#Strategic Relationships

[themillionairethinking]

Network and Relationships: Leveraging Connections for Success

Unlock the power of connections! 🤝 Our latest blog post dives into the art of networking and building meaningful relationships for success. 💼✨ Link-in-bio to read the full blog. #NetworkingSuccess #CareerGrowth #ProfessionalConnections #MillionaireMind

Have you ever heard the saying, “It’s not what you know, but who you know”? While this may not be entirely true, there is no doubt that having a strong network of contacts can make a huge difference in your personal and professional life. Networking is not just a buzzword or a trendy activity. It is a vital skill that can help you achieve your goals, by building and maintaining meaningful and…

[aventurineswife]

hello, platonic aventurine with an in-debt teen reader?

"Let me make you an offer, Friend"

Tags: Aventurine x Teen!Reader, Platonic, Mentor-Apprentice Relationship, Found Family, Protective Aventurine, Gambling Metaphors, Debt Repayment, Strategic Mind Games, Subtle Bonding, Hidden Emotions, Survival Tactics.

A/N: Why does this sound like me...? 😕 I need an Aventurine in my life to pay debts fr

Aventurine met you in a rather unconventional way—caught in a game of your own, albeit one where the stakes were dangerously high. You were attempting to negotiate your debt with some questionable IPC associates when he happened to stroll by. He watched the interaction with mild curiosity, and when you caught his eye, he gave a knowing smirk and intervened with his characteristic smoothness.

He’s intrigued by your situation, partly amused by the audacity of someone so young to get mixed up with IPC debts. He decides to help you—not out of pure kindness, but because he sees a bit of himself in your resilience and audacity. He “pays” off your debt as an investment, but he makes it clear this is not charity. His favor comes with strings, and he subtly suggests that you “owe him” now. But there’s something protective in the way he delivers this message, almost as if he's warding off others who might take advantage.

Despite his initial aloofness, Aventurine takes a strange liking to you and becomes a bit of a mentor, though he would never call himself that. Instead of lecturing, he offers advice in cryptic phrases, urging you to think five steps ahead in every decision. He teaches you the art of reading people, gauging their motives, and knowing when to bluff and when to hold back. There’s a thrill in the way he demonstrates this, turning ordinary interactions into high-stakes “games.”

Aventurine provides you with occasional tasks, small errands that allow him to gauge your talents. He lets you accompany him to upscale IPC events, knowing that exposure to this world of high-stakes deals and strategy is the best teacher. He’s a sharp observer, quickly noting your strengths and weaknesses, and he offers blunt advice when needed. While he maintains his enigmatic aura, he never allows you to get too close, reminding you in his own way that trust is earned—and rarely granted freely.

With time, Aventurine drops subtle hints about his own life philosophies. He talks about taking risks but always with a hidden safety net, teaching you how to survive in a world that might otherwise devour you. He tells you, with a shadow of seriousness, to never let anyone see how deeply they’ve cut you, reminding you that even vulnerability is a weapon when wielded correctly.

Aventurine’s protective side reveals itself whenever he suspects someone might try to exploit you. Though he doesn’t make a show of it, he’ll quietly “rearrange” circumstances to keep certain people away or to ensure you’re not drawn into IPC’s darker undercurrents. He’ll offer a calm warning with a smile, his eyes glinting, as he reminds you of the “price of trust.” You know that, while he claims your debt as his own, he’d sooner see you free from it than bound tighter.

Over time, your bond with Aventurine becomes something close to friendship, even if he’d never label it that way. While he maintains his air of mystery, there’s a camaraderie in the way he smirks when you catch onto his tricks or in the rare instances when he actually praises your progress. You share jokes—most at others' expense—and a silent understanding grows. Though his motives may remain unclear, you realize Aventurine has become an unexpected ally, guiding you with a peculiar mix of mentorship and care that only he could offer.

Aventurine is careful not to coddle or shelter you. Instead, he pushes you to stand on your own two feet, even as he watches over you. “No one else will hand you a chance,” he reminds you, “so make your own and gamble on it.” Eventually, he hints that he sees potential in you to one day challenge him in the art of strategy. And though he says it with his usual enigmatic tone, you sense a rare glimpse of pride behind his guarded gaze.

[wateruamelon]

can i please get the spy khori au where our local jc jenson baddies have snuck into the wdf hq and nori goes ‘i’m not gonna like this but i know exactly how to get those super top secret files from khan’s office and later she casually walks through the door and comes out an hr later a little giggly, disheveled, and with a bit of oil on her lips

[kvetchinglyneurotic]

if flint from episode 1 was magically granted all the knowledge and memories he had in episode 38 do you think it would change anything

[arainywriter]

ANYWAY, peep my favorite moment of this episode

riz and kristen (ally and murph) are SO sibling coded.

love when we get to see murph helping ally even when they've played so much dnd now

[tazzy-ace]

Reese's Gege (Big Brother) Mode Also featuring best assistant/accomplice: Xiao Mei

First Note of Love | Ep 1

[knght0wl]

someone on supergiant games' writing team read the odyssey rq (robert fagles is my preference) its only 24 chapters and theyre pretty short. then you can tweak a few things with his character's lines and the storyline and romance options please please please please please they were literally made to be together im on my knees ple

[cloudkemi]

Just saw Tubbos reaction to the recreation base and like. Oh man. He's so nice but the way he looks off to the side multiple sides is so telling.

Bad is completely blinded by what he remembers and loved the team and commodore that was built in Purgatory. Recreating the base as it was the highlight of the teamwork and family they created. He downplays the actual horrors of Purgatory which im sure is due to his own twisted morals and coping.

Tubbo sees the base and he's hesitant to say anything at all. Not jumping to call him a freak or jumping to praise him, just processing that this isn't some fudged up joke. And then he says its nice.

Tubbo's realistic about purgatory but he still loved the family and trust that happened during it. He might even miss the constant interactions and closeness. But he knows it was a terrible event and the murder part of it can't be ignored.

[ehlnofay]

Pax should have said no.

Damn it all, they should have said no. Should have said go to hell and fucked off back – stop contacting me, sort out your own shit – but they didn’t, fuck knows why, and now they’re stuck here.

(They know why. They know exactly why; absolutely anything would be better than fucking off back to Cyrodiil. What’s for them there?)

But there’s nothing worth staying for here either, and now she’s crammed in between strangers on a long table, everyone dressed in fabrics she’s never seen with dyes so saturated they seem almost gory, eating stuff that isn’t food and talking loud enough to make her want to hurl a glass into the wall. It’s bizarre. The woman next to her, ruddy-faced and bald, wears a headpiece that shines like the sun the Isles doesn’t have; the other side is taken up by a stranger in a bone-white porcelain mask who has not moved but to swill the wine around in their glass. There’s scarcely room for Pax’s chair. It all feels like such a baffling pantomime of aristocracy (she's known the real thing well enough – feasts and toasts and luxurious gifts she had no use for, and if she doesn’t stop thinking about it she actually will throw a glass), bright colours and rich settings and a god taking offerings at the head of the table.

At least, Pax thinks, no-one tries to talk to him; they’re too busy fawning over their lord. Which is probably to be expected; but it all feels so strange, so unsettling, the way they all lean in towards it like flowers turning to face the sun, like seaweed dragged at by the inescapable pull of the tides. They grow towards it through the cracks in the air, matter moving toward the inevitable centre, as if they can imagine nothing more than this.

(Even more unsettling is the way it responds in kind, listening attentively to anyone who speaks to it, leaning in as though to kiss them, as though to swallow them whole. All hell, why did Pax agree to this? Why did they come?)

(They should have told it to fuck off. Should have said no way, I don’t want to help you, don’t want to get involved in anything you’d need my help for. I don’t owe you anything. I don’t need anything from you. I don’t want anything to do with you. I’m done.)

(Pax is done. Pax is sick to death of all this shit; doesn’t want to deal with this, the vaguely described problems of a god that picks people apart like it’s unravelling a thick yarn shawl. Doesn’t want to deal with anything like this. He’s had his fill of gods.)

(Why is he still fucking here? Why did he agree to this? This is no better than eating in that weird fucking inn in town. This is no better than –)

(That’s a lie. It’s a bit better than Cyrodiil. Just as much a shithole, but it pulls the rug out from under him often enough that he doesn’t have time to think too much.)

“Not hungry?” says a prowling voice, coiling catlike into the plaits in their hair, and Pax jumps enough to jostle the masked bastard sitting ramrod straight next to him.

He looks up.

At the empty placemat across from him sits a figure veiled in gossamer, glittering in the glow of the lit-up lichen on the distant throne; the fabric of its endless shawls pulls apart at the ends, peeling away from itself, shedding patches like iridescent insect wings every time it shifts. If Pax squints, they can see through it to the grand marbled wall behind.

She glances back at the chair at the head of the table, where something lounges, eyes dripping gold, intricately carved cane laid across its knees; its too-many fingers are laced with the hand of a man whose gown blooms floral. Flatly, she says, “What the fuck?”

“Aren’t you hungry?” Sheogorath asks, pouting; she can hear it laughing down the other end of the table. “It’s a proper feast. We pulled out all the stops.”

Pax shifts their eyes away to peer down at their plate. “You have served me worms,” she says. She flicks the dish with a fingernail. “In jelly. With flowers.”

“Larva, actually,” Sheogorath replies. It’s still at the other end of the table. It doesn’t seem eager to explain this. When it smiles, the gossamer falls away; its whole face splits in half.

It’s all so fucking stupid. Pax takes a deep breath – in through the nose, ignore all the odd spiced smells, and out – and does not yell at it, or try to hit it, because she’s gotten herself into a situation where that’s not really an option, because she’s a fucking idiot. Why didn’t she just say no?

(She knows why.)

The Mad God’s teeth flash bright as the ornate silver cutlery. Its chair scrapes back from the table. “It melts in your mouth,” it tells her, eyes glittering, “but I won’t make you try it. Walk with me?”

The figure still sits at the head of the table, snatching something from someone’s plate, always, always laughing. Its limbs sprawl like tentacles, like the silken threads of a tapestry, to encompass the whole room. The dinner guests stare as though bewitched, bedevilled, beguiled. Not one of them is looking at Pax. If he were to drop dead with his face in the food his corpse would not be discovered until sunrise.

Pax sniffs and shoves his chair back from the table. He lets Sheogorath (the second Sheogorath – but it must be, what else could it be?) lead him through a narrow door into some winding hallway, the walls lined and rimed with ornate coloured-glass windows. (It’s so much quieter. Still as garishly bright, but Pax is getting the sense that that is inescapable, here; the clothes they wear, as crumpled and covered in travelling-grime as ever and startlingly out of place against the odd jagged finery of the dinner party, seem unimaginably dull in comparison. Everything seems unimaginably dull in comparison.) Outside the windows, they can catch glimpses of the city – its winding, lamp-lit streets, the jumbled mess of its architecture, the sky arcing above it like a child’s attempt at watercolours. Pax wants to smash it, tear it down.

There’s no sun here, but still it’s night. The sky has shifted to purple and black.

“Isn’t it nice?” says their companion; when they look back, it’s nothing more than a shifting impression in the stained-glass window, a series of hairline cracks. It still manages, somehow, to smile at them.

It’s not. The sky is a shadow and the flamboyance of the palace is scraping at their spine. “Sure,” Pax says flatly. When she flexes her fingers, the bruising staining the base knuckle of her thumb aches.

Sheogorath looks at her – an ancient man leaning on a stick, a flickering painting, a bloody corpse, a little girl in velvet-red skirts, a breath. In its mercurial shifting she catches the flowery blossom of the man at the table’s collar, an unpleasant glimpse of her own braided hair, the smell of sulphur. It tips its head. She can’t focus on it anywhere but for the eyes.

“You don’t like my dinner parties,” it announces, as though it’s a revelation, a tragedy; its body crumbles like sea cliffs slowly eroded by the ways. It’s annoying – bloody obnoxious, and incomprehensible, and kind of weird that it noticed, that it would even care. (She’s never liked dinner parties. Nobody ever commented on it before.)

I’ve had well enough of them, Pax could say, or no, I don’t like you, but it’s the fucking Mad God, Daedric Prince of – Pax doesn’t even know what, he’s never known much about this shit, only that it’s well worth avoiding. Prince of the mad and the missing and the foolish, of breaking and breaking and putting yourself back together backwards. She should have said no, but she didn’t, and who knows what would happen if she went back on that now?

It's slinking closer. All that stay static enough to make out are eyes and teeth.

“Pax, yes?” it says, soft-voiced – a hand lands on his arm, small and dry and shivering, the skin as thing as a mouldering leaf. “You have no obligations here. If you want to be on your own, be on your own. We’ve plenty of space for it.”

Pax’s eyes narrow. He does not jerk away from it.

In the light of the coloured sky, the coloured windows, its face is phantasmagorical. “If you don’t want to be here,” it continues – still so skin-pricklingly gentle – “then your hand will not be forced. I’ll speed your way home if you wish.”

They can’t help but twitch at that. It’s setting their teeth on edge. (It’s lying – has to be. After its ages of coaxing them in, meting out information, not telling them where they were until they were on its doorstep, it would not give them the chance to leave.) Rough, still covered in road-grime, Pax asks, “Why should I believe you?”

(None of them have ever given them the chance to leave.)

Sheogorath, a figure of hollow skin and bone, inclines its head. “I wouldn’t lie to you, Pax,” it says. Its eyes are wide and bulging, whites on full display like a frightened horse; it grins again. “Others might. But we’re not a monolith. We’re not even especially similar.”

Pax bites down on the flat edge of their tongue. “That doesn’t mean anything to me.”

The light coming in through the windows flickers. The Mad God turns to meet it.

“I’m the youngest,” it says, its voice glittering like mist on the air. “Did you know that? I don’t remember the world without you in it.” Its form spasms, volatile, wings and limbs and eyes like a snail’s on stalks sprouting and choking and subsiding back into its mass. “I’m closer to you than any. I understand, almost.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Pax repeats. She’s gritting her teeth, tonguing at her gums where two are missing. Are two devil-gods not enough to deal with for a lifetime? Is there really going to be more of this now, too?

Rolling through the air like smoke, the voice says, “It will.”

Pax presses purple-green knuckles to her mouth. Her teeth dig into the soft meat of her lip.

Sheogorath turns to face her, hair moving as though blown by the wind, as though tugged by the tides. It sighs. “You don’t believe me,” it says. Its tongue pokes through its teeth. “That’s perfectly fine. Clever, even. But if you want to leave, all you need to do is tell me so.” It pauses, then; the train of its strange, gnarled crown shifts over its shoulders when it moves its head. “Or just leave. The door is still open.”

“You’d be fine with me just leaving,” Pax rasps around his knuckle, “after weeks of not leaving me alone?”

(Of begging him to come, poorly-hidden agitation giving way to blatant franticness, half-swallowing the fear that choked its face in every mirror it spoke to him through. Of begging him still, after he got here, after he met it – begging in a roundabout manner, casual as anything, its every motion reeking of fear. Its abject terror when he turned to leave. You’ve come this far. Why not hear an old man out? Pax told it that it wasn’t an old man, that he didn’t give a shit either way, and it slid through a child, a monster, a sulphur-burned body coughing blood, his own shuddering form in armour he hasn’t seen in months, and it said please.)

(Regained its composure, its gentleman’s face, immediately afterward. But it – the Mad God, unknowable, inconsolable – said please. Pax still doesn’t know what to do with that.)

The Mad God, now, shrugs. Taps at the hairline cracks in the stained glass windows. “I’d prefer you didn’t,” it says, one pair of hands braiding something intricate into its beard. The hand on the glass slips down. “I told you. I do need a champion.”

“And I told you,” Pax bites, something aching and ugly surging in their gut, “not to call me that again.”

A smile, bloody-mouthed and beaming. “But we will abide,” says Sheogorath, and digs its fingers into the cracks of the stone. One brick slides loose, mortar dug up under its nails. It offers it up.

Pax licks their teeth and takes it.

The brick shivers, momentarily – crumbles, in their hand, like sand slithering through their fingers, and left in their palm is a hardy slip of bone. Spiked and sprawling, carved with intricate patterns; it arranges itself around an oval of empty space, the perfect size for four sharp-knuckled fingers.

“You can always leave,” the Mad God tells them, and for a moment it does look so very young and strangely, staggeringly hopeful. “But give it a chance. I think you could love the Isles, if you choose to.”

[totally-not-an-awkward-okapi]

More X-Men and Pokémon because I way overthought Gen X’s team lineups and made myself sad.

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

.

[wallbeatjournal]

"and they're not even related" if Archie and Hiram are the only main character abuse relationship in Riverdale where they're not related is that the secret sauce, avoiding incest?

oh! no not at all lol. i mentioned that in the other post because it's fairly unique for fiction imo - audiences kind of expect family abusers to pop in and out of the picture (though they do still blame lol - the way some people react to veronica as though she herself is responsible for protecting her friends from her adult father who has all the powers of the law over her......)

but it's unique to see the same story treatment for a non familial abuse dynamic, where archie is the one who can't cut contact meaningfully - or he can, but it will cost him his whole support network. he just can't expect not to have the guy around like an unfenced swimming pool level attractive nuisance, lobbing emotional-or-literal bombs and cultivating other victims in front of his face. idk i think that's neat, the metaphor of it all works for me really well.

also no way is hirarchie pure and free of incest subtext imo. riverdale straight up made veronica<>archie<>hiram and fred<>archie<>hiram the big emotional triangles of s2. someone just sent @horrorlesbion an incredible post that calls out v eloquently how the hirarchie sexual tension AND the way archie views hiram as a paternal figure and role model go hand-in-hand. there's no winning any abuse dynamic purity tests here lol.

[starbuck]

with respect to myself, this whole “i need to wait till i’m out of school to date,” “i need to wait till i’m more historically, politically, and culturally educated to date” is all bullshit. it’s the top surgery. that’s the holdup. they chop these tits off and i’m ready to go.

[ariadne-mouse]

"Because Lazuli, I loved. This [you and I] is just politics."

Caramelinda out to do some caramelizing with FIRE today

[wugblogs]

so confused by the jace and porter duo because idk man if I wanted to become a raging war god and needed a partner in crime i would not pick the guy whose main character trait is being chill

[todayisafridaynight]

would it be okay if u told me why u like aoki😭/gen😭😭😭😭BEEN TRYNA LIKE HIM FOR SO LONG I JUST CANTT but i love ur art so much so i still consume it otherwise lol

i liked tohru adachi in high school and tbh i think that alone is enough of an explanation for why i ended up liking aoki