airports in the United States, were hijacked by terrorists of al-Qaeda (19 in total).

Two of the planes crashed into the North and South twin towers of the World Trade Center in Lower Manhattan. This was United Airlines Flight 175 and American Airlines Flight 11. Both of the 110 story towers collapsed within an hour and 42 minutes. All of the other buildings in the World Trade Center complex collapsed either partially or completely because of the resulting fires and debris.

The third plane crashed into the Pentagon. This was American Airlines Flight 77. This resulted in the west side of the headquarters for the United States Department of Defense collapsing partially. The fourth plane was flown in the direction of Washington D.C. This was United Airlines Flight 93. However, passengers thwarted the hijackers, and the plane crashed into a field in Pennsylvania, potentially saving many lives.

There is a great film that focuses on the fourth flight – United Airlines Flight 93. The film is called United 93, and it was released in 2006. The film aims to take you through the events of what happened on the plane, focusing on the passengers responding to the hijackers in order to direct the plane away from Washington D.C. The film received critical acclaim, winning a number of awards.

The film is a great watch. It shows how the passengers came together to revolt against the hijackers, despite knowing that their lives were at very high risk. While they ultimately lost their lives in the end, they stopped the terrorists from reaching their intended target, saving many more lives in the process.

It is also a good idea to use this day to pay honor to the people who died on the 11th of September. This not only includes those on board the aircrafts, but those who died as a consequence of the collapsing buildings and the brave men and women who risked their lives to try and help those in danger. In total, 2,977 victims died on this day, with there being more than 6,000 injuries. Most of the people who died were civilians. However, there were also 71 law enforcement officers who died and 343 firefighters. Why not spend some time reading up on them to show that we will never forget!

Source

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plethoraworldatlas · 11 months ago

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The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service last week withdrew much-needed draft migratory bird protection rules the agency promised to propose two years ago. These rules are necessary to protect migratory birds from being killed by preventable hazards, including by window collisions, like October’s massive bird mortality event at McCormick Place in Chicago.

“It’s nonsensical that after two years of delay, the Fish and Wildlife Service withdrew these proposed protections with the threadbare excuse that even more delay is needed,” said Tara Zuardo, a senior advocate at the Center for Biological Diversity. “Yet despite the lack of regulations, this agency still has the power to levy fines against parties that cause the death of birds, and federal officials should use their authority to do so.”

Under the Trump administration, the Service finalized a rule that upended decades of enforcement of the Migratory Bird Treaty Act. This radical and unlawful reinterpretation concluded the law did not prohibit the unintentional killing of migratory birds.

In response to successful litigation by the Center and allies, the Biden administration revoked this rule in 2021. The agency promised to issue regulations to address situations like what happened at McCormick Place, where infrastructure is known to cause bird deaths.

However, after two years of delay, the agency withdrew its own proposed regulations, claiming that it requires an indefinite amount of time to work on the rulemaking. This leaves billions of birds vulnerable to increasing threats across the landscape like collisions with windows and communication towers.

#ecology #enviromentalism #migratorybirds #bird conservation #US Fish and Wildlife Service #wildlife services #Fuck wildlife services

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dailyanarchistposts · 6 months ago

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Chapter XIV. Summary and Conclusion

It has been said of Newton, to express the immensity of his discoveries, that he has revealed the abyss of human ignorance.

There is no Newton here, and no one can claim in economics a part equal to that which posterity assigns to this great man in the science of the universe. But I dare to say that there is here more than Newton has ever guessed. The depth of the heavens does not equal the depth of our intelligence, within which wonderful systems move. It looks like a new, unknown region that exists outside space and time, like the heavenly realms and infernal abodes, and on which our eyes plunge, with silent admiration, as in a bottomless abyss.

Non secùs ac si quâ penitùs vi terra dehiscens

Infernas reseret sedes et regna recludat

Pallida, Dis invisa, superque immane barathrum

Cernatur, trepidentque immisso lumine Manes.

Virgil. Aeneid. lib. viii.[51]

Here the throng, collision, swing of eternal forces; there the mysteries of Providence are revealed, and the secrets of fate appear uncovered. It is the invisible making itself visible, the intangible rendered material, the idea becoming reality, and reality a thousand times more wonderful, more grandiose than the most fantastic utopias. So far we do not see, in its simple formula, the unity of that vast machine: the synthesis of these gigantic gears, in which the well-being and misery of generations are ground, and which are shaping a new creation, still evades us. But we already know that nothing that happens in social economy has a copy in nature; we are forced to constantly invent special names, to create a new language, for facts without analogues. It is a transcendent world, whose principles are superior to geometry and algebra, whose powers derive neither from attraction nor from any physical force, but which use geometry and algebra as subordinate instruments, and takes as material the very powers of nature; a world finally freed from the categories of time, space, generation, life and death, where everything seems both eternal and phenomenal, simultaneous and successive, limited and unlimited, ponderable and imponderable… What more can I say? It is even creation, caught, so to speak, in the act!

And this world, which appears to us as a fable, which inverts our judicial habits, and never ceases to deny our reason; this world which envelops us, penetrates us, agitates us, without us even seeing it in any other way than the mind’s eye, touching it only by signs, this strange world is society, it is us!

Who has seen monopoly and competition, except by their effects, that is, by their signs? Who has felt credit and property? What is collective force, division of labour and value? And yet, what is stronger, more certain, more intelligible, more real than all that? Look in the distance at this carriage drawn by eight horses on a beaten field, and driven by a man dressed in a old smock: it is only a mass of matter, moved on four wheels by an animal form. You discover there, in appearance, only a phenomenon of mechanics, determined by a phenomenon of physiology, beyond which you perceive nothing more. Penetrate further: ask this man what he does, where he goes; by what thought, what title, he drives this vehicle. And presently he will show you a letter, his authority, his providence, as he himself is the providence of his equipment. You will read in this letter that he is a carter, that it is in this capacity that he carries out the transportation of a certain quantity of merchandise, so much according upon the weight and distance; that he must carry out his journey by such a route and within such a time, barely covering the cost of his service; that this service implies on the part of the carter the responsibility for the losses and damages that result from other causes than force majeure and an inherent defect of the objects; that the price of the vehicle includes or not includes insurance against unforeseen accidents, and a thousand other details which are the hazard of the law and the torment of jurists. This man, I say, in a piece of paper as big as the hand, will reveal to you an infinite order, an inconceivable mixture of empiricism and pure reason, and that all the genius of man, assisted by the experience of the universe, would have been powerless to discover, if man has not left individual existence to enter collective life.

Indeed, these ideas of work, value, exchange, traffic, responsibility, property, solidarity, association, etc., where are the architypes? who provided the exemplars? what is this world half material, half intelligible; half necessity, half fiction? What is this force, called work, which carries us along with ever greater certainty that we believe we are more free? Which of our joys and torments does this collective life, which burns us with an inextinguishable flame, cause? As long as we live, we are, without our being aware of it, and according to the extent of our faculties and the speciality of our industry, the thinking springs, thinking wheels, thinking gears, thinking weights, etc., of an immense machine that thinks and goes by itself. Science, we said, is based on the accord of reason and experience; but it creates neither one nor the other. And here, on the contrary, a science appears to us, in which nothing is given to us, a priori, neither by experience nor by reason; a science in which humanity draws everything from itself, noumenon[52] and phenomena, universals and categories, facts and ideas; a science, finally, which instead of simply consisting, like any other science, of a reasoned description of reality, is the very creation of reality and reason!

Thus the author of economic reason is man; the creator of economic matter is man; the architect of the economic system is again man. After having produced reason and social experience, humanity proceeds to the construction of social science in the same way as for the construction of the natural sciences; it brings together in agreement the reason and the experience it has given itself, and by the most inconceivable marvel, when everything in it takes after utopia, principles and actions, it only comes to know itself by excluding utopia.

Socialism is right in protesting against political economy and saying to it: You are nothing but a routine that does not understand itself. And political economy is right to say to socialism: you are only a utopia without reality or possible application. But both denying in turn, socialism the experience of humanity, political economy the reason of humanity, both lack the essential conditions of human truth.

Social science is the agreement of reason and social practice. Now, this science, of which our masters have only seen rare sparks, will be given to our century to contemplate it in its sublime splendour and harmony!

But what am I doing? Alas! It is a question, at this moment when quackery and prejudice share the world, of raising our hopes. It is not incredulity that we have to fight, it is presumption. Let us start by noting that social science is not finished, that it is still in a state of vague premonition.

“Malthus,” says his excellent biographer, M. Charles Comte, “had the profound conviction that there exists in political economy principles which are true only insofar as they are contained within certain limits; he saw the main difficulties of the science in the frequent combination of complicated causes, in the action and reaction of effects and causes with each other, and in the necessity of setting limits or making exception for many important proposals.”

This is what Malthus thought of political economy, and the work we have published at this moment is only a demonstration of his idea. To this testimony we add another just as worthy of belief. In one of the final sessions of the Academy of Moral Sciences, M. Dunoyer, as a truly superior man, who does not allow himself to be dazzled either by the interest of a clique, nor by the disdain that inspires ignorant opponents, made the same confession with as much candour and nobility as Malthus.

“Political economy, which has a number of certain principles, which rests on a considerable mass of exact facts and well deduced observations, nevertheless seems far from being a set science. There is no complete agreement on the extent of the field in which its research should be extended, nor on the fundamental object which it must suggest. It is not suitable for all the work it embraces, nor the means to which the power of its work is linked, nor the precise meaning to be attached to most of the words that form its vocabulary. The science, rich in truths of detail, leaves a great deal to be desired as a whole, and as a science it still seems far from being constituted.”

M. Rossi goes further than M. Dunoyer: he formulated his judgement in the form of a reprimand addressed to the modern representatives of the science.

“Every thought of method now seemed abandoned in economics,” he cries, “and yet there is no science without method.” (Compte-rendu par M. Rossi du cours de M. Whateley [Report by M. Rossi of M. Whateley’s course])

Messrs. Blanqui, Wolowski, Chevalier, everyone who has glanced every so briefly on the economy of societies speaks the same. And the writer who best appreciates the value of modern utopias, Pierre Leroux, writes on every page of the Revue sociale [Social Review]: “let us seek the solution of the problem of the proletariat; let us keep looking for it until we find it. It is the entire work of our epoch!...” Now, the problem of the proletariat is the constitution of social science. There are only short-sighed economists and fanatical socialists, for whom the science is summed up entirely in a formula, Laissez faire, laisses passer, or else, To each according to his needs as far as social resources allow, who boast of possessing economic science.

What then causes this delay of social truth, which alone maintains the disappointment of the economist and gives credit to the operations of the alleged reformers? The cause, in our opinion, is the separation, already very old, of philosophy and political economy.

Philosophy, that is to say metaphysics, or if it is preferred, logic, is the algebra of society; political economy is the realisation of this algebra. This was not noticed by J.B. Say, nor Bentham, no anyone else who, under the names of economists and utilitarians, created a split in morals and rose against almost at the same time politics and philosophy. And yet, what more secure control can philosophy, the theory of reason, wish for than work, that is, the practice of reason? And conversely, what more certain control could economic science wish than the formulas of philosophy? It is my dearest hope, that the time is not far when the masters in the moral and political sciences will be in the workshops and [behind] counters, as today our most skilful builders are all men formed by a long and arduous apprenticeship…

But on what condition can there be a science?

On the condition of recognising its field of observation and its limits, to determine its object, to organise its method. On this point the economist expresses himself as the philosopher: the words of M. Dunoyer, recounted earlier, seem literally taken from the preface of Jouffroy to the translation of Reid.

The field of observation of philosophy is the self [le moi]; the field of observation of economics is society, that is to say again the self. Do you want to know man, study society; do you want to know society, study man. Man and society reciprocally serve each other as subjects and objects; the parallelism, the synonymy of the two sciences is complete.

But what is this collective and individual self? What is this field of observation, where strange phenomena are going on? To find out, let us look at the analogues.

All the things we think seem to exist, to succeed one another or to be in three transcendent CAPABILITIES, outside of which we can only imagine and conceive absolutely nothing: these are space, time and intelligence.

Just as every material object is conceived by us necessarily in space; just as phenomena, connected with each other by a relationship of causality, seem to follow each other in time; thus our purely abstract representations are recorded by us to a particular receptacle, which we call intellect or intelligence.

Intelligence is in its species an infinite capacity, like space and eternity. There are restless worlds, of numberless organisms with complicated laws, with varied and unexpected effects; equal, for magnificence and harmony, to the worlds sown by the creator through space, to the organisms that shine and die out over time. Politics and political economy, jurisprudence, philosophy, theology, poetry, languages, customs, literature, fine arts: the field of observation of the self is more vast, more fecund, more rich in itself than the double field of observation of nature, space and time.

The self, as well as time and space, is infinite. Man, and what is the product of man, together with the beings thrown through space and the phenomena that follow one another in time, constitutes the triple manifestation of God. These three infinites, indefinite expressions of infinity, penetrate each other and support one another, inseparable and irreducible: space or scale not being conceived without movement, which implies the idea of force, this is to say a spontaneity, a self.

The ideas of things which are presented to us in space form for our imagination tableaus; the ideas which we place objects in time unfold in histories; finally, ideas or relations which do not fall under the category of time or space, and which belong to the intellect, are co-ordinated in systems.

Tableau, history, system, are thus three analogous expressions, or rather equivalents, by which we make known that a certain number of ideas appear to our mind as a symmetrical and perfect whole. That is why these expressions may, in certain cases, be taken for each other, as we have pursued from the beginning of this work, when we presented it as a history of political economy, no longer according to the date of the discoveries, but according to the order of the theories.

We conceive then, and we cannot not conceive of a capacity for things of pure thought, or, as Kant says, for noumena, in the same way that we conceive two others for sense things, for phenomena.

But space and time are nothing real; they are two forms imprinted on the self by external perception. Similarly intelligence is also nothing real: it is a form that the self imposes on itself, by analogy, in the context of the ideas that experience suggests to it.

As for the order of acquisition of ideas, intuitions or images, it seems to us that we start with those whose types or realities are included in space; that we continue by stopping, so to speak, the flight of ideas that time carries, and that we finally discover, with the help of sense perceptions, the ideas or concepts, without external model, which appear to us in this ghost capacity we call our intelligence. Such is the progress of our knowledge: we start from the sense to rise to the abstract; the ladder of our reason has its foot on the earth, crosses the sky and is lost in the depths of the mind.

Let us now reverse this series, and we envision creation as a descent of ideas from the higher sphere of intelligence into the lower spheres of time and space, a fall during which the ideas, originally pure, have taken a body of substratum that realises them and expresses them. From this point of view all created things, the phenomena of nature and the manifestations of humanity, will appear to us as a projection of the mind, immaterial and immutable, on a plane sometimes fixed and straight, space, sometimes inclined and moving, time.

It follows from this that ideas, equal to each other, contemporaneous and co-ordinated in the mind, seem thrown haphazardly, scattered, localised, subordinate and consecutive in humanity and in nature, forming tableaus and histories without resemblance to the original design [dessin primitif]; and all human science consists in finding this conception the abstract system of eternal thought. It is by a restoration of this kind that naturalists have found systems of organised and unorganised beings; it is by the same process that we have tried to re-establish the series of phases of social economy, which society makes us see isolated, incoherent, anarchic. The subject we have untaken is really the natural history of work, according to the fragments collected by the economists; and the system which has resulted from our analysis is true in the same way as the systems of plants discovered by Linné and Jussieu, and the system of animals by Cuvier.

The human self manifested by work is thus the field for the exploration of political economy, a concrete form of philosophy. The identity of these two sciences, or rather these two scepticisms, has been revealed to us throughout the course of this book. Thus the formation of ideas appeared to us in the division of labour as a division of elementary categories; then, we have seen freedom being born from the action of man upon nature, and, following freedom, arise all the relations of man with society and with himself. As a result, economics has been for us at the same time an ontology, a logic, a psychology, a theology, a politics, an aesthetics, a symbolism and a morality…

The field of science recognised, and its operation delimited, we had to recognise its method. Now, the method of economic science is still the same as that of philosophy: the organisation of work, we believe, is nothing but the organisation of common sense…

Among the laws that make up this organisation we have noticed the antinomy.

All true thought, as we have observed, arises in one time and two moments. Each of these moments being the negation of the other, and both of which must disappear only within a superior idea, it follows that antinomy is the very law of life and progress, the principle of perpetual motion. Indeed, if a thing, by virtue of the power of evolution which is in it, is repaired precisely of all that it loses, it follows that this thing is indestructible, and that movement supports it forever. In social economy, what competition is constantly occupied making, monopoly is constantly occupied unmaking; what labour produces, consumption devours; what property appropriates to itself, society gets a hold of: and from this results continuous movement, the unwavering life of humanity. If one of the two antagonistic forces is hindered, [so] that individual activity, for example, succumbs to social authority, organisation degenerates into communism and ends in nothingness. If, on the contrary, individual initiative lacks a counterweight, the collective organism is corrupted, and civilisation crawls under a regime of castes, iniquity and misery.

Antinomy is the principle of attraction and of movement, the reason for equilibrium: it is that which produces passion, and which breaks down all harmony and all accord…

Then comes the law of progression and series, the melody of beings, the law of the beautiful and the sublime. Remove the antinomy, the progress of beings is inexplicable: for where is the force that would produce this progress? Remove the series, the world is no more than a melee of sterile oppositions, a universal turmoil, without purpose and without an idea…

Even if these speculations, for us pure truth, appear doubtful, the application we have made of them would still be of immense utility. Let us think about it: there is not a single moment in life where the same man does not affirm and deny the same principles and theories at the same time, with more or less good faith, no doubt, but also always with plausible reasons, which, without soothing the conscience, suffice to make passion triumph and spread doubt in the mind. Let us leave, if you want, logic: but is it nothing to have illuminated the double face of things, to have learned to be wary of reasoning, of knowing how, the more a man has fairness in ideas and righteousness in the heart, the more he runs the risk of being a dupe and absurd? All our political, religious, economic, etc. misunderstandings come from the inherent contradiction of things; and this is even the source from which flow the corruption of principles, the venality of consciences, the charlatanism of professions of faith, the hypocrisy of opinions…

What is, at present, the object of economics?

The method itself tell us. Antinomy is the principle of attraction and balance in nature; antinomy is therefore the principle of progress and equilibrium in humanity, and the object of economic science is JUSTICE.

Considered in its purely objective relations, the only ones which social economy deals with, justice is expressed in value. Now, what is value? It is the labour performed.

“The real price of everything,” says Mr Smith, “what everything really costs to the man who wants to acquire it, is the toil and trouble of acquiring it… What is bought with money or with goods is purchased by labour as much as what we acquire by the toil of our own body. That money or those goods indeed save us this toil. They contain the value of a certain quantity of labour which we exchange for what is supposed at the time to contain the value of an equal quantity. Labour was the first price, the original purchase-money that was paid for all things. It was not by gold or by silver, but by labour, that all the wealth of the world was originally purchased; and its value, to those who possess it, and who want to exchange it for some new productions, is precisely equal to the quantity of labour which it can enable them to purchase or command.”[53]

But if value is the embodiment of labour, it is at the same time the principle of the comparison of products with one another: hence the theory of proportionality which dominates all economic science, and to which A. Smith would have raised, if it had been in the spirit of his time to pursue, with the aid of logic, a system of experiments.

But how is justice manifested in society, in other words, how is proportionality of values established? Say said it: by an oscillatory movement between value in utility and value in exchange.

Here appears in political economy, with regard to work, its master and all too often its executioner, the arbitral principle.

At the outset of the science, work, devoid of method, without understanding of value, barely stammering its first attempts, appeals to free will to build wealth and set the price of things. From this moment two powers enter into struggle, and the great work of social organisation is inaugurated. For work and free will is what we will later call labour and capital, wage-labour and privilege, competition and monopoly, community and property, plebe and nobility, state and citizen, association and individualism. For anyone who has obtained the first notions of logic, it is obvious that all these oppositions, eternally reborn, must be eternally resolved: now, that is what the economists do not want to hear, to whom the arbitral principle inherent in value seems resistant to all determination; and it is, with the horror of philosophy, what causes the retardation, so fatal to society, of economic science.

“It would be as absurd,” says [John Ramsay] McCulloch, “to speak of absolute height and depth as of absolute value.”

Economists all say the same thing, and we can judge by this example how far they are from each other, and on the nature of value, and on the meaning of the words they use. The absolute expression carries with it the idea of wholeness, perfection, or plenitude, on the basis of precision and accuracy. An absolute majority is a true majority (half plus one), it is not an indefinite majority. In the same way absolute value is the precise value, deduced from the exact comparison of products together: there is nothing in the world so simple. But the consequence of this critical effect is that since values measure one another, they must not oscillate at random: such is the supreme wish of society, such is the significance of political economy itself, which is nothing else, in its totality, but the picture of the contradictions whose synthesis infallibly produces true value.

Thus society is gradually established by a sort of swinging between necessity and arbitrariness, and justice is constituted by theft. Equality does not occur within society as an inflexible standard; it is, like all the great laws of nature, an abstract point, which oscillates continually above and below, through arcs more of less large, more or less regular. Equality is the supreme law of society; but it is not a fixed form, it is the average of an infinity of equations. That is how equality appeared to us from the first epoch of economic evolution, the division of labour; and such has been constantly manifested from the legislation of Providence.

Adam Smith, who had a kind of intuition on almost all the great problems of social economy, after having recognised labour as the principle of value and described the magical effects of the law of division, observes that, notwithstanding the increase of the produce resulting from this division, the wages of the worker do not increase; that often, on the contrary, they diminish, the gains of collective force not going to the worker, but to the master.

“The profits of stock, it may perhaps be thought are only a different name for the wages of a particular sort of labour, the labour of inspection and direction. They are, however, altogether different, are regulated by quite different principles, and bear no proportion to the quantity, the hardship, or the ingenuity of this supposed labour of inspection and direction. They are regulated altogether by the value of the stock employed, and are greater or smaller in proportion to the extent of this stock... In this state of things, the whole produce of labour does not always belong to the labourer. He must in most cases share it with the owner.”[54]

That, A. Smith tells us coldly, is how things happen: everything for the master, nothing for the worker. Whether we call it injustice, plunder, theft, the economist is not moved. The robber proprietor seems to him in all this as an automaton as the worker is robbed. And the proof that they deserve neither envy nor pity is that the workers only demand when they are dying of hunger; it is that no capitalist, entrepreneur or proprietor, neither during life nor at the moment of death, has felt the slightest remorse. They accuse ignorant and distorted public consciousness; they may be right, they may be wrong. A. Smith limits himself to reporting the facts, which is much better for us that declamations.

So by designating amongst workers a select [privilégié], nazarœum inter fratres tuos, social reason personified collective force. Society proceeds by myths and allegories. The history of civilisation is a vast symbolism. Homer summarises heroic Greece; Jesus Christ is suffering humanity, striving with effort, in a long and painful agony, to freedom, to justice, to virtue. Charlemagne is the feudal type; Roland, chivalry; Peter the Hermit, the crusades; Gregory VII, the papacy; Napoleon, the French Revolution. In the same way the industrial entrepreneur, who exploits a capital by a group of workers, is the personification of the collective force whose profit he absorbs, as the flywheel of a machine stores force. This is really the heroic man, the king of work. Political economy is a whole symbolism, property is a religion.

Let is follow A. Smith, whose luminous ideas, scattered in an obscure clutter, seem a repetition [deutérose] of primitive revelation.

“As soon as the land of any country has all become private property, the landlords, like all other men, love to reap where they never sowed, and demand a rent even for its natural produce. The wood of the forest, the grass of the field, and all the natural fruits of the earth, which, when land was in common, cost the labourer only the trouble of gathering them, come, even to him, to have an additional price fixed upon them. He must then pay for the licence to gather them; and must give up to the landlord a portion of what his labour either collects or produces [without him].”[55]

Here is monopoly, here is interest on capital, here is [economic] rent! A. Smith, like all the enlightened, sees and does not understand; he recounts and has not the intelligence. He speaks under the inspiration of God without surprise and without pity; and the meaning of his words remain for him a closed letter. With what calm he recounts proprietor usurpation! As long as the land seems good for nothing, as long as labour has not loosened, fertilised, utilised, created VALUE [mise en VALEUR], property gives it no thought. The hornet does not alight on the flowers, it falls upon the hives. What the worker produces is immediately taken; the worker is like a hunting dog in the master’s hand.

A slave, exhausted from work, invents the plough. With a hardened wooden hook dragged by a horse, he opens the ground, rendering him capable of making ten times, a hundred times more. The master, at a glance, grasps the importance of the discovery: he seizes the land, he appropriates the revenue, he attributes the idea to himself, and makes himself adored by the mortals for this magnificent gift. He walks the equal of the gods: his wife is a nymph, Ceres; and he is Triptolemus. Poverty invents, and property reaps. For genius must remain poor: abundance would smother it. The greatest service that property has rendered to the world is this perpetual affliction of labour and genius.

But what to do with these heaps of grain? What a poor wealth [is] that which the boss shares with his horses, his oxen and his slaves! It is well worth being rich, if all the advantage consists of being able to gnaw a few more handfuls of rice and barley!...

An old woman, having pounded grain for her toothless mouth, realises that the dough soured, fermented, and cooked under the ashes, gives a food incomparably better than raw or grilled wheat. Miracle! The daily bread is discovered. – Another, having pressing into a jar a mass of dropped grapes, intends to boil the mash on the flame; the liquor spews out its impurities; it gleams, ruddy, bountiful, immortal. Evoe! it is the young Bacchus, the darling son of the proprietor, a child beloved of the gods, who has found it. What the master could not have devoured in a few weeks, a year will suffice for him to drink. The vine, like the harvest, like the earth, is appropriated.

What is to be done with these countless fleeces that each year provides such a large tribute? When the proprietor would raise his bed to be worthy of his pavilion, when he would duplicate thirty times his sumptuous tent, this useless luxury would do nothing but attest his impotence. He abounds in goods and he cannot enjoy; what a mockery!

A shepherdess, left naked by the avarice of the master, collects from the bushes some wool fibres. She twisted this wool, stretching it into equal and fine threads, gathering them on a spear, crisscrossing them, and making herself a soft and light dress, a thousand times more elegant than the patched skins that cover his scornful mistress. It is Arachne, the weaver, who created this marvel! Immediately the master begins to shear the hair of his sheep, his camels and his goats; he gives his wife a troop of slaves, who spin and weave under his orders. It is no longer Arachne, the humble servant; it is Pallas, the daughter of the proprietor, whom the gods have inspired, and whose jealously avenges itself on Arachne by causing her to die of hunger.

What a sight this incessant struggle of labour and privilege, the first created everything out of nothing; the other always arriving to devour what it has not produced! – It is because the destiny of man is a continuous march. It is necessary that he work, that he create, multiply, perfect forever and forever. Let the worker enjoy his discovery; he falls asleep on his idea: his intelligence no longer advances. This is the secret of this iniquity which struck A. Smith, and against which, however, the unemotional historian did not find a word of reprobation. He felt, although he could not realise it, that the touch of God was there; that until the day when labour fills the earth, civilisation is driven by unproductive consumption, and that it is by rapine that fraternity is gradually established between men.

Man must work! That is why at the advice of Providence, theft was instituted, organised, sanctified! If the proprietor had tired of taking it, the proletarian would have soon be tired of producing, and savagery, hideous misery, was at the door. The Polynesian, amongst whom property has been aborted, and who enjoys in an entire community of property and love, why would he work? The earth and beauty are for everyone, children to anyone: what do you say to him about morals, dignity, personality, philosophy, progress? And without going so far, the Corsican, who is found for six months living and residing under his chestnut tree, why do you want him to work? What does he care for your conscription, your railways, your tribune, your press? What else does he need but to sleep when he has eaten his chestnuts? A prefect of Corsica said that to civilise this island it was necessary to chop down the chestnut trees. A more certain way is to appropriate them.

But already the proprietor is no longer strong enough to devour the substance of the worker: he calls his favourites, his jesters, his lieutenants, his accomplices. It is again Smith who reveals this wonderful conspiracy.

“In the progress of the manufacture, not only the number of profits increase, but every subsequent profit is greater than the foregoing; because the capital from which it is derived must always be greater. In raising the price of commodities the rise of wages operates in the same manner as simple interest does in the accumulation of debt. The rise of profit operates like compound interest. If in the linen manufacture, for example, the wages of the different working people, the flax-dressers, the spinners, the weavers, etc., should, all of them, be advanced two-pence a day; it would be necessary to heighten the price of a piece of linen only by a number of two-pences equal to the number of people that had been employed about it, multiplied by the number of days during which they had been so employed. That part of the price of the commodity which resolved itself into wages would, through all the different stages of the manufacture, rise only in arithmetical proportion to this rise of wages. But if the profits of all the different employers of those working people should be raised five per cent, that part of the price of the commodity which resolved itself into profit would, through all the different stages of the manufacture, rise in geometrical proportion to this rise of profit. The employer of the flaxdressers would in selling his flax require an additional five per cent upon the whole value of the materials and wages which he advanced to his workmen. The employer of the spinners would require an additional five per cent both upon the advanced price of the flax and upon the wages of the spinners. And the employer of the weavers would require a like five per cent both upon the advanced price of the linen yarn and upon the wages of the weavers.”[56]

This vivid description of the economic hierarchy, starting with the Jupiter-proprietor, and ending with the slave. From labour, its division, the distinction of the master and the wage-worker, the monopoly of capital, arises a caste of landlords, financiers, entrepreneurs, bourgeois, masters and supervisors, labouring to consume rents, to collect usury, to squeeze the worker, and above all to exercise policing [d’exercer la police[57]], the most terrible form of exploitation and misery. The invention of politics and laws is exclusively due to property: Numa and Egeria, Tarquin and Tanaquil, as well as Napoleon and Charlemagne, were noble. Regum tirnendorum in proprios greges, regel in ipsos irnperium est lavis, says Horace. One would say a legion of infernal spirits, rushing from every corner of hell to torment a poor soul. Pull him by his chain, take away his sleep and food; beat, burn, torture, without rest, without pity! For if the worker were spared, if we did him justice, nothing would remain for us, and we would perish.

O God! what crime has this unfortunate man committed, that you abandon him to the guards who distribute blows to him with such a liberal hand, and subsistence with a hand so miserly? … And you, proprietors, Providence’s chosen rulers, do not go beyond the prescribed measure, because rage is rising in the heart of your servant, and his eyes are red with blood.

A revolt of the workers wrings a concession from the pitiless masters. Happy day, deep joy! Work is free. But what freedom, for heaven’s sake! Freedom for the proletarian is the ability to work, that is, of being robbed again; or not to work, that is to say to die to hunger! Freedom only benefits strength: by competition, capital crushes labour everywhere and converts industry into a vast coalition of monopolies. For the second time, the plebeian worker is on her knees before the aristocracy; she has neither the possibility, nor even the right to discuss her salary.

“Masters,” says the oracle, “are always and everywhere in a sort of tacit, but constant and uniform league, not to raise wages above their existing rate. To violate this rule is an act of a false-friend. And by abhorrent legislation, this league is tolerated, while the coalitions of workers are severely punished.”[58]

And why this new iniquity, which the unalterable serenity of Smith could not help declaring abhorrent? Would such a crying injustice have been even necessary and that, without this favouritism [acception de personnes], fate would have been in error and Providence thwarted? Will we find means of justifying, with monopoly, this partial policing of the human race?

Why not, if we want to rise above societal sentimentalism, and consider higher facts, the force of things, the intimate law of civilisation?

What is labour? What is privilege?

Labour, analogous to creative activity, without awareness of itself, indeterminate, barren, as long as the idea, the law does not penetrate, labour is the crucible where value is elaborated, the great matrix of civilisation, the passive or female principle of society. – Privilege, emanating from free will, is the electric spark that determines individualisation, the freedom that realises, the authority that commands, the mind that deliberates, the self that governs.

The relation of labour and privilege is thus a relation of the female to the male, of the wife to the husband. Amongst all peoples, the adultery of the woman has always seemed more reprehensible than that of the man; it was consequently subjected to more rigorous penalties. Those who, stopping at the atrocity of forms, forget the principle and see only the barbarism exercised towards the sex, are politicisers of romances worthy of appearing in the stories of the author of Lélia. Any indiscipline of workers is comparable to adultery committed by woman. Is it not obvious then that, if the same favour on the part of the courts were to accept the complaint of the worker and that of the master, the hierarchical link, outside which humanity cannot live, would be broken, and the entire economy of society ruined?

Judge moreover by the facts. Compare the physiognomy of a workers’ strike with the march of a coalition of entrepreneurs. There, distrust of the proper law, agitation, turbulence, outside screaming and trembling, inside terror, spirit of submission and desire for peace. Here, on the contrary, calculated resolution, feeling of strength, certainty of success, calmness in execution. Where, in your opinion, is power? where is the organic principle? where is life? Without doubt society owes assistance and protection to all: I do not plead here the cause of the oppressors of humanity; may the vengeance of heaven crush them! But the education of the proletarian must be accomplished. The proletarian is Hercules arriving at immortality through work and virtue: but what would Hercules do without the persecution of Eurystheus?

Who are you? asked Pope Saint Leo of Attila, when this destroyer of nations came to set his camp before Rome.

“I am the scourge of God,” replied the barbarian. “We receive with gratitude,” continued the pope, “all that comes from God: but you, take care not to do anything that is not commanded of you!”

Proprietors, who are you?...

Weirdest thing, property, attacked on all sides in the name of charity, of justice, of social economy, has never known how to respond for its justification other than these words: I am because I am. I am the negation of society, the plundering of the worker, the right of the unproductive, the right of the strongest [la raison du plus fort], and none can live if I do not devour him.

This appalling enigma has made the most sagacious intelligences despair.

“In that original state of things, which precedes both the appropriation of land and the accumulation of stock, the whole produce of labour belongs to the labourer. He has neither landlord nor master to share with him. Had this state continued, the wages of labour would have augmented with all those improvements in its productive powers, to which the division of labour gives occasion. [...] They would have been produced by a smaller quantity of labour [...] they would have been purchased likewise with the produce of a smaller quantity.”[59]

So says A. Smith. And his commentator adds:

“I can well understand how the right of appropriating, under the name of interest, profit or rent, the product of other individuals becomes nourishment for greed; but I cannot imagine that by diminishing the reward of the worker to add to the opulence of the idle man, we can increase industry or accelerate the progress of society in wealth.”[60]

The reason for this deduction, which neither Smith nor his commentator has seen, we will repeat, so that the inexorable law that governs human society is again and for the last time brought to light.

To divide labour is to make only a production of pieces: for there to be value, a composition is needed. Before the institution of property, each is a master to take from the ocean the water from which he draws salt for his food, to gather the olive from which he will extract his oil, to collect the ore which contains iron and gold. Each is free to exchange some of what he has collected against an equivalent quantity of provisions made by another: so far, we do not go beyond the sacred right of work and the community of the earth. Now, if I have the right to use, either by my personal labour or by exchange, all the products of nature; and if the possession thus obtained is entirely legitimate, I have the same right to combine, from the various elements which I obtain by labour and exchange, a new product, which is my property, and which I have the right to enjoy exclusively of any other. I can, for example, by means of the salt from which I extract soda, and the oil I draw from the olive and sesame, to make a specific composition to clean linen, and which will be for me, from the point of view of cleanliness and hygiene, a precious utility. I can even reserve for myself the secret of this composition, and consequently take, by means of exchange, a legitimate profit.

Now, what is the difference, under relation of right, between the manufacture of an ounce of soap and that of a million kilograms? Does the greater or lesser quantity change anything of the morality of the operation? So property, as well as commerce, as well as labour, is a natural right, of whose exercise nothing in the world can steal from me.

But, by the very fact that I compose a product which is my exclusive property, as well as the materials that constitute it, it follows that a workshop, an exploitation of men is organised by me; that profits accumulate in my hands to the detriment of all who enter into business relations with me; and that if you wish to substitute yourself for me in my enterprise, quite naturally I will stipulate for myself a rent. You will possess my secret, you will manufacture in my place, you will turn my mill, you will reap my field, you will pick my vine, but at a quarter, a third, or half share.

All this is a necessary and indissoluble chain; there is no serpent or devil here; it is the very law of the thing, the dictum of common sense. In commerce, plundering is identical to exchange; and what is really surprising is that a regime like this one does not excuse itself only by the good faith of the parties, it is commanded by justice.

A man buys from his neighbour the collier a sack of coal, from the grocer a quantity of sulphur from Etna. He makes a mixture to which he adds a portion of saltpetre, sold by the druggist. From all this results an explosive powder, of which a hundred pounds would suffice to wreck a citadel. Now, I ask, the woodcutter who charred the wood, the Sicilian shepherd who picked up the sulphur, the sailor who transported it, the commission agent from Marseilles who reshipped it, the merchant who sold it, are they complicit in the disaster? Is there any interdependence [solidarité] between them, I’m not saying in its use, but in the manufacture of this powder?

Now, if it is impossible to discover the least connection of action between the various individuals who, each without his knowledge, have co-operated in the production of the powder, it is clear, for the same reason, that there is no more connection and interdependence [solidarité] between them as to the profits of the sale, and that the gain which may result from its use also belongs exclusively to the inventor, that the punishment, to which he might become liable for as a result of crime or imprudence, is personal to him. Property is identical to responsibility: we cannot affirm the one, without granting at the same time the other.

But admire the unreason of reason! The same property, legitimate, irreproachable in its origin, constitutes in its use a flagrant iniquity; and this, without adding any element which modifies it, but by the mere development of the principle.

Let us take as a whole the products that industry and agriculture bring to the market. These products, such as powder and soap, are all, to some degree, the result of a combination of materials which were drawn from the general store. The price of these products invariably consists, firstly of the wages paid to the different categories of workers, secondly, of the profits demanded by the entrepreneurs and capitalists. So that society is divided into two classes of people: 1) entrepreneurs, capitalists and proprietors, who have the monopoly of all objects of consumption; 2) employees or workers, who can offer only half of what these are worth, which makes their consumption, circulation and reproduction impossible.

Adam Smith tells us in vain:

“It is but equity, besides, that they who feed, clothe, and lodge the whole body of the people, should have such a share of the produce of their own labour as to be themselves tolerably well fed, clothed, and lodged.”[61]

How could this be achieved, except with the dispossession of the monopolists? And how can monopoly be prevented if it is a necessary effect of the free exercise of the industrial faculty? The justice that Adam Smith wants to establish is impractical in the regime of property. Now, if justice is impractical, if it becomes actual injustice, and if this contradiction is internal to the nature of things [intime à la nature des choses], what is the use of even speaking of equity and humanity? Does Providence know equity, or whether fate is philanthropic? It is not to destroy monopoly, any more than labour, which we must reach; it is, by a synthesis which the contradiction of monopoly renders inevitable, to make it produce in the interests of all the goods which it [currently] reserves for some. Outwith of this solution Providence remains insensitive to our tears; fate inflexibly follows its path; and while we, gravely seated, argue over the just and the unjust, God who has made us contradictory like himself in our thoughts, contradictory in our actions, answers us with a burst of laughter.

It is this essential contradiction of our ideas that, being realised by labour and expressing itself in society with a gigantic power, makes everything happen in the inverse direction of what it must be, and gives society the appearance of a tapestry seen in reverse or an inverted animal. Man, by the division of labour and by machinery, was to gradually rise to science and to liberty; and by division, by the machine he stupefies himself and becomes a slave. Tax, says the theory, must be as a result of wealth; and quite the contrary tax is because of poverty. The unproductive must obey, and by a bitter mockery the unproductive command. Credit, according to the etymology of its name, and according to its theoretical definition, is the provider of labour; in practice, it squeezes and kills it. Property, in the spirit of its most beautiful prerogative, is the extension of land; and in the exercise of this same prerogative, property is the prohibition of land. In all its categories political economy reproduces the contradiction and the religious idea. The life of man, affirms philosophy, is a perpetual emancipation from animality and nature, a struggle against God. In religious practice, life is the struggle of man against himself, the absolute submission of society to a superior Being. Love God with all your heart, the Gospel tells us, and hate your spirit [âme] for eternal life: precisely the opposite of what reason commands…

I will not push this summary further. Having reached the end of my journey, my ideas are pressing in such a multitude and vehemence, that already I would need a new book to recount what I have discovered, and that, in spite of the oratorical expedience, I see no other means of finishing than to stop abruptly. If I am not mistaken, the reader ought to be convinced at least of one thing, that social truth cannot be found either in utopia or in routine: that political economy is not the science of society, but contains, in itself, the materials of that science, in the same way that chaos before the creation contained the elements of the universe. The fact is that, to arrive at a definite organisation, which appears to be the destiny of the race on this planet, there is nothing left but to make a general equation of our contradictions.

But what will be the formula of this equation?

We already foresee that there should be a law of exchange, a theory of MUTUALITY, a system of guaranties which determines the old forms of our civil and commercial societies, and gives satisfaction to all the conditions of efficiency, progress and justice which the critics have pointed out; a society no longer merely conventional, but real, which makes of the subdivision of real estate a scientific instrument; that will abolish the servitude of the machines, and may prevent the coming of crises; that makes of competition a benefit, and of monopoly a pledge of security for all; which by the strength of its principles, instead of making credit of capital and protection of the State, puts capital and the State to work; which by the sincerity of exchange, creates a real solidarity among the nations; which without forbidding individual initiative, without prohibiting domestic economy, continuously restores to society the wealth which is diverted by appropriation; which by the ebb and flow of capital, assures political and industrial equality of the citizenry, and, through a vast system of public education, secures the equality of functions and the equivalence of aptitudes, by continuously raising their level; which through justice, well being and virtue, revives the human conscience, assures the harmony and the equality of the people; a society, in a word, which, being at the same time organisation and transition, escapes what has taken place, guarantees everything and compels nothing…

The theory of mutuality, or of mutuum, that is to say, the natural form of exchange, of which the most simple form is loan for consumption, is, from the point of view of the collective existence, the synthesis of the two ideas of property and of communism [communauté], a synthesis as old as the elements of which it is constituted, since it is nothing more than the return of society to its primitive custom, through the maze of inventions and of systems, the result of a meditation of six thousand years on the fundamental proposition that A equals A.

Everything today is making ready for this solemn restoration; everything proclaims that the reign of fiction has passed, and that society will return to the sincerity of its nature. Monopoly is inflated to world-wide proportions, but a monopoly which encompasses the world cannot remain exclusive; it must republicanise itself or be destroyed. Hypocrisy, venality, prostitution, theft, form the foundation of the public conscience; but, unless humanity learns to live upon what kills it, we must believe that justice and expiation approach....

Already socialism, feeling the error in its utopias, turns to realities and to facts, it laughs at itself in Paris, it discusses in Berlin, in Cologne, in Leipzig, in Breslau; it murmurs in England, it thunders on the other side of the ocean; it commits suicide in Poland, it tries to govern in Berne and in Lausanne. Socialism, in pervading the masses, has become entirely different: the people will not bother about the honour of schools; they ask for work, education, well being, equality; the system does not matter so much, provided that the result is obtained. But when the people want something and it is only a question of finding out how to obtain it, the discovery does not wait; prepare yourself to see the coming of the grand masquerade.

Let the priest finally get it his head that poverty is a sin, and that true virtue, that renders us worthy of eternal life, is to fight against religion and against God; – that the philosopher, lowering his pride, supercilium philosophicum, learns on his part that reason is society, and that to philosophise is to work with his hands; – that the artist may remember that he once descended from Olympus into Christ’s stable, and that from this stable, he rose suddenly to unknown splendours; that as well as Christianity, labour must regenerate it; – that the capitalist thinks that silver and gold are not true values; that by the sincerity of exchange all products amount to the same dignity, each producer will have in his house a mint [un hôtel des monnaies], and, as the fiction of the productivity of capital has plundered the worker, so organised labour will absorb capital; – that the proprietor knows that he is only the collector of society’s [economic] rents, and that if he could once, under the guise of war, put a prohibition on the soil, the proletarian can in his turn, by association, put a prohibition on harvesting, and make property expire in the void; – that the prince and his proud cortege, his soldiers, his judges, his councillors, his peers, and all the army of the unproductive, hasten to cry Thanks! to the agricultural and industrial worker [au laboureur et à l'industriel], because the organisation of labour is synonymous with the subordination of power, that it depends on the worker abandoning the unproductive to his indigence, and to destroy power in shame and hunger.

All these things will happen, not as unforeseen, unhoped novelties, a sudden effect of the passions of the people, or of the skill of a few men, but by the spontaneous return of society to an immemorial practice, momentarily abandoned, and rightly so…

Humanity, in its oscillatory march, turns incessantly upon itself: its progress is only the rejuvenation of its traditions; its systems, so opposite in appearance, always exhibit the same basis [fond], seen from different sides. Truth, in the movement of civilisation, always remains the same, always old and always new: religion, philosophy, science merely translate. And this is precisely what constitutes Providence and the infallibility of human reason; which ensures, in the very heart of progress, the immutability of our being; which renders society at once unalterable in its essence and irresistible in its revolutions; and which, continually extending perspective, always showing from afar the latest solution, establishes the authority of our mysterious premonitions.

Reflecting on these battles of humanity, I involuntarily recall that, in Christian symbolism, the militant Church must succeed on the final day a triumphant Church, and the system of social contradictions appears to me like a magic bridge, thrown over the river of oblivion.

11 notes · View notes