#Prop Trading Companies | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

justdiptych · 1 year ago

Text

There's a scene in Fallout: New Vegas that I find really interesting in how it uses skill checks in dialogue. A merchant company, the Crimson Caravan, want to buy out one of their rivals, Cassidy Caravans, and they hire the player character to negotiate the deal. The player has likely already met the rival company's owner, Rose of Sharon Cassidy, by this point - in fact, it's entirely possible that she suggested they ask the Crimson Caravan for work in the first place.

Cass is propping up the bar at a truck stop on the border near the game's opening area. She's heard that her caravan has been destroyed in her absence - her employees killed and their wagons burned in an attack on the road - but she can't investigate because of a bureaucratic hold-up. The man in charge of the border post, Ranger Jackson, has halted all commercial traffic across the border because of dangers on the roads - wild animals, bandits, and enemy soldiers - that the authorities are struggling to get under control.

When the player brings the Crimson Caravan's offer to Cass, she refuses on principle. Her business may have effectively been destroyed, but she's too proud and too stubborn to sell her surname for any number of messes of pottage. Convincing her requires that the player employs one of either their Speech or Barter skills - there are two options for each, requiring either moderate or high investments of skill points. Skill and Barter are the game's two Charisma-based skills, and it's not uncommon for them to appear side-by-side like this, but here, they diverge in application.

The easier Speech option is simple - the player just reminds Cass that, if she sells the business, she won't be commercial traffic anymore, so she'll be able to get across the border. She's itching to get on the road again, so this convinces her. (She will ask the player to help Jackson clear the roads for the benefit of her fellow merchants, but this is a very simple quest that they likely already completed hours ago.)

The more challenging Speech check is to tell Cass that there's no way her business can survive, so it's her duty to do the merciful thing - shoot it in the head, bury it, and move on with her life. This, naturally, brings her close to socking the player in the jaw, but she sees the truth in it. She's been holding onto the forlorn hope that there might be something left to save, but she really has lost everything. This bypasses Jackson's quest - she just wants to walk out and not look back.

The Barter options approach things differently - from the Speech options, and from each other. The more challenging one involves making some sport of the offer, challenging Cass to a drinking contest. The player has to supply the booze, and they run the risk of getting embarrassingly drunk if their Endurance stat is too low, but, either way, this will impress Cass enough that she'll sign the contract.

The easier Barter option, though, is, I think, the most interesting. It requires the player to sweeten the deal with their own money - a not insubstantial amount of it, in fact. Cass is still hesitant, though, which allows the player to make a very interesting point. With the money from the Crimson Caravan plus the player's contribution, she'd have enough to restart her business - buy new animals and equipment, hire a new crew, start trading again.

Further, the player can point out that the Crimson Caravan are unlikely to continue using the 'Cassidy Caravans' name after buying it. They're only buying her out to try to monopolise local trade, after all. If they don't use the name, they'll forfeit their rights to it - meaning that Cass can, as she puts it, take their money, give them nothing, and go back to running her business as if the attack never happened.

Cass, naturally, accepts this offer, though she's staggered that the player is so willing to sell out their employers to help her like this. (The player needn't feel any moral misgivings about doing so. A little investigation reveals that the attack on Cass's business was actually engineered by the Crimson Caravan themselves, in collusion with a crime family, in a conspiracy to wipe out their competition.)

I think this entire interaction represents how well New Vegas uses skill checks. Barter, in RPGs, is often a very barebones skill. Its use is letting the player earn more and spend less - as part of an equation determining shop prices, or in dialogue options that boil down to asking for money. It's not uncommon for Speech to be the skill of the peaceful, benevolent diplomat, while Barter is for common mercenaries.

Here, though, the Barter options actually cost more than their Speech equivalents. The player ends up out of pocket for a sizable chunk of change or at least a lot of booze. Instead, the Barter skill represents the character's understanding of common business practices and relevant laws. It allows them to convince Cass to accept a deal by finding a loophole that benefits her more than if she refused.

The equivalent Speech options, meanwhile, are effectively free, but do involve making Cass feel that little bit worse. They emphasise what she's lost, how trapped she is by her circumstances, and convince her to give up and let the Crimson Caravan win. In the long run, this doesn't make a real difference - once she leaves the outpost, she and the player can discover the conspiracy and get their revenge either way - but I think the choice does let the player say something about their character.

Part of the brilliance of this game is how little details, like Cass being stuck at the outpost, tie into other details all across the story. Caravan traffic is halted, in part, because deathclaws have nested near the roads to the north. They've nested there because the local quarry has ceased operations - the noise caused by the digging and blasting had previously scared them off.

The quarry closed down because escaped convicts raided it and stole the workers' stash of mining explosives. The convicts escaped because the government was using them for forced labour on the railroads, and foolishly entrusted them with enough dynamite to stage an uprising, seize control of the prison, and turn it into a fortress and a base of operations for banditry.

Similarly, the threads of Cass's story spread outwards, ultimately affecting the entire future of New California. When she learns that the Crimson Caravan and their allies killed her friends, Cass is furious. She wants to march over there and beat the snot out of the people responsible. The player can convince her to instead settle things legally - get proof of their crimes, pass them on to Ranger Jackson, and hope the justice system gets revenge for her.

If Cass does things her way, the criminals pay with their lives, but their bosses end up better off for it. With their regional execs murdered, the trading companies can claim that the government isn't doing enough to protect them - so, they don't have to support the government's interests, either. They withdraw trade, demand special treatment, and end up making their shortfall everyone's problem.

If the legal option is pursued, though, the evidence becomes blackmail material. The government has the trading companies over a barrel, and that lets them pass stricter trade laws. Given the choice of accepting regulation or facing criminal investigation, the crooked execs choose to stay out of jail. Those responsible for the murders technically avoid justice, but their hopes of a monopoly are dashed - and their superiors are unlikely to be pleased with them having hurt long-term profits so badly.

Cass's story is political and economical all the way through. It's about the influence of wealth on government, and the fundamental injustices of the carceral system. It's about revenge, and reform, and how to hit people where it hurts - their bottom line. And it's about how, sometimes, skills in an RPG aren't about making numbers go up - they're about how a character understands the world around them, and how they can apply that understanding to help someone out of a jam, or help reshape the trade lines of a whole nation.

#vidyo games #fallout #fallout: new vegas

3K notes · View notes

ew-selfish-art · 1 year ago

Text

Dpxdc AU: consultant groups can be used to outsource problems for companies so why not monarchies?

Danny is listening to the various eyeballs and ghosts chatter on about all the issues that he now has to oversee and advise and make so many freaking decisions on. It’s annoying that it all has to come down to his call because he was a dumb 14 year old who didn’t want his town to permanently live in the ghost zone.

Now 17, King of the Infinite, and a bit wiser to the world, Danny is doing his best to balance his teenage ambitions to not give a shit and his protective obsession to very much give a shit.

Sams parents are making her learn the family business and Tucker is trying to make this internship he’s got with a fancy tech company out of New Jersey into a career without college… so while they’re commiserating with Danny the idea comes up.

Earth has a shit ton of heroes. Like, ever since the Justice League *poofed* the GIW out of existence with the Meta human acts- more and more caped crusaders seemed to be coming out of the wood work. More villains too but still, more people who seemed wise to their abilities and morals. Danny has literally never taken an ethics class.

But rn, Eye-mothy and Eye-Bert are arguing over how Danny as King Phantom is supposed to tackle the problem of some fucking pool acting as a weird trade route with a cult and… ugh it’s just so boring but like also such a fucking problem. But… maybe it can be someone else’s issue.

Opening a portal, Danny escapes into space and gets to work finding the base of operations- Tucker had told him there was a new satellite after all and there’s no way it wasn’t connected to the hero orgs- and boom he flies into the Watchtower.

“Hey- are any of you guys willing to consult on some weird pools of ectoplasm in Pakistan? Green and glowing little lakes of bullshit and magic?�� Danny asks into the meeting room of the JL regardless of their startled and alarmed exclamations.

“… I could consult on that.” A voice comes from the corner, and Danny recognizes him as one of the bat people. Or bird? The guy is in a lot of red and clearly wasn’t supposed to be in this meeting based on the way he’s propped in the corner. The room erupts in protest but Danny barely hears them through his excitement and focus on the dude.

“Great! I’ll have him back before the end of the day! Lets go Bird boy!” And with that, Danny grabbed the Bird, chucked them both through a portal back into his thrown room and begins to explain the way these eyeballs are totally trying to trap him into doing more work than he needs to do.

“What do I call you by the way? I’m Danny but you’ll probably hear them call me King Phantom.”

“I go by Red Robin, and honestly, I’ve been trying to get this shit taken care of for years.”

From there Tim becomes a regular consultant for King Phantom- the Bat Family is losing their minds with him constantly going to the land of the dead but also Constantine said not to piss off the king at all costs.

Danny is just thrilled that this dude has a shit ton of insight as well as business sense- like he could legit run the monarchy way better than him despite the fact that they’re the same age.

They end up working together for years, and even when there’s not an active issue at hand, Danny will meet up with the bird just to talk.

Sam and Tucker think they’re hilarious each time they ask if Danny’s proposed yet.

Tim has already planned their wedding but all of that information is in a folder more secured than the nuclear codes- Danny needs to ask him on a date first.

#dcxdp #dpxdc #dc x dp #dp x dc #danny phantom #Tim drake #dead tired #dc crossover #dp crossover #ehehehehe #also him just grabbing any random hero to help on any issue their power set might help to advise #danny outsourcing his issues is my favorite headcanon #boy wants to be helpful but also like is begging to just have one lazy Sunday #Tim drake is like ‘why would I not help run a monarchy in my spare time from running a Fortune 500 company and being a vigilante?’#tim drake is a menace #he’s what the eyeballs have nightmares about and they didn’t even think they could have nightmares

6K notes · View notes

bluebeary-jay · 11 months ago

Text

Hold me close and hold me fast

Hi, my darling @always-andromeda!! I'm your secret santa from the space sisters server 🥰 I hope you're having a fantastic day and will enjoy what I wrote for you 💕 I tried to mix fluff and angst into your Joel prompt and it was tricker than I thought it'd be but hopefully I did it justice 😌 I wish you all that's best and happy holidays!!

Summary: It's been a long time since Joel was in any relationship and because of that he has absolutely no clue how to react to your affections. It culminates into an angsty conversation which he wanted to avoid at all costs.

Tags: tooth-rotting fluff, fluff and angst, soft and shy Joel, hurt/comfort, established relationship 💕

Word count: 3.3K

A/N: dividers by @saradika, beta read by @reddedmiller ❤️

Twenty years ago, when the apocalypse started and Joel Miller lost his only daughter, he was certain that he’d never feel happy again. Time didn’t heal his wounds – he still thought like that when he was fighting for survival with Tommy, then when he was doing side jobs with Tess in the QZ… It was never going to get better.

But somehow, as he looked up at the massive tree he just helped the others set up in the middle of the square in Jackson, he realized that it could. It did. Now Joel had a home here. He had his brother back, he had Ellie whom he cared for like his own kid and he had a community that welcomed him into Jackson, people who didn’t know about the horrible things he’d done and therefore didn’t hate him.

“Hi, handsome,” he heard from behind his back and turned around to the most beautiful face in the world – the main source of his newfound happiness. You. His girl. “Are you done with work?”

He nodded with a small smile gracing his lips. You were the newest addition to Joel’s life, but the most precious one in his eyes. Unlike everyone else in Jackson (excluding his brother), you knew all about the sins he’s committed. And yet, you still chose him. Every day you continued to choose him, to envelop him with the warmth of your love which Joel wasn’t sure he deserved.

He’d never tell you, though. Not as long as you kept him in your heart.

“Yeah, no, we’re done. M’pretty sure my back will blow if I have to pick up or carry one more damn thing.”

Right at that moment Tommy walked by with another box full of tree ornaments in his arms, and huffed a laugh when he heard his brother complaining.

“Jesus, Joel, you really are gettin’ old.” He put down the heavy box on the snow and sighed, propping his hands on his hips and nodding at you. “You sure you’ll be able to put up with this grump?”

“Positive.” You climbed onto your tip-toes to press a kiss to Joel’s cheek, and he felt his skin growing hot under your lips. He turned his head to hide the embarrassment evident on his face, missing the slight furrow of your brows, but not missing a hearty laugh his brother let out.

“Aww, is the big, scary man gettin’ all shy from a little kiss on the cheek?”

“Get lost, Tommy.”

Tommy chuckled and bent down to pick up the box again. “By the way, you two have any plans for today? We’re makin’ a screening of some Christmas movies for the kids, and after that the adults will head to the bar. You should come.”

“Well, if you want to?” you directed the careful question to Joel, but he shook his head just slightly, causing you to smile. “But we actually have other plans for tonight.”

That was true, and there was no way Joel would trade those precious hours spent in your company for having to sit – or worse, dance – in a loud room full of half-drunk people.

“Sounds like somethin’ I don’t wanna know about.”

“We’re just gonna bake some cookies for Ellie,” Joel murmured when you bumped his arm lightly with a giggle. The irritation at his brother lessened slightly when he heard the sound of your laughter. “But don’t tell ‘er.”

“My lips are sealed.” Tommy winked at Joel, then shifted his eyes to you. “Enjoy your evening, lovebirds.”

“That’s the plan.” You took Joel’s hand in both of yours, beaming up at him with excitement. “You’re ready?”

“Yeah.” He inconspicuously let go of your hands to brush the arm of your jacket lightly, and then nodded in the direction of his house. “C’mon, darlin’.”

He hoped he wasn’t coming off as too harsh as he hid his gloved hands in the pockets, intending to blame it on the cold in case you asked. But instead of saying anything, you just matched his step and slipped your hands around his arm. Joel went rigid when you leaned your head on his shoulder, the side of your body almost hugging his.

Joel loved you like no one before and until he met you, he hadn’t been this happy in years. But there was a problem, a major one, in your relationship that he didn’t at all know how to address.

Because Joel didn’t have any clue how to react to all your touches.

No matter if they were tender or needy, brief or lasting, he always felt out of his depth. It’s been so long since he actually wanted to be intimate with someone that when the chance arose… he was at loss. You were such an affectionate person and he loved that part of you, he cherished all touches and gestures you graced him with – craved them even – but…

He stole a glance at you, wondering if you could feel the stiffness of his body when you were so close, but it seemed that you were none the wiser. He tried to will his muscles to relax, but it didn’t work and he still felt an uncomfortable feeling crawling up his arm.

The problem wasn’t that he didn’t know what he was supposed to do as your partner, but ever since Sarah died, he hadn’t had an opportunity to show affection to someone. Everything he thought about seemed awkward and incongruous, but he really didn’t want you to think that he was an inexperienced old man who didn’t know how to please – and in your case, love – a woman.

He did. In theory.

So he tried his hardest to show you in other ways how much he cares about you. He brought you gifts, whether they were knickknacks scavenged during his patrols or wooden figurines he made for you. He did what he could to relieve you of your duties, helped around the house and out in the town. He found time during the day to spend with you or at least just talk in passing if you both were busy.

But that still wasn’t enough. He knew that wasn’t enough.

Every damn time you cuddled, every time you kissed him or did something as simple as lay your head on his shoulder, Joel never felt better. He never wanted those moments to end, but at the same time he just couldn’t reciprocate, and it was tearing him apart, because he could see how hurtful it was to you.

“You’re quiet.”

Joel snapped out of his thoughts and looked down at you, noting that you’re almost at his place. He breathed a little lighter when he realized that he managed to go all this way without the need of pulling his arm out of your grasp.

“Is everything alright?” you asked with concern in your beautiful eyes and squeezed his bicep slightly, causing Joel to clench his teeth. “Listen, if you’d prefer to go with Tommy, just tell me…”

“Hey, I’m okay, sweetheart,” he assured you quickly and even managed to smile as if the guilt of not being able to even kiss your forehead wasn’t eating him alive. “There’s no one else I’d rather be with right now.”

“Just right now?” you asked teasingly, and Joel couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him.

“Listen here, you little tease…”

A bright smile returned to your face and you tugged his arm down so your lips could reach his stubbly cheek – and (only a little) reluctantly, he let you kiss him with a huff.

But the guilt of not telling you the true reason of his worries was still swirling in his stomach, making him feel sick for the rest of the way.

An hour and a half later the cookies were already done, and somehow the attempt to clean each other off the flour and the colorful frosting you used to decorate them ended up with you sitting in Joel’s lap, kissing him softly.

Not that he minded.

There was nothing as wonderful as the feeling of your lips on his skin, Joel was sure of it. It’s been an embarrassingly long time since he was with someone that made him feel like a young boy in love again, but your every gesture, every sound coming out of your mouth and every day he got to spend with you was just a confirmation of how lucky he was to have you.

Even now, as you were kissing him slowly and without any rush, he felt butterflies fluttering in his stomach. But while they initially appeared from the happiness and giddiness you were causing in him, the longer your hands wandered – and the longer his stayed uselessly at his sides – the worse and more stressed he felt.

“You know you can touch me, right?” you asked playfully at last, and the pit in Joel’s stomach grew almost tenfold in size. “It’s highly encouraged, actually.”

There was an actual question in your voice, which made him feel even worse. He should’ve known you’d address it eventually – after all, nothing went past you – but it still felt so awfully embarrassing to admit it to you. He was an old man, but felt like an inexperienced teenager who didn’t know how to make a woman feel good.

You moved to kiss him again when he didn’t answer, too lost in his own thoughts, but on instinct Joel pulled back – actually ducked – out of your reach. Immediately regret painted his face at the rejected look in your eyes, and he started to rake his mind in search for something he could do to fix it, but nothing came to him. He knew what you’d want from him – you’d forgive him if he took your face in his hands, kissed you with all his strength, let you know that you did nothing wrong… but it made him nervous just thinking about it, let alone do it.

“Sorry,” he quickly muttered. “I didn’t– didn’t mean to… I’m sorry.”

“Hey, look at me… What’s wrong?” You brushed some hair out of his forehead and Joel exhaled shakily, feeling weak in the knees at your touch. “Talk to me, baby. Did I do something?” Joel shook his head and you pressed your lips together. “Did something happen, then?”

“No.” He shook his head quickly, but he avoided your eyes. “No. Nothin’.”

“Joel…”

The room got too stuffy all of the sudden, the shirt on his back too tight and your body too heavy on his lap. Joel knew he was panicking over nothing, but he couldn’t help it. He didn’t want you to see him like this, so unsure and embarrassed over his own insecurity and behavior… So he gently removed you from his lap and stood up from the couch.

“Sorry, I gotta… I need some air. I’ll be right back, alrigh’?”

“Joel.”

No ‘baby’. No ‘handsome’. The tone of your voice made him stop dead in his tracks, and he turned around to meet your sad, solemn eyes.

“Just tell me if you don’t want me anymore.”

Your voice, so small and weak, took him off-guard and for a couple of seconds Joel wasn’t sure if you really said that, or if it was just his imagination playing cruel tricks on him. He blinked several times, but you were still in front of him, sad and… oh, god, you were on the verge of tears.

“What?” He couldn’t help a curt, disbelieving chuckle that escaped him – which was a terrible reaction, he realized when you turned your head away from him. “I– I don’t understand.”

“You don’t ever want to touch me first.” You let out a shuddering breath and lifted your arm to wipe your eyes, and Joel realized with mortification that he fucking made you cry. “And when you do it’s only when I initiate it, but sometimes you just pull back and it… it makes me feel so unwanted. And I know I might come off as too clingy…”

“Hey, none of that.” Joel quickly made his way to you and sat back down, gazing at you with his brows furrowed in worry. Your face was tearstained already and you avoided looking at him, but didn’t pull back when he took your hand gently in his. “Darlin’...”

“Just tell me if it doesn’t work for you,” you breathed, your voice thick with tears which also welled up in your pretty eyes again. “I hate not knowing if I… if our relationship makes you happy.”

“Of course I’m happy, babygirl.” Joel lifted your hand as if to kiss it, but hesitated. He had half a mind to draw back, but you needed him now, and he needed to prove that he really loved you. So, tentatively, he pressed his inexperienced lips to your fingers, making you look up with suspicion dancing in your irises. “You make me the happiest I’ve ever felt.”

“You’re pretending.” The quiet accusation combined with you withdrawing your hand caused Joel’s heart to break and he opened his mouth to explain, but you didn’t give him a chance to. “I don’t want you to pretend now that I’m upset, I want– Joel, I need you to be honest and tell me if it isn’t working for you. You always move away when I try to hug you and during all this time we’ve been together I can count on one hand the number of times you kissed me first. I don’t…” you choked down a sob and a new wave of tears flew down your cheeks. “I don’t want to waste either of our time if that isn’t what you want. If I’m not what you want–”

“Sweetheart, you’re the only one I want,” Joel whispered with pain in his voice, moving so he could sit closer to you. “M’so very sorry that I wasn’t…” He searched for the right words, but everything felt flat on his tongue. “I’m sorry. For everythin’ I did that made you feel this way.”

“But why?” you asked pathetically, staring at him with defeat and sadness. “You never said anything and I wouldn’t try to touch you so much if you just told me you didn’t like it!”

“I do like it,” he cut you off with a firm tone, which caused you to stop abruptly. “I fuckin’– I love it when you touch me, darlin’. I’m dyin’ for you to keep doin’ it, but I…”

“You what?” you asked, softer this time, and Joel swallowed hard, nervous how you’ll react. But you had the right to know, so ultimately he pushed through his discomfort.

“I just don’t know what to do,” he finally settled on that. “I really, really love when you touch me, babygirl, no matter in what way.” He took another deep breath, bowing his head to look at his hands so that he didn’t have to face you. “But it’s been so long, damn decades, since I… since anyone touched me in the way you do. I never loved someone the way I love you. I’m very sorry, I just don’t know what I’m s’pposed to do… when someone…”

He trailed off, worried that he might break down and cry in front of you if he says another word, and he’d prefer to avoid it at all cost. The world outside was so harsh and cruel already, and you needed someone strong – a safe haven, a pillar you could lean on. He was that someone for everyone around him for the last twenty years, and even longer before the outbreak.

But it was so much different now. You made him feel safe and loved no matter what he could provide to you and it was almost scary how vulnerable he was becoming in your presence.

“...when someone cares for you?” you asked quietly. Joel nodded, and tears gathered in your eyes again, though now for a very different reason. “Oh, Joel…”

“M’sorry,” he whispered, his own vision also going misty. “I want to give you everythin’ you desire, darlin’. If you give me another chance, I promise I’ll try to…” He shook his head, defeated. “I don’t know. I’ll try to get past it.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for.” You scooted just a little closer and put your hand on his knee lightly. He looked up with anguish swimming in his brown eyes, not believing that you were still here and not already out of the door. You worried your lip between your teeth for a couple of seconds before inhaling deeply. “How about… I show you what to do? We can go as slow as you want.”

Joel slowly shook his head, not understanding. “...show me what?”

“You said you don’t really know what to do, right? So how about I show you exactly how… you know.” You smiled almost shyly, but it only caused Joel’s heart to beat even faster. “Where to put your hands.”

Joel was nodding before you even finished speaking.

It was embarrassing, really, how excited he got at this idea, but just the thought of your hands guiding his, demonstrating where and how to touch you, had him feeling weak in the knees and hot under his clothes. You smiled, almost with relief, and moved even closer until your thighs were touching.

“Here, just relax. We can stop at any time, just say a word,” you said soothingly, placing his palms on your hips and sending him a small smile. Joel wondered if you could see how red his face surely was, feel how sweaty his palms got. “Is this okay?”

“S’better than okay,” he breathed in something akin to wonder. “It’s easier… Everythin’ seems easier with you.” His chest was tight when he looked up at you. “Thank you.”

It wasn’t a lie. You did make it seem effortless, and though Joel could still feel the rigidness of his muscles and tendons, the tension was slowly melting away, replaced by a tingling warmth on his skin.

You gave him a reassuring smile and his eyes flickered to your lips almost involuntary. You noticed it, of course – Joel didn’t think he was exactly subtle with his staring – and cupped his jaw in your hands. His arm, practically instinctively, encircled your waist and pulled you closer before he could stop himself, but you didn’t berate him – in fact, you seemed delighted by his action.

“Now, are you going to kiss me or not?” you whispered coyly, brushing his cheekbones with the pads of your thumbs. Joel chuckled at your attempt to put him more at ease, but it worked and he leaned in to press – very, very carefully – his lips to yours. He felt you smiling against them and his eyes filled with tears from the overwhelming relief.

“I love you so much,” he murmured with his mouth only millimeters from yours. “So much, babygirl.”

You hummed a quiet love you, too, and moved your lips up to softly kiss his eyelids, then temple, then cheeks and nose. Joel almost wanted to cry when you started running your fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp gently. It felt so good, your touch so nice and tender… He couldn’t remember when was the last time someone treated him with such care. Maybe never. “Next time it becomes too much, you tell me, got it? And I promise I’ll make you feel better.”

Your touch didn’t bother him now that he admitted what was weighing heavily on his chest for so long. Now, it felt soothing. Grounding.

So, so loving.

Joel held you closer, melting into your embrace, and claimed your lips in a soft – if not a bit shy – kiss.

There was nothing else he’d rather be doing tonight.

#space sisters secret santa 2023 #joel miller x reader #joel miller #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller fluff #joel miller x you

949 notes · View notes

katiebblynne · 4 months ago

Text

~Denial~

SDV Sebastian ANGST/FLUFF

a/n: was gonna write sebastian smut but this scenario for the farmer x seb confession angst took over my hands srry :') happy ending tho!

pairing: Sebastian x Fem!Reader wc: 3911

Confessing to Sebastian doesn’t go well, just as you expected. But expectations can always be changed.

Days spent in Sebastian’s room were always your favorite ones. Sometimes you’d watch movies. Sometimes you’d play games in the company of Sam and Abigail. The time here never lets you down. But, there are certain nights that you look forward to the most – the nights you and him spend alone, talking about everything and nothing, for hours.

Tonight was one of those nights. You found yourself in a familiar spot on Sebastian’s couch, him occupying the rug on the floor next to you. You two have been laughing for what feels like hours, trading stories of what you’ve heard around town and showing each other rib tickling videos on your phones. When you say something that gets that less-than-often heard belly laugh from him, your feelings fill up every ounce of your body and seep out of your pores. You often hint your infatuations to Sebastian, but they go dismissed or ignored. The reality of things – what you’ve concluded from his disregard of your obvious advances – is hard to swallow, but you force the pill of it down anyway: he doesn’t feel the same.

You lay on your side, head propped on your elbow as you two decide the time passer tonight consists of lighthearted questions and answers. You toss around inquiries about his job, he asks you about your farm. You ask him about music, he queries you about your cooking. This goes well into the night, and you feel absolutely enthralled by the seemingly endless conversation. The way he moves his hands when he talks, the clink of his rings together as his fingers help portray his words… melodic bliss.

“Okay… would you rather live in Pam’s trailer or Elliott’s shack?” You ask to carry the conversation.

“Elliott’s shack probably… this basement’s just as dank anyways.” he responds. You both chuckle.

He takes his unspoken turn in the banter. “If you had to date someone in town, who would it be?” His voice is casual and unexpecting. You look at him with a confused expression. He glances back at you, the same tone taking over him. “What?” He asks with a small laugh.

“Well, you, of course.” You answer plainly. After all this time of advancing on him, it rots your brain that he would ask you a question with such an obvious answer. He looks at you and tilts his head. “Wait, really? Not like… Alex or Elliott or something?” You stare – surely he is pulling your leg. He returns your gaze with an unmoving, genuinely curious look. “Why me?”

This evokes an actual laugh out of your throat. “I mean, it’s no secret I have a thing for you.” Your voice carries nonchalantly, assuming he would have known by now. Sebastian’s heart starts pounding in his chest. He sits up and stares. “Wait, huh? You like me?” Your eyes widen a bit. “...yeah? You didn’t know? I’ve been pretty obvious this whole time, like when we’re hanging out and stuff.”

Sebastian is sincerely in a state of shock. He truly had no idea, or at least he didn’t think he did. He only ever saw you two as friends. His voice comes out hesitantly and it makes your stomach clench. You knew where the conversation was going to go, and most likely how it was going to end. “I don’t get it… when did you like, hint at it?” he asks. You reply simply. “I mean, I’m constantly complimenting you and trying to be close to you when we hang with Sam and Abby… stuff like that.” You see a slight concern on Sebastian’s face, not being able to read it past that. You quickly divert the tension building from your words, bracing yourself for the inevitable. You say, a feigned attempt to ease him, when you’re really just helping shield your own heart, “It’s no biggie. I know you only see us as friends. It’s all good, man.”

“Why are you trying to convince me it’s no big deal when you just… confessed your feelings for me? Don’t you think we should like… talk it out a bit?” He asks, his face filled with an awkward discomfort. The sight makes your heart drop, but you mock a relaxed state of being. “What is there to talk about…?” Your voice betrays you slightly, your tone uneven and guarded. Sebastian fidgets with his rings as he probes your confession from the rug in front of you. He keeps a respectful distance between him and the couch – almost a physical representation of the space he’s giving you to speak about your feelings. God, he’s so good to you. Sometimes you wish he was crueler. He asks you softly, cautiously, “How long have you felt this way?”

You take a deep breath to ponder the question. “Probably like… six months?”

“SIX MONTHS?” he immediately returns, a shock on his eyebrows. “How the fuck have you liked me for sixth months and I just now find out?” You give him a small shrug, “I guess I’m wondering the same thing, Seb.”

Sebastian was at a loss for words. He felt an urge to ask more about it, unfortunately not considering how it might be making you feel right now. His brain wasn’t functioning that way at the moment – he just needed to understand this news… really make sense of your feelings so he could handle them. “Why me?”

You let out a pained chuckle, having to reminisce on the foundations of your unrequited affections. You glance around the room as you think. “I dunno. At first, it felt the same to be around you as it did with everyone else. But then one day– I don't even know if you remember this–” You look at him for a small moment, a soft smile settling on your face before your eyes find moral support on the posters on the wall instead, “we were all meeting at the saloon, and you had already ordered my favorite drink before I got there. I had texted you earlier that I was having a rough day on the farm… For some reason,” you move your hands in an unknowing gesture “you kinda stuck in my brain after that and never left.”

Sebastian gazes over you, still steadying his thoughts as he wraps his head around this. “All because I bought you a drink…?” You shake your head slightly and laugh. “Well… no. That was probably just the moment I realized I liked you. It was small, yeah, but it was like… a catalyst. I started noticing all these intricacies about you after that, ya know?” You roll on your back and stare up at Sebastian’s ceiling, your thoughts taking over and causing a tender smile to caress your cheeks. He watches you, his stomach in knots as you continue.

“Like… how you tap out piano melodies on your thighs when you’re anxious… how you brush your thumb against your lips when you’re working. Or how you always roll your neck after you yawn…” Your voice trails off of Sebastian’s walls and settles into his skin. He looks at you as you speak, soft as a feather, your vulnerability crawling up his spine like a chill. He watches you, speechless. You continue with a sentence that makes his chest physically hurt. “You occupy my mind like you pay rent to be there… and in a room full of people, there’s only you.” A gasp strains on Sebastian’s lips, his heart aching. Your words spill out more, as if they are overflowing out of your chest. You laugh, stifling an urge to cry.

“It’s pretty annoying actually, thinking about you all the time like this. I hardly get anything done anymore. It’s really unproductive to be so hopelessly in love.” The words come out before you can stop them, but you don’t care. Might as well at this point, right?

Sebastian sinks into himself, an overwhelming anguish claiming his face. “...In love?” He asks, his voice approaching your confession as someone would a wounded animal. You look at him, your lips pulling into a closed line and your eyes softening to reaffirm what you said.

Sebastian’s very essence felt heavy. He didn’t return the feelings, but for some reason his heart was gnawing at his skin to reach you in a way he’d never felt before. He couldn’t stand himself in the moment – you being so open and saying all these beautiful things and his brain not being able to reciprocate. You sigh and look back up at the ceiling, his silence confirming your fears. “Sorry for rambling. Maybe I’ll be able to move on after this, yeah?” You chuckle dryly, sadness wrapping its hands around your neck. Sebastian so desperately wanted to comfort you. He wanted to pull you in his arms and make you feel better, but how could he? When he was the driving factor behind your broken heart.

As much as you fight it, a tear finds its way down your temple. Sebastian’s entire body is replaced with guilt as he sees it. You wipe it and force a gentle laugh. “I think I… should probably go now. I hope we’re still cool after this.” You lift your body off his couch, not making eye contact. You gather your things and make your way to his door. “Wait… y/n, I’m… so sorry… I-” You cut him off as you pull his door open. Your eyes meet his, glazed with tears that are just waiting to take over. “Hey, really. No big deal. I’ll see you later, Seb.” And with that, you leave. Sebastian is left on the floor, frozen in ache and a whirlwind of emotions.

~*~

Sam’s phone lights up, interrupting the competitive glint in his hands as Abigail demolishes him in the game they’re playing. He answers “Sebastiannnnn, what’s up?”

Sebastian sits on his couch, his phone to his ear as he stares down to where he was just sitting before. “Dude.”

Sebastian’s tone sends a spike down Sam’s spine. He sits up a little straighter. Abigail notices, pausing the game. Sam puts him on speaker. “Abby’s here too – What’s goin on?” Abigail listens in, resting the controller on her lap.

Sebastian’s voice takes on a shape they’ve never heard before – it’s shaken, soft. “Are you guys free? I need to fuckin talk man.” Sam and Abigail send each other a wide eyed look, concern – and a curious itch – settling in their stomachs and across their faces. “We’re at my house. Door’s open.” Sam responds. Sebastian doesn’t hesitate to make his way there, his steps fueled by anxiety. As soon as he arrives, he slumps on Sam’s bed and just stares at the two sitting on the floor facing him. The look in his eyes simultaneously speaks volumes and says absolutely nothing at all. Abigail prompts him to speak with an enthusiastic ‘spit it out’ gesture.

Sebastian takes an uneven breath. “Y/n… just confessed to me, guys.”

Sam and Abigail immediately do a little cheer, high-fiving each other. Sebastian is taken aback, and his words come out small. “What?” Sam and Abigail take turns speaking, Abigail taking the lead. “We’re excited for you guys!” “Yeah, we’ve known you like each other for months now – this is great, man!” Sebastian’s anxious face creates room for puzzlement. “Wait… what? I don’t like y/n like that… Guys, I had to reject her tonight.”

A silence befalls Sam’s room. They both share the same expression of disbelief as they take in Sebastian’s words. Abigail bursts out laughing and Sam leans forward with his palm on his face. “Dude, you have got to be fuckin’ with us right now.” Abigail settles her laugh just a bit to add “Yeah, like, you’re joking right?” Sebastian looks bewildered at their reactions. He shakes his head slowly – of course he’s not kidding. Why would they think he has feelings for you?

Abigail and Sam both roll their eyes in different tones of exasperation – one true and one playful. Abigail looks at Sebastian, her voice deadpan. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“Why would I be joking? We’re just friends, that’s how I’ve always felt. I don’t understand what gave y'all the impression I felt differently–” Sam cuts Sebastian off. “We’ve seen the way you stare at y/n when you think no one’s lookin’, my dude. You’re constantly talking about her to us, always textin’ her when she can’t hang out or making sure she’s having a good time when she can. Hell, she’s the only one out of us that can get a belly laugh outta you and she’s only known you a third of the time we have!” Abigail nods in agreement, both of their eyes piercing Sebastian’s. Sebastian retorts, a sprinkle of annoyance on his face. “So? That doesn’t mean I’m in love with ‘er.” Sebastian feels a cold wall encasing him, pushing away the strange mix of feelings coursing through his veins. Abigail leans forward, her elbows on her thighs. Her and Sam are steadfast in what they believe – no, what they know – unconvinced that he doesn’t feel the same. “Seb, you are genuinely crazy if you are in this much denial. I think you are in love with her and don’t even notice.” Sebastian stares at the two, frustrated at their adamant claim. His fingers burn with confliction. Sam ends the conversation with a simple sentence that rings in Sebastian’s ears in resolute. “You definitely need to go and reflect for a bit, man – before you miss your chance.”

~*~

Sebastian lies in his bed, staring at the ceiling that still clings onto your words from earlier. He tosses and turns, unable to get you out of his head. The image of you lying on his couch, your tear that has seeped into the cushion at this point… it replays in his head like a film. Guilt, confusion and… something else he can’t quite place makes their home in his chest, his stomach, his throat. He huffs, trying to expel the feelings for just a moment as he closes his eyes.

Suddenly, that film of you is replaced by vivid, dream-like memories of your smile, your giggle. The way you hum to yourself while you lay in his bed with him. The goofy faces you make when you’re sleepy. The way your fingers feel when they accidentally brush against his own. His eyes slowly open as the thoughts flood his mind. When his gaze fully settles against the ceiling once more, he feels it – uh oh. Sebastian clenches his bed sheets for stability when the realization hits him like a train, the impact crumbling down the cold wall around his heart in an instant. His heart starts to race, as he mutters to himself raggedly. “Do I… like y/n?” No, it’s… more than that. “Fuck! Do I love her?”

He doesn’t believe it. He is absolutely, desperately, in love with you.

Then, Sebastian thinks about tonight. He sits up straight in his bed, as if struck by lightning. He feels his heart drop to his stomach as he thinks to himself. ‘Idiot! I rejected her? I broke her heart! How stupid can I be?!’ He groans in agony as he flops back into his mattress. “How can I fix this… how could I be so dumb?”

You lie in your bed, chest sore from sobs. Your body feels almost numb from the exertion of emotions and rejection tonight. You saw it coming. You knew how he felt. But something in you clung to hope anyway. Hearts really just suck like that sometimes. You sigh and roll over, turning off your light and closing your eyes. You’re out in an instant, drained from the despondency.

~*~

Weeks go by. At first, you tried your absolute best to feign contentment around him, hoping that if you fake it long enough it’ll actually happen. But eventually, when you discovered the heartbreak had sublet your mind for the unforeseeable future, you let yourself distance. And boy, did Sebastian notice. Your eyes lost their spark. Your skin lost its glow. You stopped hanging out in the group as often, coming to the saloon as much. Alone time with him ceased altogether. When you’re around – which is rare now – Sebastian sneaks glances at you as much as he can – his heart just as shredded up as yours.

Abigail had convinced you to come out tonight. It was a Friday, and everyone was gathered at the saloon. Its liveliness was a stark contrast to you. You and the others gathered in the billiard room, sipping on drinks and shooting pool. There was an undeniable tension in the air, one that Sam and Abigail tried to cut through as best they could with jokes and small talk.

Sebastian had been looking for the right opportunity to talk with you forever now, but at this point it felt like he’s missed his chance. Guilt and love battled for more space in his brain everyday. He knew he was far gone when Sam started beating him at pool. Sam noticed it too. Throughout the afternoon and into the evening, Sam shot Sebastian strident looks, gesturing discreetly over to you – silently urging Sebastian to just talk to you about it already. His pleas are met with a simple, sad head shake from Sebastian. Sam rolls his eyes and continues getting through the awkward atmosphere.

After finishing your one drink of the night, which took a couple hours due to your lacking appetite for… well anything lately, you set your glass down and stand up. “I think I’m gonna head home for the night, I’ve got a lot of farm work in the morning.” Abigail and Sam didn’t dare try to stop you, their recent negotiations for you to stay out always being met with hesitancy or denials. They nod and hug you goodnight. You and Sebastian just wave, your eyes not meeting his. God, what a pathetic feeling that was. You leave the saloon, and Sebastian is met with angry stares from the other two. Abigail crosses her arms, and Sam points at the saloon exit. “Go. Talk. Now.”

“Guys… I can’t… I don’t know what to say–”

“NOW.” They both say in unison, their word firm and dominant. Sebastian sighs, reluctantly setting down his poolstick and making his way toward the exit to follow you. He anxiously catches up with you as you walk through the town square. “Hey, y/n, wait up!” He says as casually as he can muster, even though his heart is screaming. Your body tenses at the sound of his voice. You stop and turn to look at him, a measly smile forced on your face. “What’s up, Sebastian?” He comes up and puts his hands in his hoodie pocket, his last line of defense against his overwhelming emotions. “I uh… wanted to go on a walk before I head home tonight. Been stuck in the basement working a lot lately. Figured I could walk you back and take the long way from the farm?” You nod slowly in understanding, every ounce of your body buzzing with misery. Despite this, your words come out cordial and light. “Oh, yeah… no problem.”

The air that surrounds you two as you walk together is almost dense enough to make you sick to your stomach. Not a single word is exchanged the entire way to your house. You pray for a sudden heart attack, for a swift death would be better than this level of discomfort. Sebastian watches you as the trek continues, his pace slightly behind yours. With each step you two take, his feelings grab hold of him more. His legs burn with the ache. He gazes as the setting sun enraptures your hair, making it almost glow with vibrancy. His stomach is in knots. He watches your top flow in the evening wind, dancing on your hip. His arms are on fire. He takes in how you dainty fingers flex ever so often as you stride. His chest feels like it's going to explode. He sees your eyelashes flutter as your gaze hangs low onto the path. Pained ardor strangles his neck, cutting the air supply to his brain.

You reach your house. Sebastian looks at you as you head to the stairs up to your porch. He can feel it – the words fighting his tongue to get out. His essence rapidly surrenders to it. “Well, see ya later Sebastian.”

You place your hand on the knob of your front door – and that's it. That’s the moment the words blurt out of Sebastian's lips, catching you before you go in.

“I love you!”

The words hang in the air, surrounding you. They possess your joints, stopping you from opening your door. They turn you around to look at a broken, lovesick Sebastian at the bottom of your porch stairs. His hand is stretched out shakily to you, his foot on the first step of the stairs. He breathes rapidly, as if his bones themselves are trembling under his flesh. Your face is pained, shocked, addled. “W-what?”

Sebastian had meant to be more graceful in this moment, but his heart acted clumsily in yearning for you. He takes another step up, his hand seeking your warmth of which he missed so desperately. “I… I love you.” You gawk at him, your face so full of emotion it takes the opposite effect and becomes almost unreadable. Sebastian’s next words tumble out of his mouth as he approaches you… oh so softly, need floating at his fingertips.

“Your hair… when it glints in the sunlight. Your laugh, how… how it infects me. And how you smell after you use my shower… my shampoo. It’s my favorite smell in the world.”

Your eyes widen and your heart tightens. Tears fall down your cheeks, your hand drops from the doorknob and hangs limp at your side. Sebastian lets out a strained whimper, tormented by the sight of your tears once more. “Oh… y/n, don’t cry… please don’t cry. I never meant to hurt you like this. I’ve been such an idiot all this time, denying my feelings and pushing you away…” His foot rests on the final step up to you, his movements hesitant to go further. “I should’ve let myself feel this sooner… oh god… please–”

His words are cut short, silenced by your lips crashing on his. You pour all of your emotions into him, your kiss deep and pining. His being stutters, but almost involuntarily responds with equal passion. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you in and kissing you like it’s his last moment on earth. Love and regret surround the both of you, bonding you together. The rest of the world is quiet, giving you both center stage.

You eventually break the kiss, hardly pulling away. Your tears paint Sebastian’s cheeks, his eyes locked on yours with an upward furrow on his brows. His lips remain slightly parted, stuck between wanting to say something and needing to claim yours once more. You speak, your voice cracking in overwhelm. “I am so in love with you, Sebastian. It will always be you.” You two share a smile, gasping in relief.

You kiss once again, catching up with all the lost time in this single, consummate moment.

#sdv #stardew valley #fanfic #ao3 #sebastian sdv #sebastian stardew valley #angst #fluff #romance #sebastian x reader #sdv sebastian x reader #sdv sebastian angst

222 notes · View notes

mostlysignssomeportents · 1 year ago

Text

The long, bloody lineage of private equity's looting

Tomorrow (June 3) at 1:30PM, I’m in Edinburgh for the Cymera Festival on a panel with Nina Allen and Ian McDonald.

Monday (June 5) at 7:15PM, I’m in London at the British Library with my novel Red Team Blues, hosted by Baroness Martha Lane Fox.

Fans of the Sopranos will remember the “bust out” as a mob tactic in which a business is taken over, loaded up with debt, and driven into the ground, wrecking the lives of the business’s workers, customers and suppliers. When the mafia does this, we call it a bust out; when Wall Street does it, we call it “private equity.”

It used to be that we rarely heard about private equity, but then, as national chains and iconic companies started to vanish, this mysterious financial arrangement popped up with increasing frequency. When a finance bro’s presentation on why Olive Garden needed to be re-orged when viral, there was a lot off snickering about the decline of a tacky business whose value prop was unlimited carbs. But the bro was working for Starboard Value, a hedge fund that specialized in buhying out and killing off companies, pocketing billions while destroying profitable businesses.

https://www.salon.com/2014/09/17/the_real_olive_garden_scandal_why_greedy_hedge_funders_suddenly_care_so_much_about_breadsticks/

Starboard Value’s game was straightforward: buy a business, load it with debt, sell off its physical plant — the buildings it did business out of — pay itself, and then have the business lease back the buildings, bleeding out money until it collapsed. They pulled it with Red Lobster,and the point of the viral Olive Garden dis track was to soften up the company for its own bust out.

The bust out tactic wasn’t limited to mocking middlebrow family restaurants. For years, the crooks who ran these ops did a brisk trade in blaming the internet. Why did Sears tank? Everyone knows that the 19th century business was an antique, incapable of mounting a challenge in the age of e-commerce. That was a great smokescreen for an old-fashioned bust out that saw corporate looters make off with hundreds of millions, leaving behind empty storefronts and emptier pension accounts for the workers who built the wealth the looters stole:

https://prospect.org/economy/vulture-capitalism-killed-sears/

Same goes for Toys R Us: it wasn’t Amazon that killed the iconic toy retailer — it was the PE bosses who extracted $200m from the chain, then walked away, hands in pockets and whistling, while the businesses collapsed and the workers got zero severance:

https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/business/wp/2018/06/01/how-can-they-walk-away-with-millions-and-leave-workers-with-zero-toys-r-us-workers-say-they-deserve-severance/

It’s a good racket — for the racketeers. Private equity has grown from a finance sideshow to Wall Street’s apex predator, and it’s devouring the real economy through a string of audactious bust outs, each more consequential and depraved than the last.

As PE shows that it can turn profitable businesses gigantic windfalls, sticking the rest of us with the job of sorting out the smoking craters they leave behind, more and more investors are piling in. Today, the PE sector loves a rollup, which is when they buy several related businesses and merge them into one firm. The nominal business-case for a rollup is that the new, bigger firm is more “efficient.” In reality, a rollup’s strength is in eliminating competition. When all the pet groomers, or funeral homes, or urgent care clinics for ten miles share the same owner, they can raise prices, lower wages, and fuck over suppliers.

They can also borrow. A quirk of the credit markets is that a standalone small business is valued at about 3–5x its annual revenues. But if that business is part of a large firm, it is valued at 10–20x annual turnover. That means that when a private equity company rolls up a comedy club, ad agency or water bottler (all businesses presently experiencing PE rollup), with $1m in annual revenues, it shows up on the PE company’s balance sheet as an asset worth $10–20m. That’s $10–20m worth of collateral the PE fund can stake for loans that let it buy and roll up more small businesses.

2.9 million Boomer-owned businesses, employing 32m people, are expected to sell in the next couple years as their owners retire. Most of these businesses will sell to PE firms, who can afford to pay more for them as a prelude to a bust out than anyone intending to operate them as a productive business could ever pay:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/12/16/schumpeterian-terrorism/#deliberately-broken

PE’s most ghastly impact is felt in the health care sector. Whole towns’ worth of emergency rooms, family practices, labs and other health firms have been scooped up by PE, which has spent more than $1t since 2012 on health acquisitions:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/17/the-doctor-will-fleece-you-now/#pe-in-full-effect

Once a health care company is owned by PE, it is significantly more likely to commit medicare fraud. It also cuts wages and staffing for doctors and nurses. PE-owned facilities do more unnecessary and often dangerous procedures. Appointments get shorter. The companies get embroiled in kickback scandals. PE-backed dentists hack away at children’s mouths, filling them full of root-canals.

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/17/the-doctor-will-fleece-you-now/#pe-in-full-effect

The Healthcare Private Equity Association boasts that its members are poised to spend more than $3t to create “the future of healthcare.”

https://hcpea.org/#!event-list

As bad as PE is for healthcare, it’s worse for long-term care. PE-owned nursing homes are charnel houses, and there’s a particularly nasty PE scam where elderly patients are tricked into signing up for palliative care, which is never delivered (and isn’t needed, because the patients aren’t dying!). These fake “hospices” get huge payouts from medicare — and the patient is made permanently ineligible for future medicare, because they are recorded being in their final decline:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/26/death-panels/#what-the-heck-is-going-on-with-CMS

Every part of the health care sector is being busted out by PE. Another ugly PE trick, the “club deal,” is devouring the medical supply business. Club deals were huge in the 2000s, destroying rent-controlled housing, energy companies, Mervyn’s department stores, Harrah’s, and Old Country Joe. Now it’s doing the same to medical supplies:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/05/14/billionaire-class-solidarity/#club-deals

Private equity is behind the mass rollup of single-family homes across America. Wall Street landlords are the worst landlords in America, who load up your rent with junk fees, leave your home in a state of dangerous disrepair, and evict you at the drop of a hat:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/08/16/die-miete-ist-zu-hoch/#assets-v-human-rights

As these houses decay through neglect, private equity makes a bundle from tenants and even more borrowing against the houses. In a few short years, much of America’s desperately undersupplied housing stock will be beyond repair. It’s a bust out.

You know all those exploding trains filled with dangerous chemicals that poison entire towns? Private equity bust outs:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/02/04/up-your-nose/#rail-barons

Where did PE come from? How can these people look themselves in the mirror? Why do we let them get away with it? How do we stop them?

Today in The American Prospect, Maureen Tkacik reviews two new books that try to answer all four of these questions, but really only manage to answer the first three:

https://prospect.org/culture/books/2023-06-02-days-of-plunder-morgenson-rosner-ballou-review/

The first of these books is These Are the Plunderers: How Private Equity Runs — and Wrecks — America by Gretchen Morgenson and Joshua Rosner:

https://www.simonandschuster.com/books/These-Are-the-Plunderers/Gretchen-Morgenson/9781982191283

The second is Plunder: Private Equity’s Plan to Pillage America, by Brendan Ballou:

https://www.hachettebookgroup.com/titles/brendan-ballou/plunder/9781541702103/

Both books describe the bust out from the inside. For example, PetSmart — looted for $30 billion by RaymondSvider and his PE fund BC Partners — is a slaughterhouse for animals. The company systematically neglects animals — failing to pay workers to come in and feed them, say, or refusing to provide backup power to run during power outages, letting animals freeze or roast to death. Though PetSmart has its own vet clinics, the company doesn’t want to pay its vets to nurse the animals it damages, so it denies them care. But the company is also too cheap to euthanize those animals, so it lets them starve to death. PetSmart is also too cheap to cremate the animals, so its traumatized staff are ordered to smuggle the dead, rotting animals into random dumpsters.

All this happened while PetSmart’s sales increased by 60%, matched by growth in the company’s gross margins. All that money went to the bust out.

https://www.forbes.com/sites/antoinegara/2021/09/27/the-30-billion-kitty-meet-the-investor-who-made-a-fortune-on-pet-food/

Tkacik says these books show that we’re finally getting wise to PE. Back in the Clinton years, the PE critique painted the perps as sharp operators who reduced quality and jacked up prices. Today, books like these paint these “investors” as the monsters they are — crooks whose bust ups are crimes, not clever finance hacks.

Take the Carlyle Group, which pioneered nursing home rollups. As Carlyle slashed wages, its workers suffered — but its elderly patients suffered more. Thousands of Carlyle “customers” died of “dehydration, gangrenous bedsores, and preventable falls” in the pre-covid years.

https://www.washingtonpost.com/business/economy/opioid-overdoses-bedsores-and-broken-bones-what-happened-when-a-private-equity-firm-sought-profits-in-caring-for-societys-most-vulnerable/2018/11/25/09089a4a-ed14-11e8-baac-2a674e91502b_story.html

KKR, another PE monster, bought a second-hand chain of homes for mentally disabled adults from another PE company, then squeezed it for the last drops of blood left in the corpse. KKR cut wages to $8/hour and increased shifts to 36 hours, then threatened to have workers who went home early arrested and charged with “patient abandonment.” Many of these homes were often left with no staff at all, with patients left to starve and stew in their own waste.

PE loves to pick on people who can’t fight back: kids, sick people, disabled people, old people. No surprise, then, that PE loves prisons — the ultimate captive audience. HIG Capital is a $55b fund that owns TKC Holdings, who got the contract to feed the prisoners at 400 institutions. They got the contract after the prisons fired Aramark, owned by PE giant Warburg Pincus, whose food was so inedible that it provoked riots. TKC got a million bucks extra to take over the food at Michigan’s Kinross Correctional Facility, then, incredibly, made the food worse. A chef who refused to serve 100 bags of rotten potatoes (“the most disgusting thing I’ve seen in my life”) was fired:

https://www.wzzm13.com/article/news/local/michigan/prison-food-worker-i-was-fired-for-refusing-to-serve-rotten-potatoes/69-467297770

TKC doesn’t just operate prison kitchens — it operates prison commissaries, where it gouges prisoners on junk food to replace the inedible slop it serves in the cafeteria. The prisoners buy this food with money they make working in the prison workshops, for $0.10–0.25/hour. Those workshops are also run by TKC.

Tkacic traces private equity back to the “corporate raiders” of the 1950s and 1960s, who “stealthily borrowed money to buy up enough shares in a small or midsized company to control its biggest bloc of votes, then force a stock swap and install himself as CEO.”

The most famous of these raiders was Eli Black, who took over United Fruit with this gambit — a company that had a long association with the CIA, who had obligingly toppled democratically elected governments and installed dictators friendly to United’s interests (this is where the term “banana republic” comes from).

Eli Black’s son is Leon Black, a notorious PE predator. Leon Black got his start working for the junk-bonds kingpin Michael Milken, optimizing Milken’s operation, which was the most terrifying bust out machine of its day, buying, debt-loading and wrecking a string of beloved American businesses. Milken bought 2,000 companies and put 200 of them through bankruptcy, leaving the survivors in a brittle, weakened state.

It got so bad that the Business Roundtable complained about the practice to Congress, calling Milken, Black, et al, “a small group is systematically extracting the equity from corporations and replacing it with debt, and incidentally accumulating major wealth.”

Black stabbed Milken in the back and tanked his business, then set out on his own. Among the businesses he destroyed was Samsonite, “a bankrupt-but-healthy company he subjected to 12 humiliating years of repeated fee extractions, debt-funded dividend payments, brutal plant closings, and hideous schemes to induce employees to buy its worthless stock.”

The money to buy Samsonite — and many other businesses — came through a shadowy deal between Black and John Garamendi, then a California insurance commissioner, now a California congressman. Garamendi helped Black buy a $6b portfolio of junk bonds from an insurance company in a wildly shady deal. Garamendi wrote down the bonds by $3.9b, stealing money “from innocent people who needed the money to pay for loved ones’ funerals, irreparable injuries, etc.”

Black ended up getting all kinds of favors from powerful politicians — including former Connecticut governor John Rowland and Donald Trump. He also wired $188m to Jeffrey Epstein for reasons that remain opaque.

Black’s shady deals are a marked contrast with the exalted political circles he travels in. Despite private equity’s obviously shady conduct, it is the preferred partner for cities and states, who buy everything from ambulance services to infrastructure from PE-owned companies, with disastrous results. Federal agencies turn a blind eye to their ripoffs, or even abet them. 38 state houses passed legislation immunizing nursing homes from liability during the start of the covid crisis.

PE barons are shameless about presenting themselves as upstanding cits, unfairly maligned. When Obama made an empty promise to tax billionaires in 2010, Blackstone founder SteveS chwarzman declared, “It’s a war. It’s like when Hitler invaded Poland in 1939.”

Since we’re on the subject of Hitler, this is a good spot to bring up Monowitz, a private-sector satellite of Auschwitz operated by IG Farben as a slave labor camp to make rubber and other materiel it supplied at a substantial markup to the wermacht. I’d never heard of Monowitz, but Tkacik’s description of the camp is chilling, even in comparison to Auschwitz itself.

Farben used slave laborers from Auschwitz to work at its rubber plant, but was frustrated by the logistics of moving those slaves down the 4.5m stretch of road to the facility. So the company bought 25,000 slaves — preferring children, who were cheaper — and installed them in a co-located death-camp called Monowitz:

https://www.commentary.org/articles/r-tannenbaum/the-devils-chemists-by-josiah-e-dubois-jr/

Monowitz was — incredibly — worse than Auschwitz. It was so bad, the SS guards who worked at it complained to Berlin about the conditions. The SS demanded more hospitals for the workers who dropped from beatings and overwork — Farben refused, citing the cost. The factory never produced a steady supply of rubber, but thanks to its gouging and the brutal treatment of its slaves, the camp was still profitable and returned large dividends to Farben’s investors.

Apologists for slavery sometimes claim that slavers are at least incentivized to maintain the health of their captive workforce. This was definitely not true of Farben. Monowitz slaves died on average after three months in the camp. And Farben’s subsidiary, Degesch, made the special Zyklon B formulation used in Auschwitz’s gas chambers.

Tkacik’s point is that the Nazis killed for ideology and were unimaginably cruel. Farben killed for money — and they were even worse. The banality of evil gets even more banal when it’s done in service to maximizing shareholder value.

As Farben historian Joseph Borkin wrote, the company “reduced slave labor to a consumable raw material, a human ore from which the mineral of life was systematically extracted”:

https://www.scribd.com/document/517797736/The-Crime-and-Punishment-of-I-G-Farben

Farben’s connection to the Nazis was a the subject of Germany’s Master Plan: The Story of Industrial Offensive, a 1943 bestseller by Borkin, who was also an antitrust lawyer. It described how Farben had manipulated global commodities markets in order to create shortages that “guaranteed Hitler’s early victories.”

Master Plan became a rallying point in the movement to shatter corporate power. But large US firms like Dow Chemical and Standard Oil waged war on the book, demanding that it be retracted. Borkin was forced into resignation and obscurity in 1945.

Meanwhile, in Nuremberg, 24 Farben executives were tried for their war crimes, and they cited their obligations to their shareholders in their defense. All but five were acquitted on this basis.

Seen in that light, the plunderers of today’s PE firms are part of a long and dishonorable tradition, one that puts profit ahead of every other priority or consideration. It’s a defense that wowed the judges at Nuremberg, so should we be surprised that it still plays in 2023?

Tkacik is frustrated that neither of these books have much to offer by way of solutions, but she understands why that would be. After all, if we can’t even close the carried interest tax loophole, how can we hope to do anything meaningful?

“Carried interest” comes up in every election cycle. Most of us assume it has something to do with “interest payments,” but that’s not true. The carried interest loophole relates to the “interest” that 16th-century sea captains had in their cargo. It’s a 600-year-old tax loophole that private equity bosses use to pay little or no tax on their billions. The fact that it’s still on the books tells you everything you need to know about whether our political class wants to do anything about PE’s plundering.

Notwithstanding Tkacik’s (entirely justified) skepticism of the weaksauce remedies proposed in these books, there is some hope of meaningful action. Private equity’s rollups are only possible because they skate under the $101m threshold for merger scrutiny. However, there is good — but unenforced — law that allows antitrust enforcers to block these mergers. This is the “incipiency standard” — Sec 7 of the Clayton Act — the idea that a relatively small merger might not be big enough to trigger enforcement action on its own, but regulators can still act to block it if it creates an incipient monopoly.

https://pluralistic.net/2022/12/16/schumpeterian-terrorism/#deliberately-broken

The US has a new crop of aggressive — fearless — top antitrust enforcers and they’ve been systematically reviving these old laws to go after monopolies.

That’s long overdue. Markets are machines for eroding our moral values: “In comparison to non-market decisions, moral standards are significantly lower if people participate in markets.”

https://web.archive.org/web/20130607154129/https://www.uni-bonn.de/Press-releases/markets-erode-moral-values

The crimes that monsters commit in the name of ideology pale in comparison to the crimes the wealthy commit for money.

Catch me on tour with Red Team Blues in Edinburgh, London, and Berlin!

If you’d like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here’s a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/06/02/plunderers/#farbenizers

[Image ID: An overgrown graveyard, rendered in silver nitrate monochrome. A green-tinted businessman with a moneybag in place of a head looms up from behind a gravestone. The right side of the image is spattered in blood.]

1K notes · View notes

eightyonekilograms · 5 months ago

Text

Ignore the attention-getting headline about fertility. I made a pledge a little while ago to stop talking about fertility issues; I'll do a longer post about that pledge later, but I'm sick of that discourse and how it's now just going in circles with nothing to show for it. But click through to the post anyway about South Korea's dysfunctional small business culture.

One of the awkward findings in business and economics is, despite how much people dislike them, giant megacorporations are much more efficient than small businesses, in terms of worker productivity (as long as those corporations have to compete in a global marketplace and aren't propped up by subsidies, protectionist trade policy, or monopoly protection).

This happens everywhere, but I didn't realize it was particularly bad in South Korea:

Between the Hyundai apartments and Samsung theme parks, South Korea certainly looks like a nation of big business. But looks can be deceiving: peak beneath the hood and you find that the Republic of Samsung is a nation awash in shitty small businesses. With just 14 percent of jobs at companies with over 250 employees, South Korea has the lowest proportion of jobs at big companies of any nation in the OECD. Contrast this with the U.S., where 58 percent of jobs are at such companies. ... Small businesses aren’t always bad for employees—maybe you get more autonomy and fewer shrill HR managers. But South Korea’s small businesses are distinctively unproductive and retrograde in their work cultures, making them far less attractive employment options. While SMEs are rarely as productive as large ones, it is truly striking how unproductive South Korea’s small businesses are compared to those in Western nations. The OECD, for example, found small service sector firms in Korea are 30 percent as productive as larger firms with over 250 workers. In the Netherlands and Germany, that figure is 84 and 90 percent, respectively. Similarly, the Asian Development Bank found that in 2010, small Korean firms with five to 49 workers were just 22 percent as productive as firms with over 200 workers. ... The story of South Korea’s ingenious use of corporate subsidies, it turns out, has been oversold. South Korea’s government in fact shells out lots of money keeping unproductive small businesses afloat, with little in the way of economic gain to show for it. ... So why does South Korea spend so much money subsidizing poorly run small businesses? The simple answer may be that it is especially good politics in a nation where chaebols are met with suspicion over their ties to the government. Politicians can point to this “support” for small businesses as evidence that they are not in bed with firms like Samsung.

This is a fascinating example of policy backfire: Korea's chaebols are so big and politically unpopular that voters demand tons of subsidies for the romantic ideal of small family businesses, which keeps them permanently uncompetitive and unproductive, where people have to work much longer hours for the same pay you'd get anywhere else.

161 notes · View notes

buryustogether · 1 year ago

Text

the end of forever (god’s day)

aziraphale x reader x crowley

summary: the end of forever comes on god’s day.

word count: 2.6k

warnings/tags: angst, mentions of blood

author’s note: dedicated to @avocado-writing , with whom i did a fic trade and this was my piece!! this fic is part of their good omens original timeline, and i highly recommend reading it!!! <333

The end of forever started on a Saturday evening.

Granted, it was not the Saturday evening that dominates the beginning to every weekend, fitted with gentle rainfall pattering against the windows, and a book propped in your lap, and the comfortable ambiance of your lovers on either side as you let yourself be lulled into peace. Instead it was a dark, thrashing kind of Saturday, filled with panicked whispers over dances, and demons busting down the bookshop windows in hails of twinkling glass. It was blinding, seared into the forefront of your mind with traces of a halo detached from its angel and a pair of souls running away, bound for opposite sides of the universe and forever vanished into one corner together.

And, of course, it was snapped up in the jaws of the Metatron. He had taken Aziraphale for a stroll around the block once or twice, leaving you and Crowley to stare down the mess of what had become the bookshop and wonder if perhaps this had all been a dream.

“Fancy breakfast at the Ritz, love?” Crowley had said as the pair of you began to pluck cracked books from the floor and stack them to be restored and reshelved. With a wave of his slender fingers, he had sent the shards of glass cascading through the air like a silent breeze back to where they belonged in the window frames. “Reckon we deserve it, after a night like that.”

“Sure you’ll be able to handle the drive?” you had said and handed him the empty fire extinguisher, which had fallen down the winding iron staircase. “I’m sure you’re exhausted, Crowley. Spending all that time in Heaven? Must have been awfully straining on you.”

Though he would never admit it, Crowley rather enjoyed it when you fussed over him. He relished in the worry threading your voice together, craved the inevitable babying that accompanied your measures of protection. His chest had puffed slightly, and if you could have seen them, you were sure his wings had ruffled a bit.

“I’ll be alright,” he’d assured, then dropped into the chair he had long ago claimed as his beside Aziraphale’s desk. “Wouldn’t say no to a nap when we come back, though. Could sleep for a few decades, I think. Skip all the garish drama that’s sure to follow something like this. Care to join, nightingale?”

You had smiled at him, eyes full of exhaustion and yet at the same time, the restlessness that came with the knowledge part of your trio was still missing from the picture. “Afraid I can only keep you company a few hours,” you mused. “Immortal as I am, I don’t think I can lie still long enough until you decide to wake up.” Despite your teasing, you reached out your hand to caress his jaw, and he leaned into your warm touch. He knew it like he knew his own breath in his throat at this point, but he still nuzzled into your palm like an animal seeking warmth. Funny enough creature as he was, he was still, deep down, a demon searching your soul for any glimpse of love you might spare him. “I’m glad you’re okay, Crowley,” you said, letting your voice lower in volume so he understood you had dropped your jokes and cracks. “I don’t think I could bear losing you. Either of you.”

He had leaned up to kiss you then, lips and tongue seeking yours like, in spite of your words, one side or the other might tear you away from him. He tasted like cinnamon - an odd enough musk for him, but he had just returned from Heaven, after all. You were sure he hated it. But you had drank it in like it was the last thing you’d taste before you fell.

You found yourself some time later amongst the back shelves of the shop, knees and the heels of your hands aching as you painstakingly wiped away and polished the spots on the floor upon which unholy blood had been spilt and spattered. Aziraphale would not care to have those on his tile, thank you. A voice in the back of your head told you that one of your boys could simply miracle the mess away, but this seemed a bit more intimate - cleaning up the mess for your lover. This was your shop, too, in a way. And you wanted to rid it of any trace of what had happened here last night.

You only realized it was Sunday morning - God’s day - when you heard the bell above the front door jingle with its familiar chime, and the low rumble of your lover’s voices filled the empty space between the air. You couldn’t hear what they were saying, not over the sound of your brush against the floor and the dull ache in your lower back. After a long few minutes, you sat back and inspected your work.

Like the demon invasion of Fell and Co. had never even happened.

You were just about to call out to your boys when you heard a sharp hiss to Crowley’s voice that caused your heart to skip a beat. You twisted your head around to face the front of the store. Crowley only ever hissed when he let his disguise slip and his tongue split. And he only ever let his tongue split when he was so distraught not even a raging thunderstorm could comfort him.

Wiping your hands on your legs, you cautiously made your way through the organized maze of shelves toward the front entrance of the bookshop. There stood your lovers, the angel and the demon, staring one another down like they had never met, like their love had vaporized, like they had never met in that garden at the beginning.

“What’s happened?” you said and made your presence known as you stepped down into the threshold. “What’s wrong?”

Aziraphale turned to face you, obviously making an effort to brighten his features, but it was Crowley who faced away. Dropped his weight onto his arm against the desk. Reached up to tug off his shades, toss them aside hard enough that the lens cracked in its frame. The air crackled with a kind of tension that reared its head so rarely it was almost foreign to you. Or, perhaps, was that divine energy rippling the air, stirred and upset by the creatures standing before you?

“Darling,” said Aziraphale, then reached out to take your hands and placed kisses upon your knuckles. His lips were plump and soft, and when they made contact with the skin of your hand, a tiny sense of ease washed over your veins. “You needn’t worry about this. Just a… little dispute.”

“Oh, don’t lie to her like a child,” seethed Crowley from across the room, and whatever ease had settled your nerves disappeared in the blink of an eye. You felt your blood turn to ice beneath your skin when you heard a wobble, a shake, in his voice. Was your demon… holding back tears? He bared his teeth, which he’d allowed to sharpen like blades, and jutted out an accusatory finger toward his husband. “Tell them, or I bloody will,” he snapped, then lifted a deadly brow. “And you won’t like the way I phrase things, angel.”

Alarm blared like a siren in your head, flashed like lights that burned your eyes even through your lids. You knew at once this surely had something to do with last night, with the Metatron, and you were unable to stop yourself from snapping around to stare at Aziraphale expectantly. Where you searched for comfort and reassurance, you found only irritation and exasperation.

“Aziraphale,” you said, gripping his hands tighter as you gently shook your head with confusion. You only barely managed to keep your voice from shaking; something was very, very wrong. This was not like the time two hundred years ago when they had stopped talking to one another for a decade. This was far more serious, far more dangerous. “Aziraphale, what’s happening?”

Your angel stared into your eyes - or, perhaps, he was staring at his own reflection in your irises - and he let out a breath you had not heard him take in. “The Metatron,” he began slowly, softly, like you were a spooked animal who would run if he talked too loud, “has given me a generous, generous offer.”

From across the room, Crowley scoffed over his shoulder and gave another hiss from between his teeth.

“Based on a few of the…” Aziraphale seemed to struggle with the words. “Good deeds that have been performed the last six thousand years, Heaven has agreed to allow me back into its order - as the Supreme Archangel, now that Gab… Jim has vacated his position.” Despite the slow, sinking feeling growing like a black hole in your gut as he went on, the beginnings of an excited smile played upon the corners of his lips. “And they’ve even offered to redeem Crowley - as an angel again!”

The bookshop was a deadly kind of quiet, the kind that filled empty spaces with fear, and dread, and horror until there was nothing left but a rotting mess. Your mouth hung agape as you tried to process your angel’s words, tried to swallow down what he’s just said. Heaven wanted him back - would take Crowley back. That would be it. Their time on Earth would come to a close, a thunderous applause, a devastating end.

Yet there was a single question that hung tight in the air, one that waited like a dagger above each of your heads, waiting to see who would speak of it first.

Could you handle the sting when it planted itself in your back? “Aziraphale,” you heard yourself whisper as your brows knitted together and tears puddled in the corners of your eyes, “what about me?”

Though you could not see it, Crowley shut his eyes and pursed his lips, still attempting to stop the tears from falling down the gaunt planes of his cheeks. He knew the answer already, knew his angel far too well to pretend it could be anything different. He wanted to protect you from it, clasp his hands over your ears and snarl and snap at the world until he’d frightened everything that could hurt you far, far away. But you had to hear this.

Aziraphale swallows thick, holding your hands a bit tighter, like you might bolt from his grasp any moment. Even when you shift, he grips you in an iron grasp. “Well,” he drawls slowly, hesitation creeping into the corners of his voice, “of course, Heaven can’t grant holy status to… ah… humans. Immortal or not, I’m afraid, my love. But do you know angels hold the ability to possess human souls within themselves? Keep them safe and sound - isn’t that lovely? Why, I’m not the first angel in history to find a human they can’t let go of.” His hold tightens again, turning your skin pale where he grips you. “I - we could bring you with us. Your soul, darling.”

Every ounce of curiosity, of worry and fear, has morphed into a single sickening, dripping, venomous sensation that floods your systems, encases your body like a cocoon swallowing you whole; horror.

“You want to take my soul to Heaven,” you said quietly, so terribly softly that it was barely above a whisper. “Like a pet.” With this, you yanked your hands from Aziraphale’s and forced yourself to take three steps back. It stung like knives between your ribs to do so, to bear the expression painting itself across your husband’s face, but there was no other choice. “Aziraphale, you would trade us - trade this - to go back to them? After what they’ve done to you?” You took another step back, and you felt yourself bump into the chest of your demon. “After what they did to Crowley?”

You had always heard betrayal hurt worse from a lover than anyone else. Was this what betrayal felt like? Like stones in your pocket with a river pulling you under? Like venom slowly sucking your life from your very veins.

“No, of course not,” your angel tried, raising his hands. He opened his mouth to go on, then threw up a palm and sniffed out an exasperated huff. “If you both would just try and understand…”

“Oh, we understand plenty.” There came no term of endearment at the end of Crowley’s statement, no playful lilt or head nod. Only the cold, piercing gaze of those yellow eyes, and the slow wrapping of his hands around your arms, pulling you closer against him.

The movement caught Aziraphale’s eye, and hellfire flashed within them. “Oh, I should have known it would go this way,” he chided, pacing forward. “Here I thought you could, for once, Crowley, suppress your demonic ways of swaying her to your side. For once! Are you satisfied, you old serpent? Are you content with what’s happening?”

“How dare you!” The shout came from deep within your chest, an explosive rage nothing short of a scream that leaves the angel frozen where he stands. Those ocean eyes flicker to yours as you at last allow yourself to cry, to feel the sobs wrack your body like earthquakes and feel the tears gathering at the point of your chin. “How dare you let them come between us, Aziraphale! Between us!” You choked a bit and your angel visibly fought a battle within himself, wanting to pull away and surge forward all at once. “After everything… after everything we’ve been through, everything we’ve built, and you want to leave it to play God.”

“Of course I’m not leaving us,” your angel murmured, the crows feet against his eyes making themselves known as he knits his brows. Tears brim the edges of his vision. “I - I would be taking us with me. To somewhere safe… for all of us.”

“No,” you exhaled shakily, feeling Crowley’s fingers tighten around your upper arms. You shook your head at Aziraphale, your ears ringing and heart shattered. “Not safe for us. Better for you.” You peered into his eyes, into those watery blue eyes you could have drowned in, and saw your reflection staring back as he searched for something he could not find. “You miss Heaven, Aziraphale. You always have - and we know that. We all do.” There came a terrible, horrible, dreadful pause. “But we can’t go with you. We won’t.”

Your angel seemed at a loss for words. He simply stood there, staring you and his husband down. He gaped. Tried to form words. Took a step back.

Above you, his fingers now digging so tightly, so fiercely, so protectively, into your skin that his nails left marks, Crowley sneered and hissed in a voice filled with the desolation of a fallen angel, “You idiot.” You turned your face and tucked it into his shirt. “We could have been… us.”

Aziraphale said nothing for a very, very long time. Then he murmured, “I forgive you both.”

The bell over the door jingled, and he was gone, without leaving so much as a feather behind.

You sobbed loudly, awfully, horribly into Crowley’s chest, and you felt his own unholy, burning tears fall against your hairline as he stroked your tresses and kept you standing.

The end of forever started on a Saturday evening, and ended on a Sunday morning.

It was God’s day, after all.

#good omens #good omens crowley #good omens aziraphale #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x reader #crowley x reader #good omens x reader #the light the dark and the spaces in between fic

369 notes · View notes

naamahdarling · 2 years ago

Text

Revelations during tonight's dinner conversation with my dad:

His father was a top secret class engineer at a big aerospace company who worked on the Echo satellite program. He was highly placed enough that several times during the cold war, the infamous "men in black" came and removed him from the house to (presumably) Cheyenne Mountain in case of nuclear strike. They were fine leaving my grandma, uncle, and dad to die, though. 😨

The "men in black" came to talk to my dad's teen brother one day out of the blue and demanded all correspondence from his stamp-collecting Norwegian pen pal with whom he had been trading stamps and boys' magazines. His pen pal was a 58-year-old Russian spy. 😧

My dad was a courier in the Vietnam War with top secret clearance, running communications through active combat zones. I did not know this. He once risked his life to deliver a mislabeled order past a firefight - an utterly trivial order for flags on the base to be flown half-mast that had been labeled top secret. Heads rolled for that. 😬

The park across the street from the house I lived in my whole life and he lives in still was at one time partially a cemetery containing about 30 gravesites. They were supposedly all moved, but you know how it is. You can't be sure they found or bothered to remove everything. This explains why the park was so creepy, why the perfectly ordinary 50s-era ranch house had vibes so septic and haunted even my dad could sense it, and why I felt watched, always, from every window in the house that faced that park. 😱

None of this is touching the time he and his group of coworkers were mistaken for bank robbers and almost killed by small-town cops, the time his twin prop plane lost an engine and almost crashed over the Sea of Japan, the time he caught a several million dollar accounting mistake for his company before it tanked their international branch, or why he is partially responsible for why swipe-to-pay credit card machines were for a short while RADICALLY different, not standardized, and very frustrating to operate (but he saved thousands of regular people from potential fraud).

714 notes · View notes

throneofsapphics · 1 year ago

Note

https://www.tumblr.com/theparadoxart/730787672331829248 this one i believe. love that lorcan x reader one btw, very well written. feel like some lorcan writers write in a way that makes lorcan seem unappealing to me (no shade or whatever, most likely just a preference)

bad idea

Azriel x f!Reader

Summary: Azriel comes to you with a new job proposal.

Word Count: ~3.8k

Warnings: suggestiveness, mentions of blood, mentions of drinking

A/N: ah thank you, he's a fun character to write! based on this request, thank you for sending it, sorry it took so long!

You sat down heavily on the steps. The year passed quickly in Cesere passed quickly. Just before the outbreak of the war against Hybern, and after the attack on the temple, you’d arrived.

Rhys requested for you to help with the aftermath. You were honored by the request, and knew he’d sent you for a few different reasons. You could hold your own in a fight and had grown up in a temple. Not this one, specifically, but you’d spent your later childhood secluded with the Priestesses.

You kicked your legs out before you, letting your back press into the stone wall, eyes closing as you breathed in the night air. Fresh and clean, the taint of blood and death had begun to dissipate. The months after the war weighed on everyone here. You’d stayed here throughout the duration, and after, protecting the small outpost and rebuilding.

You opened your eyes to gaze out at the horizon. The sun was slowly setting, but clouds obscured the view. No pretty sunset tonight. Maybe tomorrow would be better.

Dawn til dusk, everyday for a few years. Sometimes even longer. Exhaustion had quickly set in now that the fervor died down. Could you do this for a lifetime? You weren’t certain. Vacations didn’t exist in your world, not for you at least. It would be a cold day in hell before you admitted you needed a break - or help.

A low chill overtook the area, and you leapt to your feet, hands palming the knife at your side as a shield slid over your skin and the door. A figure emerged from the corner, shadows dispersing to reveal a familiar form. Your lips curved into a smile. Azriel.

The shield dropped, you’d recognize his scent anywhere. Night-chilled mist and cedar. His brows flicked, and you realized you were still gripping the knives. You shrugged, and lowered yourself back down to the steps, patting the spot next to you.

A snort left him, but he crossed towards you in a few long strides. His legs spread, forearms propped on his thighs as he gazed at you. His stare was a brand, as if he saw through every layer and defense you’d built. He always had that way about him.

You tilted your head to meet his gaze. His mouth curved at one corner.

“Good to see you.” He spoke first.

“Likewise.” A grin broke out on your face. Seeing an old friend was always nice. Mor had brought you to Velaris several centuries ago, and you’d quickly become friends with the rest of the Inner Circle, but you’d always been closer to Azriel. Well, you did spy for him for a brief period before you both figured out it wasn’t your best skill.

“Why are you here?” You winced at your own words, as they came out a bit harsher than you meant for them to. Thankfully, he didn’t look offended.

“Doing my rounds.” Rumors spread of him visiting, but somehow you’d always missed each other.

“Not seeking out my company?” You teased him.

His mouth tightened. Maybe he had been seeking you out. “Part of the job description.”

You hummed, but went into a small report about the state of things here. Nothing to report, really. The new priestesses were adjusting, the wards you and Rhys built were still strong, supplies came in as needed, trading was slowly building back up again.

“How are you?” He emphasized. You blinked.

“Everything is well.” You’d just explained all of that.

He huffed, and fixed you with a look. You, personally - not the state of things.

“Fine.” You muttered, switching your gaze back to the horizon.

“Liar.” For now, you’d ignore that comment.

“How is everything in Velaris?” You switched the subject, not very smoothly. His eyes narrowed slightly, telling you that conversation wasn’t over.

“It’s fine.” His words were clipped, but his tone was a tad softer than usual. “I - we miss you.”

“Really?” You drawled.

“Yes. Really.”

You leaned over and nudged him with your elbow, carefully avoiding his wings. “You’ve gone soft, shadowsinger.”

“You need a break.” He wasn’t wasting any time, then. Were you that easy to read?

“No.”

“Yes.” He countered.

“I didn’t realize I answered you.”

He let out an exasperated sigh. “I forgot how damned stubborn you are.”

Azriel was impressed. You’d detected him within seconds of his arrival, and were as sharp as ever. Plus, you’d defended the outpost throughout the last few years. Resources had been stretched, but they’d placed you here - knowing you were both capable and willing to take it on. The best candidate for the job, but even he could see how it wore on you. He’d checked in with the Priestesses briefly, but you’d never been present. Maybe he should have sought you out sooner. Azriel shoved away the hint of shame creeping into him.

A new idea had dawned on him nearly as soon as he saw you. They needed another trainer for the Valkyries, and you needed a change of scenery. It was an ideal situation, and they’d already started evaluating volunteers for a few Valkyrie-Priestesses to relocate out to some of the outposts. Roslin, Deirdre, and Ananke. He’d quickly reached out to Rhys during one of the pauses in your conversation, and gotten a resounding approval.

“Have you heard of the Valkyrie’s?”

Silence filled the space, all noise seeming to disappear as you froze next to him.

“My mother was a Valkyrie.” He barely caught your words, just a whisper over the wind. How had he not known that? That explains your natural talent. Accidental pregnancy? Did she hide you when war broke out?

“Months before that war broke out, she sent me to a temple. I was ten.” You confirmed his suspicions.

He cleared his throat, and began to explain the re-birth of the Valkyries. You listened intently, hanging on to every word like a lifeline, your eyes lighting up with each new word he spoke. He had to focus on getting the words out, not on the look in your eyes - the new life breathed into them, the anticipation he could sense building in you. Joy and sorrow. Something in his chest ached at the emotions freely rolling from you. At the old memories he was undoubtedly digging up.

“We’re looking for another trainer.” He finished before you could get a word in. Your mouth parted, eyes widening. He was kidding, right? “I’m offering you the position.”

“Offering or ordering?” You joked, trying to deflect the maelstrom of emotions rolling from you in uncontrollable waves. Your mother would be proud, would be overjoyed. “Either way I’m in.” You quickly added, not wanting him to think you were declining.

His lips quirked up at the corners. “I would’ve dragged you back if I had to.”

“I can’t leave until someone else,” you waved your hand at the building behind you - the Temple.

“We have something set up.” If he says he does, you’d believe him. Azriel would never put Cesere in the hands of someone he or the Inner Circle couldn’t trust.

“Fair enough.”

He stood, holding out a hand for you. You frowned, but took it - letting him tug you to your feet. His hand lingered for a few seconds, scarred flesh rough against your skin. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, before he dropped your hand, taking a quick step back. “I’ll touch base tomorrow, and we can finalize arrangements.”

Before you could reply, shadows had swarmed him again and he disappeared. Never one for words, you huffed a laugh but didn’t read into the situation further. You understood the other message behind his words - don’t tell anyone yet.

Your mind filled with a thousand more things to worry about. If the switch happens, how would you transition back into life in Velaris? What could you do to help the new Valkyrie-Priestesses adjust? You rubbed your hands together, change was good. A new purpose, and now you had plans to put into place. Assuming everything works out. He wouldn’t get your hopes up like that. Hopefully.

You didn’t need to guess what your mother would think - she would be overjoyed. Memories of your early childhood flooded into your mind. You’d been just months out from beginning official training when you were dropped off, your mother depositing you on the doorstep after a hushed conversation with the Head Priestess. You overheard her swearing a vow of secrecy to your mother.

She embraced you, the lone tear on your cheek dripping down on her armor, glinting in the sunlight.

“Be brave,” she whispered, pulling back to hold you by the shoulders. You straightened, and nodded to her. “Never forget I love you.”

“I love you.” You replied, she squeezed your shoulder once before disappearing. She never made a promise to return, and dread had built in your stomach. A sixth sense told you this would be the last time you saw her, and you committed her picture to memory. Brave. You could be brave, for her.

You were surprised the shadowsinger didn’t know. Out of everyone, you’d suspected he would’ve sniffed your ‘secret’ out. There wasn’t a singular reason why you kept your mother’s identity a secret, more of a feeling that you should. The priestess swearing a vow of secrecy had altered something inside of you. Why had you told Azriel, after all of these centuries? And why hadn’t he questioned it further?

Your head pounded, and you rubbed at your temples. The sky was dark, the full moon casting a soft glow over the streets. Bed, you needed to sleep.

Two weeks later, you were unlocking the door to your old apartment. A sheen of dust covered every surface. The kettle was still on the stove where you left it. You really had left in a hurry.

Three hours later, you were satisfied it was clean enough for now. Rummaging through your pantry, you found some old rice and dried beans - probably no good by now. It was late, past sundown. The food vendors were long gone and maybe you should’ve thought of this before your cleaning spree.

You flinched as a knock pounded on the door. There’s only one person who could sneak through your wards like that.

You swung the door open and Azriel stood there. He did cut an imposing figure, wings tucked in behind him - still wearing his leathers as usual, hazel eyes scanned the room behind you. Always on guard. He held a basket before him. It seemed so … domestic, for one of the greatest Illyrian Warriors to show up at your doorstep with a picnic basket.

“Please tell me that’s food,” you stepped to the side to let him in, shutting the door softly behind him. The aroma of fresh bread, cheese, fruits, and different meats wafted through the room and you nearly moaned. He gave you a look, as if to say; isn’t that obvious?

You glared at him, and he held the basket out in front of him as a peace offering. You fought the urge to lunge for it, and instead gently took it from his hands, his fingers brushing against yours. You ignored the bolt of electricity flooding through you, quickly turning to place it on the kitchen table.

“Staying to eat?” You asked without looking back at him. Your cheeks were flushed - and you didn’t need him to see that. You unfolded the towel, revealing an assortment of food fit for at least four people.

“Is that an invitation?” You felt the heat of his body behind you, hovering mere inches away. He leaned over you, snatching a grape. As he took a step back, you turned to lean your body against the table, propping your hands behind you.

He tossed it in the air, catching it in his mouth.

“That was a very Cassian move.” You commented, but reached for the same fruit and copied him. Your eyes closed as the sweet fruit popped in your mouth, a moan involuntarily leaving your lips. You’d have to find out where he got those from.

You heard shifting, fabric shuffling together, and your eyes flew open. Azriel had a smirk on his face, but it was undercut by the light pink on his cheeks and the faintest whiff of arousal. Your own rose to meet it. This was bad, but a little flirting couldn’t hurt … right?

“Something wrong?” You gave him a sweet smile, reaching back for another fruit, closing your lips around it as you popped it inside your mouth. You watched him, as he watched your motions - eyes fixed on your lips.

He recovered quickly. “I’ll get plates,” and strode past you. He headed to the correct cabinet on the first try. It took you longer than that to remember where you’d kept everything.

“How did you know that?”

A shadow brushed against your lower arm. Of course. It trailed up your body and brushed against the back of your neck, somewhere between comforting and sensual, before retreating back to him. It curled around his ears, and his shoulders relaxed slightly. What had it told him? That was probably too nosy of a question.

Azriel’s self control was thoroughly tested by you. The soft moan that escaped, the way you stared at him as your lips wrapped around the fruit. He wanted to feel them against his, to see if they felt as soft as they looked. To taste the sweet fruit on your own tongue, would it be different? Would you let out another one of those sweet moans? What other kinds of noises could he draw from you?

Inappropriate. Very fucking inappropriate. You were friends, had been friends for centuries, and he’d be working closely with you. He had centuries of practice exercising self-control, he wouldn’t lose it around you. If there was anything between you, he would’ve noticed it centuries ago. Nothing, he could chalk this up to a … misunderstanding. Wrong, his shadows whispered in his ear, wrong. He was keenly aware of your gaze on his back as he grabbed two plates - mismatched and slightly chipped porcelain. Slowly, so damned slowly, he turned back around and started plating food. He couldn’t look at her, not yet. He prayed you didn’t look down and see him straining against his pants. At least he’d detected a slight shift in your scent as well.

“Sit.” He told you, sliding the plate across the table. One elegant eyebrow arched at the command, but you listened.

He blinked at you. You must be hungry if you’re not making some kind of snarky remark.

Azriel knew he should leave. Should stride out the door, send some sort of letter to tell you when to show up, leave his plate full, pretend none of this happened, but he didn’t. Instead, he schooled his features into a neutral mask, watching you inhale your food like you hadn’t eaten in days.

It was several minutes before he realized he hadn’t eaten a bite, you laughed as your thumb wiped away a bit of food from the corner of your mouth, before your pink tongue darted out to capture the small morsel. You looked down at your now empty plate and frowned, hand starting to reach for the basket again.

His lips curved into a smile, and he took your plate from you before you could, ignoring your squawk of protest. Instinct wanted him to fill it for you. The delighted grin on your face, and thanks from you satisfied a part of it. This time, he remembered to eat his own food.

“I’ll come get you in the morning.” He said between bites. You paused, rolling a grape between your thumb and forefinger. Why had he brought those?

“Where will we be going?”

“To train.” He deadpanned.

Your teeth tugged at your bottom lip. Fuck. “You don’t feel the need to test me first?”

“Do you want me to?” He abandoned his plate and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms.

You shrugged. “It’s what I would do.”

“Are you saying you’re not up to it?” The words came out cooler than he meant for them to. “I know you are.” He added, a bit gentler. “I would’ve ‘tested’ you if I doubted.”

The answer seemed to satisfy because you turned back to your food.

Sure, you were hungry - but at this point the food was a distraction from him. From his intoxicating presence. If you stared too long, you’d be trapped and end up doing something stupid. You didn’t miss the way his body had reacted, how he was avoiding looking at you for too long …

Bad. Fucking. Idea.

“You’re obvious.” Cassian elbowed him. His brother wasn’t wrong, his focus was on the female instructing some of the newer priestesses. Explaining balance, showing them how to sync their movements with their breaths. Objectively, he could say you were a good addition to their team. You had an easy way about you, a genuine smile, and enthusiasm that drew everyone in. Himself included. A week ago, he’d collected you for the first time - arriving two hours before training officially began so he and Cassian could go over their lesson plans with you. They’d decided to have you with the newest group of priestesses joining.

He grunted as Cassian’s elbow hit his ribs, harder this time.

“I’m observing.” He said through gritted teeth. Inconveniently, you twisted your head over your shoulder, winking at him before returning. Azriel shook his head as Cassian laughed, and re-focused on the priestesses now returning from a water break. He smoothly situated them as far away from you as possible. Out of sight, out of mind. If only it worked like that.

A few hours later, you were speaking to Nesta, Gwyn, and Emerie over by one of the water stations on the far side of the courtyard. Rhys strolled through the door, hands in his pockets. Azriel fought the jealousy creeping inside of him as the two of you exchanged words - too quiet for him to hear. You only shot him a small smile a second before Rhys winnowed you away to mother knows where. The three Valkyries started making their way over to him.

“Did you need to eye-fuck all morning or should I shove the two of you in a closet?” Cassian drawled as the females came into earshot.

He turned his head to face his friend. Did he already forget Azriel had to chaperone him and Cassian for months?

He didn’t need to reply, because Emerie spoke directly to Cassian. “Now you know how we felt.”

“It’s not like that.” Azriel protested.

“Really?” Nesta let out an edged chuckle. He felt his hands fist defensively at his side, a reaction he thought was trained out of him centuries ago.

“Yes.” The word was clipped, and he left. He needed to be gone before they’d push about your friendship. Push about things that are none of their business. Something everyone in this city seems to be good at. Maybe with you as the exception. Part of him wished you’d pushed further.

This was destined to end horribly. Nothing good could come of getting involved with someone he had to work so closely with, had to spend so much time in close quarters. That’s what he told himself, at least.

Azriel took his shirt off. To be fair, so did Cassian. But … sweat glistened on his skin, dropping down his chest and stomach. The whirled tattoos along his back were still there. You decided you need a drink - preferably a large and strong one. You’d drink Absinthe now if you had to, but could settle for water.

You didn’t know if he was avoiding you. For the first week, he’d picked you up each morning and dropped you off after. But, now Rhys or Cassian would take you back down. Unless you ended up tagging along to the library with some of the priestesses.

You didn’t realize the Courtyard had cleared around you. This was the first time the two of you had been alone together in three weeks. Just grab your things and leave, you told yourself. Maybe you could take those 10,000 stairs, or head down into the library. You could probably find your way through the virtual labyrinth of stairs and corridors leading down.

You headed towards the door that would lead you through the mountain, and hissed as your fingertips came in contact with a shield. You sucked them into your mouth, soothing the small burning sensation.

Azriel cursed audibly behind you. You slowly turned to face him.

“Rhys did this,” he admitted. You didn’t reply, but let your magic probe at the shields. Until the High Lord decided you could leave, the two of you were stuck here.

“Any idea why?” You finally asked to break the awkward tension.

“No.” He ran a hand through his hair, and made his way over to one of the benches. He tapped the spot next to him, just like you had to him when he found you in Cesere. Your heart thundered with each step closer, and you left a few feet or so of space between the two of you. An appropriate amount of space.

Azriel seemed deep in thought, his eyes fixed right ahead of you, leaning forward so his forearms were propped on his thighs. Unashamedly, you studied his profile. The sharp cut of his jawline, sun glinting off his hazel eyes, his naked torso, the flexed muscles of his thighs.

“Like what you see?” He asked without looking at you.

“Yes.” You spoke without thinking. Your attention diverted, now gazing right ahead of you. Normally, this would be the time for you to make a cowards exit. But, Rhys had gone ahead and fucked that up that option for you.

Several moments passed before he spoke again. “Let me take you on a date.”

It took you a few breaths to recover. “Ask nicely and I’ll consider.”

That caught his attention, and you felt him studying you this time. Your pulse fluttered as you turned to meet his gaze. “Please,” he said in a mocking tone, and a little smile crept onto your lips.

You tapped a finger against your chin, pretending to think about it. “Fine,” you sighed - as if it was a big ordeal. The blush on your cheeks betrayed you. But, as you voiced your agreement - the shield dropped. That was his goal.

You stood, stretching your arms above you to get some of the tension out of your back. Currently, you had a nosy High Lord to track down and have some choice words with. Azriel stood with you. You had a feeling he was about to do the same thing.

Maybe one day you’d thank Rhys. For now, you wanted to make him regret his existence for forcing your hand.

#azriel x reader #azriel x y/n #acotar x reader #acotar fic

223 notes · View notes

lilbittymonster · 2 months ago

Text

Day 5: Stamp

Read on AO3

Kugane’s market district was just as vibrant as she remembered, the streamers and paper lanterns swaying in the sea-blown breeze as people milled about a well-worn memory. No one stopped her to thank her for some heroic deed or another, no one stood gawking at her from a corner in awe, she was...just another patron of the market. It was freeing in a way she hadn’t been free in a long time.

She slowed her pace, taking the time to really look at all of the stalls she was passing. A blue wooden box propped up with two bamboo brushes caught her eye and she carefully wove her way closer to inspect it.

“Finest calligraphy supplies this side of Thavnair!” boasted the saleswoman behind the counter.

“Hello, are those inks in that box, or just brushes?” Kitali asked her in Doman as she approached.

“Yes, these are both inks and brushes,” the woman smiled. “There are full colour sets here, and traditional black here.”

“Could I see the colours?” Kitali asked.

Delicately, the woman lifted the box from its place and handed it to her, cover open. Nestled inside were eight uniform sticks of various pigments, all stamped with a gold dragon. Kitali bit the inside of her cheek to hold her amusement at bay. Surely no one could accuse him of heresy should she send him these…

“How much for these?” she asked.

“For the ink and the brushes, 300 gil.”

“And this is just the ink and brushes, no stone?”

“Correct. If you would like to pick out a grinding stone as well, we have plenty to chose from. Come, see what we have over here.”

She beckoned Kitali with a hand to the other side of the stall where there were several small stones laid out, ranging from plain dishes to intricately carved dishes with fitted lids. Most were the same flat black stone, but a couple had bits of shell and wood inlaid into their design, two even having what looked like gold.

A small round dish, roughly the size of her palm, with a large crescent moon dotted with inlaid shell sat nestled between two much larger stones almost the size of tea saucers. Gingerly she plucked it from its seat, and to her delight it had an actual lid over the well. Perfect for keeping little paws from stepping into wet ink.

“How much is this one?” she asked.

The shopkeeper quickly consulted a list behind the counter. “That one? 65 gil.”

Kitali fished out her small coinpurse from a pocket and counted out her total.

“Would you like this wrapped as a gift?”

“Yes, and preferably something that can be shipped,” Kitali said as the woman pulled out a sheet of thick paper. “It’s a gift for my husband.” The word still felt so strange to speak aloud, this small secret.

“Ah, how lovely! How many years?”

Kitali thought for a moment. “By the time this reaches him, it will be one year.”

“Congratulations,” she said warmly as she plucked the box and brushes from their resting place. “He has used inks before, yes?”

Kitali shook her head. “Not that I know of.”

A small white card was plucked from a stack and placed on top of the ink box.

“Instructions for him, then. Thank you so much for your patronage, miss, do come again!”

Kitali clutched the parcel against her chest protectively as she walked off, content with her find but still taking the time to circle the markets in full. She wasn’t needed to discuss financial matters with the East Aldenard Trading Company representative. She could enjoy her homecoming in peace, however bittersweet it was.

At a leisurely pace, Kitali slowly wandered back towards the ijin district to wait for Alphinaud and Tataru to conclude their business. Lyse and Alisaie were sitting some distance off at one of the tables sharing a plate of what looked like takoyaki. Lyse noticed her coming down the stairs and waved her over, sliding over to make room on the bench.

“Ooh, what’s that?” she asked, nodding at the package.

“A gift,” Kitali said simply.

“Who’s it for?” Alisaie asked around a mouthful of dough.

“A friend in Ishgard, I promised them I’d send a souvenir,” Kitali said evasively, hoping the thinned truth would satisfy them.

It did, and their conversation turned back to wondering over the delights of the city while Kitali looked on, amused.

#ffxivwrite2024 #ffxivwrite 2024 #my writing #stormblood spoilers #kitali moonblade #lyse hext #alisaie leveilleur #implied wolmeric #they're still trying to keep it a secret at this point #and MAN did i fall down a rabbit hole on traditional japanese ink making just to give an accurate price for these LMAO #but now i know new stuff! and i can use those details for later!

29 notes · View notes

lares-algotech · 1 year ago

Text

Learn more about Prop Desk Trading in India

Prop desk trading in India has emerged as a powerful and intriguing concept. If you’ve ever wondered what prop desk trading is all about and how it works, you’re in the right place.

Continue reading: https://laresalgotech.com/what-is-prop-desk-trading-in-india-and-how-does-this-work/

#Prop Desk Trading in India #Prop Desk Trading #Prop Desk Company #prop desk management company

0 notes

otdiaftg · 10 months ago

Text

The King's Men - Chapter Seven

Day: Wednesday, January 17th Time: 8:18 PM EST

"Have you heard back from the shop?" Neil asked, dragging his attention back to Andrew. "Matt got a call this morning saying his truck would be ready for pickup tomorrow. Allison should have hers back Saturday morning. Can they fix yours?" Andrew flipped his phone open, pressed a couple buttons, and handed it over. Neil waited, mystified, until Andrew's voicemail started playing on speaker. A mechanical voice announced Tuesday's date, and a sobering message followed. The damage was even more extensive than it'd appeared; the garbage in back had hidden whatever the Raven fans did to the backseat cushions, and none of them had looked in the trunk before the car was towed. The shop wanted Andrew to call them back to talk about his options and discuss what it would take to restore the car to its former glory. Andrew hoisted himself onto the rental car's trunk and dug a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. He lit two and traded Neil one for his phone. Neil cupped a hand around his to shield it from the breeze. He studied Andrew's face as Andrew put his phone and cigarettes away, but Andrew gave no sign he was bothered by the bad news. "You're going to have to replace it," Neil guessed. "If the insurance company won't cover a replacement for your car, take the difference from me. You know I have enough for it." Andrew slid him a cool look. "I'm uninterested in your charity." "It isn't charity," Neil said. "It's revenge. It wasn't my money in the first place, remember? I told you my father skimmed it from the Moriyamas. If you take some for your car, you're making Riko replace what his fans destroyed." "Revenge is a motivator only for the weak-willed," Andrew said. "If you believed that you wouldn't be planning how to kill Proust." The doctor's name still tasted like acid, burning Neil's tongue and throat, but it wasn't enough to put a dent in Andrew's calm expression. Andrew gazed at him in silence for what felt like an eternity, then propped his cigarette between his lips and motioned Neil closer. Neil was sure he was stepping forward into a knife for bringing Proust up again, but he obediently closed the short space between them. Andrew caught the back of Neil's neck in a bruising grip to keep him from retreating. He pulled Neil's head toward him and blew smoke in Neil's face. "This is not revenge," Andrew said. "I warned him what I would do to him if he touched me. This is me keeping my word." He waited a beat to make sure Neil understood, then let go. The next time he raised his cigarette to his mouth Neil took it from him. Neil broke it between his fingers and let it fall to the asphalt by their feet. Andrew watched the halves roll away from each other and turned an unimpressed look on Neil. "Ninety-one percent," Andrew said.

Art used with permission by Midgart. Thank you @midgart!

86 notes · View notes

saradika · 2 years ago

Text

— maybe I just wanna be yours

boba fett x f!eader

Rated E - 1.8k

Tags: fluff and smut, feelings, flirting, dirty talk, spitting, rough PiV, unprotected sex, comeplay, emotional hurt/comfort, references to chronic pain & age, nightmares

Summary - Spending 4 different kinds of evenings in the company of one Boba Fett.

A/N: after I wrote an Obi-Wan fic last year to celebrate May the 4th, @wingofshadow had very kindly asked if I’d consider writing more! So a bit late - but was feeling really inspired to write one for Boba this year 💕

You lost all sense of time hours ago. Swaying with the smooth, low notes of the band in the corner - wrapped up in the buzz of conversation, the dimmed and flickering lights.

Chin propped up on a palm, eyelashes lowered as you watch. Something easy to do from where you lean against the bartop, trading the stool for a chance to stretch your legs.

Making an idle pass around the room, though your gaze always returns to the middle.

To him.

The easy way he lounges against the stone. A thick arm draped across the curving back, the glint of a golden light above reflecting against the dark shadow of his visor.

It still thrills you.

The feeling in your chest that you wish you had a name for - swooping low, like the music. Rising and swelling until it feels like it's about to burst.

But feelings are dangerous, in a place like this.

With a man like Boba Fett.

Your eyes find him again, unable to help seeking him out.

This time, his helmet tilts in your direction. You can feel a heat rising up your neck, to your cheeks, thinking about him thinking about you.

Joining him, on that throne.

He's confessed he has. When lips loosen late at night. That moment with he's buried in you and the filth pours, desperate for release.

There's a fraction of a second as he holds your gaze. A little tip of his helmet, towards a corner of the room you know well.

A secret message, just for you.

Only for you.

It has you rising - weaving carefully through the crowd. Watching how he moves towards you at the same time - how he's given a large berth. Respect following each heavy footstep, as he is brought your way.

A gloved hand catches your elbow, steering you down a narrow hallway. Out of sight from prying eyes - the hiss as the helmet is removed, tucked easily under an arm.

You move ahead of him, turning in time to just catch the slow drag of his eyes. Not looking away when caught, but smiling instead. The smallest curve of pretty lips, a crinkling of dark eyes.

His voice, as low and smooth as the jazz notes that follow you in.

"There's something I have to look into tonight."

You know better than to ask now. If it's important - he'll fill you in later.

Instead, your head cocks, appreciating that he's telling you. Your own smile lightning up your face, reaching out to touch his forearm.

"Will you come find me, when you're done?"

The look darkens, like there's nothing he'd like more than to do that now. Stepping into your space, a curled fingers tipping up your chin.

Your eyes flutter shut as your lips part, waiting.

The words breathed out, as his own mouth hovers. A teasing promise for later, knowing that the anticipation will only build in his absence.

“Always."

ii.

The groan you make sounds broken, as it’s forced from your lungs. Your breathing short and sharp with the way he has your thighs pushed back towards your shoulders, each harsh thrust sending sparks skittering down your spine.

Fueled by the way his thumb presses circles into spit-slick skin - teasing right against the spot that has you clenching down hard around him.

You can still picture the way he leaned over you. Soaked from his mouth, from the release he had coaxed from you once already - but that didn’t stop the saliva from pooling on his tongue.

Parting his lips to let it drip onto your cunt, before he was pulling back - hands catching on the juncture of your knees.

Opening you up for him.

Putting you on display, thighs spread wide so he could watch the way his cock slid through the mess. The tip catching on where he fucked you open with his fingers, but you had still gasped when he had worked his way inside.

Filling you in a way that only he can.

His fingers tighten their grip against your thigh. Eyes bright as he watches - taking in how you’re splayed out beneath him, your fingers twisted in the sheets.

Words spilling freely - pent up from the days you’ve been apart.

“Woke up so fucking hard, thinking about you.”

His lips part with a groan, your hips bucking into his touch.

“Was gonna take care of it. But I didn’t want to waste a drop, spilling myself outside of your cunt.”

Teeth grit, a rough noise in his chest when you sigh out his name. That feeling rising again - getting ready to crash over you. Pull you under, muting everything but him and that sweet spot where you’re connected.

“Is that where you want it, princess?”

Your nod feels like it takes ages, mind already hazy and swimming. Tongue swiping over your lips as you try to find the words to answer.

He’s impatient. Pressing, wanting to hear the words himself, “Tell me.”

“Yes,” You manage, “Gods, I want you to come in me.”

A flash of a grin, where he leans over you. Broad chest and the curve of a stomach - forcing himself deeper, until it feels like he’s in your throat.

“That’s my girl.” Boba coos, “Gonna make you come again. Make you clench around my cock while you’re stuffed full of my cum.”

He can feel the way you tighten at his words. The panting of your breath, so close to what you need.

The little warble of his name is enough to tip him over.

“Fuck.” He growls, hips slamming against yours. Eyes dark and fixed on yours, as the thrust goes sloppy - pressing deep, sheathing himself one last time.

“Fuck-”

Fingers still pressing, still pressing - as he gives you what you want.

He always does.

iii.

There's the mechanical whir as you enter the bedroom. It tells a story, even before you can see the heavy lines in his face and brow - allowing the small dressing droids to remove the painted-gold knee armor.

A strung-tight look to his shoulders, a weariness layering underneath the irritation. You hover - waiting as the nimble fingers take him apart, storing each piece carefully. Until they leave him, before you cross the room.

The way your hands move is familiar, as you lower yourself in front of him. On another night perhaps his thighs would spread, a canting of his hips into your waiting, eager mouth.

But tonight, your thumbs dig into sore flesh. A groan as you press into the muscles near his knee, fingers curving to the soft spot behind the joint.

You know the pain comes. Scars and aches from before, things that still linger from that unspoken time in the pits. Always hiding it so well, the helmet masking each and every expression. The armor covering the movements that come slowly at times.

Never using the droids unless he needs to. Too proud, insisting on strapping the pieces on himself.

He lets out a sigh. Long-held, some of the tension going out with it. You can't do much to help but you can do this - a listening ear as you work through some of the knots.

"Time has worn away at me, cyare.”

His tone is self-deprecating, eyes not meeting yours as they lift. As your fingers stop, coming to rest against his thigh. Fingers lacing together as your chin rests on top, fixing him with your own long look.

When they eventually drift back your way, your smile is small. A kiss pressed to the inside of his knee, over the dark jumpsuit.

"It wears away at all of us." You tell him, gentle and coaxing, “But from where I sit, I see plenty that remains.”

There’s a twitch of his jaw at that, the silence lingering. The ache reminds him of the time that has passed. Throwing him into past regrets.

Unable to help wondering what will remain, as more time passes. Forgetting that he's survived and endured - something that was very much worth acknowledging.

Your voice softens, a small frown forming, “Is it really such a bad thing, to grow old?”

Something lingers in his eyes then, as he takes you in.

"No." He concedes, "I suppose it isn’t."

A small smile, as you push yourself to move behind him. Hand running over broad shoulders - still strong,“I can’t turn back time, but I can try to help with the rest.”

Your own small sigh comes then, with your quiet admission, “I wish there was more I could do more for you.”

His head hangs between those shoulders as your fingers press into his neck. As he tells you, his voice low but sure.

“You do more than enough already.”

iv.

The ground seems to crumble with each of your steps. Blurry figures flashing by as you race forward, fingers outstretched.

Everything just out of reach.

A voice that yells, but the sound is broken - whisked away as soon as it leaves your lips.

Dread rising, rising, rising-

You wake with a gasp, eyes flying open. Chest heaving like you'd been yanked underwater, something rousing you from your nightmare.

A warm hand cups your shoulder. Squeezing, before brushing down your arm, smoothing over your skin. Pulling you out, when he woke - hearing the sleepy sounds of your whimper.

"-just a dream, cyare. Nothing more." He soothes, voice rough with sleep.

Slowly, your hearing returns over the racing thud of your heart. As your head relaxes back onto the pillow, when you feel him press against you, a strong arm curling around.

He runs too hot sometimes, in the heat of the desert. But right now, with the cold flush of fear, it's welcome. Warming you, like the sun.

Here, you lean into that warmth. Wiggling until you can flip around. Half-lidded, sleepy eyes look back, as you're pulled closer.

You're safe here.

"Do you want to talk about it?" He rasps, as your head shakes.

"No." Your voice is small, "It was just - I don't even know."

Silence stretches, his finger tips tracing patterns over bare skin. The man who’s experienced unthinkable horrors waiting for you to continue, if you wanted to.

It feels silly now.

Just a dream.

Nothing to be scared of.

"I think I was reaching for you. But I couldn't make it. I tried to call out, but I couldn't make any noise."

The fear from the dream is tempered, already starting to fade at the edges. He makes a low sound at your words, a humming rumble in his throat.

"I know you were dreaming," His hand rises to cup your jaw, a thumb smoothing acroess your cheek, "Because that's not going to happen."

He won't let that happen.

You read into his words, spoken so late at night. When he's half-awake and stripped clean of his armor - when those walls come down.

All you can do is nod, that feeling coming back. Starting in your stomach and swelling to your chest, stealing your words in a different way now.

"Now, go back to sleep." He coaxes, as your head presses into his shoulder, "You don't have to worry."

And you believe him. Safe and warm within his arms - breathing him in as the his words wash over you, sleep already tugging at your limbs.

"I'm right here."

cyare/cyar’ika - sweetheart/beloved

#happy star wars day #💖💖#boba fett x reader #boba fett x f!reader #boba fett x you #boba fett x female reader

367 notes · View notes