#import shipments handling

[doralcustomsbrokers]

https://www.doralcustomsbrokers.com/customs-clearance-in-miami/

Doral Customs Brokers offers expert customs clearance services for all your shipments coming into Miami, FL or any port of entry in the US. We believe that to truly offer valuable customs clearance services to our importers, we must become a valuable, efficient and helpful part of their logistics team. We go beyond to make sure that your shipments are handled with care and accuracy, and in an expedient manner.

[interstellarroadkill]

imposter syndrome hits different when you're both the guy who knows how to do things at work but also mess up basic social cues

[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤPERFECT LIFEㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Yandere Damian Wayne x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : How would he be as a husband?

☆⁠ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

Marriage with Damian Wayne is not a fairytale—it’s an obsession disguised as devotion.

From the moment Damian slipped that ring onto your finger, he silently swore to himself that no force in the world—be it man, god, or monster—would ever take you away from him. You are his, and he is yours. Completely.

Damian is the kind of husband who worships you in his own intense, borderline overbearing way. He refers to you as "beloved" in private and "my wife" with a possessive pride when speaking to others. The word "you" leaves his lips like a prayer, filled with reverence and authority all at once.

He memorizes every single one of your habits and preferences. He knows how you take your coffee, the exact temperature you prefer for your showers, the kinds of books you gravitate toward, and even the way your breathing changes when you're upset. It’s all cataloged in his mind so he can anticipate your every need before you even voice it.

Damian rarely lets you out of his sight. Even when he's at Wayne Enterprises or patrolling Gotham as Batman, his mind is constantly on you. He has cameras in the house to check in on you, and you can bet he’s hacked your phone to keep tabs on your location. He tells himself it’s for your safety, but the truth is he can’t bear the thought of not knowing where you are.

You’ve noticed how Damian often hovers. At first, it felt sweet—your husband leaning against the kitchen counter, silently watching as you cook dinner. But after a while, you realize it’s less about affection and more about possessiveness. He watches you like a hawk, as if ensuring you’ll never slip away from him.

Damian is fiercely protective, to the point of paranoia. You’ve never had to lift a finger in defense because he handles every perceived threat with ruthless efficiency. Some guy at work who got a little too friendly? Fired and blacklisted within the week. A stranger who made you uncomfortable in public? Let’s just say they’ll think twice before crossing anyone again.

He insists on walking you everywhere, hand firmly clasped around yours. When you protest, he coolly reminds you, "The streets of Gotham are not safe, beloved. Allow me this privilege."

Damian is terrifyingly romantic in the most intense, Damian Wayne way possible. He fills your home with rare flowers imported from across the globe, but you’ll find out later he had the entire shipment rerouted because he didn’t want anyone else to have them. He writes poetry about you in Arabic, his handwriting bold and precise, and hides the pages in places he knows you’ll find them.

Arguments with Damian can be draining because he does not let go. He won’t shout or lose his temper, but he will dissect the situation until you either agree with him or admit defeat. And if you try to storm off mid-fight? Good luck. He’s faster, stronger, and determined not to let you leave unresolved.

His softer moments are almost disarming. You’ll catch him staring at you when you’re reading or brushing your hair, and he looks so boyish and in love that it takes your breath away.

Damian is obsessed with physical contact. Whether it’s his hand resting on the small of your back, his arm draped over your shoulders, or his fingers intertwined with yours, he’s always touching you. It’s both grounding for him and a subtle way to remind himself—and everyone else—that you’re his.

Your wardrobe slowly changes under Damian’s influence. He loves seeing you in luxurious silks and soft cashmere, claiming you deserve only the finest. He buys you dresses and jewelry that scream wealth and power, though he always insists that nothing could ever truly compare to your beauty.

He doesn’t tolerate secrets between you two—at all. If you’re upset, he’ll press and press until you spill your feelings, his voice gentle but firm. And if you ever lie to him? He’ll know instantly. He won’t get angry, but his silent disappointment will cut deeper than any words ever could.

Damian spoils you to the extreme, but there’s an undertone of control in it. He doesn’t say it outright, but you know he expects a certain level of reciprocation: your attention, your love, your time.

When he sleeps (if he sleeps), his arm is always around your waist. If you ever wake up in the middle of the night and try to leave the bed, he’ll instinctively pull you back, murmuring, “Stay with me, habibti.”

Despite his obsession, Damian loves you deeply and wholeheartedly. In his own way, he truly believes he’s doing what’s best for you—protecting you, cherishing you, making you feel adored. And in those quiet, tender moments when he presses a kiss to your forehead and whispers how much you mean to him, you can’t help but believe it too.

But deep down, you know: Damian doesn’t just love you. He owns you. And he will never let you go.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, repost or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[saphronethaleph]

Fascist, Thus Inefficient

“As you can see, my young apprentice, your friends have failed,” the Emperor said, triumph in his tone. “Now, witness the firepower of this fully armed and operational battle station!”

Luke looked at him in shock.

“Fire at will, Commander!” the Emperor said.

Fourteen months previously…

“Shipment IL-214-73 arriving,” a petty officer reported.

“Thank goodness,” muttered one of the technicians. “After the delays we’ve been having, we need to get those Khyber crystals into the third main focusing array. It’s been on the critical path for a week.”

He brought up the display, frowning. “All right, I think we can make up a bit of time if we just get them straight to cutting and installation.”

“Don’t we need to run them through the testing process first?” a more junior technician asked. “That’s on the list.”

“I know it’s on the list,” the senior tech replied. “But the list was written when they didn’t expect there’d be rebel attacks hitting our supply lines.”

He waved at the screen. “The testing process means heating each individual crystal up to eighteen hundred, even though we know Khyber can all handle temperatures of up to forty-seven-fifty. The cutting process doesn’t rely on heat tolerance either. Any crystalline flaws will come out in cutting, and we can just junk them. It means cutting takes a bit longer, but by going straight to cutting we can save at several hours on the overall process. And you know how much time we’ve lost already.”

The junior tech looked worried, then shook his head.

“All right,” he replied. “I guess so.”

“You need to learn how things are done in practice,” the senior tech said. “No big deal.”

Eleven months previously...

“I’m quite sure Rothana Heavy Engineering’s XJ-15 hypermatter feed systems will meet your needs better than the alternatives,” the Rothana representative said, as Admiral Jerjerrod examined the datasheet.

He wasn’t so sure. The newer units had better specifications, certainly, but they weren’t proven, and they were also somewhat more expensive.

“I don’t think that’s necessarily the case,” he said, out loud. “While I appreciate Rothana’s position, the Sienar alternative has similar flow rates and more proven applications.”

The Rothana representative nodded, sagely.

“I understand entirely,” he said. “However, I must point out that Rothana has some important additional information to present.”

He held out a credit chip, which Jerjerrod took and inspected.

“Owing to the XJ-15’s protracted development, we are willing to provide our test units at cost,” the representative went on. “That is in addition to having a higher production rate than our competitors and a less committed production output.”

Jerjerrod hesitated, then pocketed the credit chip.

“That all seems in order,” he said. “The XJ-15 it is.”

“Marvellous,” the representative declared.

Nine months previously...

“I’ve examined the records that exist from the first Death Star,” a senior technician said. “The amount of strain that was placed on the flash suppression systems was minimal to nonexistent. Even with the full firing that destroyed Alderaan, surviving records indicate that the flash suppressors had no more than a five percent load placed on them – an amount that can be handled by untreated durasteel.”

The other men and women in the meeting looked at the data on the screen behind their colleague.

“You’re suggesting we forego the duratemp treatment on the flash protection systems?” one of the women asked, cautiously. “I can see the advantages, but the downsides seem significant. I’d even say potentially destructive.”

“It is my position that the cost of including the duratemp treatment is unacceptable,” the tech replied. “It takes time and effort, including supervisory attention which cuts into the available man-hours on the project. We only have so much experienced manpower.”

That drew winces, though none of the humans in the room drew attention to the fact that they were spending a lot of that time in interminable meetings.

“In the following presentation, I’ll discuss my proposal and how it could shave as much as one week off the final completion timetable,” the senior tech continued, flicking to the next screen of his presentation. “This model shows how the flash suppression systems are built around the main weapon…”

Six months previously…

“There simply isn’t an option,” the head of personnel replied. “Our existing system is not providing enough technicians and operators.”

“This was quite sufficient for the first Death Star,” Jerjerrod protested.

“The first Death Star was a project that took decades,” the manager replied, shrugging. “It didn’t come up at first, sir – for that I apologize – but if we are going to redress the problem, we need to act now. There is no alternative.”

Jerjerrod rubbed his temples, thinking about the problem.

The fully functional Death Star was going to need hundreds of thousands of qualified technicians and operators, familiar with the systems of the vast battle station, and so many of the men who knew much about the Death Star at the moment were busy building it.

There hadn’t been many left after the destruction of the first battle station, because most of them had been working on it at the time.

“All right,” he said. “So your proposal is…?”

“We keep the same number of trainers for now, but abbreviate the course,” the manager answered. “Two months – at most. Then we have the new graduates train the next batch for two months, and so on. Exponential growth. At twenty students per instructor and a hundred instructors to start with, we’ll end up with eight hundred thousand in six months.”

That was extremely tempting… they wouldn’t be anything like the equal of what they should be, but they could learn on the job.

“All right,” Jerjerrod said. “Approved – see to it.”

One month previously…

“Next item on the checklist?” Commander Jaskier asked.

“Step one hundred and seven,” Technician Mils replied. “Self test.”

She pressed the self-test button, and the computer system clicked and flickered as it ran through the diagnostics.

Data results and readouts went up on the screen, and Jaskier and all the others in the control station watched the results.

None of them had any comment to make about the numbers. The checklist said to run the self test, so that was what they were doing.

“Step one hundred and eight,” Mils went on. “Sign off on results.”

She did that, as well, and Jaskier nodded.

“Good,” he said. “And I believe we’ve finished that half an hour ahead of schedule! Good work, everyone.”

Now.

The firing commands flashed out through the Death Star’s systems, triggering a cascade of further commands, and the whole massive battle station’s main superlaser woke for the first time.

Fifty XJ-15 hypermatter flow regulators controlled the flow of energy from the power core into the power collectors, and the energy being channelled into the system surged rapidly – rising to one hundred and eighteen percent of nominal, above what would have been anticipated, and greater than the one hundred and two percent that the older, more proven Sienar systems would have generated.

Thousands of high powered beams were generated, controlled and focused through an enormous array of Khyber crystals… a small but measurable fraction of which were cheap industrially grown diamonds instead, added to the shipments by subcontractors eager to stretch out their production from the strip-mined planet of Ilum without running so late on their deliveries that financial penalties were imposed.

None of the technicians who were in a position to spot the problem at this stage were actually capable of doing so. Their necessarily abbreviated training had mostly been on what buttons to push, and nobody had the deeper knowledge of the systems to recognize that the system was in an anomalous state.

Then some of the diamonds shattered under the load, allowing the beams free to damage adjacent systems, and in moments the whole of the energy drawn from the hypermatter core was unleashed.

The flash suppression systems were wholly, and fatally, inadequate.

“Watch yourself, Wedge!” Lando called, his head on a swivel, and banked the Falcon around so his ventral turret gunner could clear off one of the TIEs attacking Red Leader. “We’ve got to-”

Then there was a sudden blinding flash, and Lando did a double-take.

The Death Star’s protective shield was instantly, and dramatically, visible – because the entire inside of it was full of plasma and flame, lighting it up as clearly as Ackbar’s briefing had done back before the operation was launched in the first place. Then something blew up on the surface of the forest moon as the plasma followed the funnel of the shield, and the explosive force was no longer contained but began to drift out into space.

“...the kriff?” Lando asked, eventually. “What just happened?”

“Ow,” Darth Vader said, indistinctly, reaching up to feel his helmet, which had been crushed in by an impact with the ceiling.

The Emperor’s throne room seemed to mostly be intact, though there was an Emperor-shaped hole in the window nearest his throne, and Luke had his hands out to either side as he stood on the wall.

“Father, are you all right?” the younger Skywalker asked.

“What happened?” Vader replied. “I remember the Emperor ordering that the Death Star should fire…”

“I don’t know, it exploded just after he said that,” Luke answered. “It turns out that overconfidence was his weakness… do you have any idea where the nearest spaceship is? Keeping the atmosphere in is tiring me out a bit.”

[ddejavvu]

Jake seresin doing that bathroom door thing to a sweet shy reader would be so cute😭😭

that bathroom door thing - i changed it up just a bit for the plot's sake! i hope you still enjoy it <3

--

Jake's forever grateful that Penny bought the Hard Deck, because it brought about changes that have only ever benefitted him. She's begrudgingly fond of him, so he drinks whenever he wants and pays his tab in grunt muscle when new shipments of booze are delivered and need to be hauled in. He also drives Amelia around to various after school activities, so Penny's rewarded him with his own personal set of keys in case she's waiting for pickup in the bar and can't lock up behind herself.

The bar is cleaner now than it was under previous management, which means more women are willing to set foot inside; something about the earlier gunk and grime drove them away. It's no longer a place for aviators to drink their sorrows away- it's fun, it's full, and it's family, something Jake cherishes more than he'll ever admit.

Those keys feel especially important in his pocket now as he watches you try the handle of the bathroom door, clearly in a rush. Jake's surprised that the bathroom isn't constantly occupied, what with the amount of liquor that gets consumed on a nightly basis, but some people might just be better at regulating themselves than others.

Apparently you're not one of them as you find the door locked, your face contorting into clear displeasure.

You scan the bar for Penny but- Jake realizes with a jolt down his spine, she's not here. She'd stepped out, and he'd been casually monitoring the counter to ensure that no one started touching anything that didn't belong to them.

"Coyote," Jake calls, catching his friend's attention from where he's crouched over the pool table, "Cover for Penny."

Usually the team would be annoyed at being interrupted, but Coyote is just as fond of Penny as Jake is, and he nods once, passing his cue over to Rooster. He takes up a seat opposite Jake, giving the man the chance to stand and make his way over to you.

"Hey there, darlin'," He greets, digging the keys out of his pocket, "You need'a get in there?"

"Uh, yeah, I do," You laugh sheepishly, watching intently as he slides the key into the door, "Oh my god, thank you, I couldn't find the bartender and I thought I was shit outta luck."

"I gotcha, honey," Jake grins, bicep flexing as he pushes open the door for you, "Come get me when you're done so I can lock back up, okay?"

"Alright," You agree, slipping into the bathroom and peeking through the door to call after him, "Thank you again!"

Jake beelines for the bar, reaching around the countertop to grab two bottles of beer. They're stored in an ice bucket, but he prefers them to the tap because they're quicker and easier.

"Hey!" Coyote barks, mad dogging him playfully, "You gonna pay for those, sir?"

"If these help me get that lady's number," Jake rushes back to the tables near the bathroom, sitting at one and setting the other bottle across from him, "I'll give Penny my life savings."

[ambarraquel]

Okay, since Episode 3 is out, I want to share what’s been on my mind since Season 1. I don’t know if this is possible or logical, but it’s about Irving.

This might turn into a rant 🤣. But keep reading—I promise it makes sense in a LUMONesque way.

1. We know severance is mostly irreversible, and Rhegabi just confirmed how hard it is to send messages between the innie and outie.

2. So how does outie Irving recognize that elevator?

Thanks to Felicia, we now know it’s “The Exports Hall,” where Optics & Design used to handle shipments directly. But if Irving has never been there, how does he know about it? It makes no sense for him to just know.

And then there’s his connection with Burt—it feels so deep, almost like it transcends severance.

What if Irving has been at LUMON longer than he remembers? The severance procedure can selectively erase memories, and we already know about the past MDR Refinement Calamity that LUMON may have distorted to create the lore and keep the departments separated. The most important thing is that MDR is curiously the center of all that weird lore!

Now, the OTC escape plan/MDR Microdat Uprising of Irving Mark Dylan and Helly has become new lore with the whole claymation thing—which we know has been spread to other innies, at least to some extent, because of the new employees Mark briefly shared as coworkers. What if that alleged cannibalistic assault from the paintings actually happened?

Maybe the exports elevator area was so successful that they decided to utilize it in different forms—thus the cannibalistic revolt. LUMON could have devised a whole plan, making that revolt happen as they tried to crack the technology enough to create Mrs. Casey. (Or maybe the revolt was an accident that led them to the technology behind her.) So maybe that place beyond the hall exists because LUMON had to devise a place for trial and error? Maybe employees involved in the cannibalistic revolt were wiped and “reset” down there? Maybe LUMON was experimenting with early severed chips?

We know for sure that down there is where they keep Miss Casey in storage. If LUMON can erase memories with severance, it makes sense they could also erase people or keep them in a state of suspension. So if Irving has been there before, maybe something happened to him—maybe he was even kept there as punishment. Maybe that was an early Break Room. Whatever it was, it must have been such a strong memory that, even without fully understanding it, it pushed him to take LUMON down.

Which brings me back to Irving and the plausibility of his remembrance.

1) What if he was originally in Optics & Design and met Burt over and over again, kept falling in love, and they went to the Exports Hall for work early on? So he was familiar with it, but didn’t expect to be exported himself. Maybe one of his last, most emotional memories was that black hall, which is why he remembers it. Maybe LUMON erased them multiple times because they wouldn’t allow it—or maybe they even knew each other as outies and chose to have their memories wiped. Maybe that’s why Burt followed Irving in his car—because he actually knows his outie—but that seems more convoluted 🤣.

2) Another theory of mine is that maybe Irving was part of the original cannibalistic revolt of MDR. I’d love to believe he also met Burt at that time, and he somehow survived and chose to have his memories reset rather than be fired—because that would mean living in a world where Burt was also in it, even if he couldn’t remember him. And maybe Burt was also reset?

So, the only explanation that makes sense to me for outie Irving remembering that elevator is that he’s been there before, but his complete experience was erased—except for that one lingering image of the elevator.

(And yes, I know the much simpler explanation is that someone from a Let’s Take Down LUMON secret society could’ve shown him that picture, and he’s painting it over and over because he’s part of an effort to take LUMON down. But honestly, that’s too simple—it takes the fun out of it 🤣.)

[stxrsniolo]

ㅤㅤִㅤ ݁ ꉂ no man's shadow ᴖ ֽ ㅤᷭ

ㅤ﹙ 𝟑𝟑𝟑 ﹚ㅤּㅤㅤ˻ㅤaegan is typingㅤ˺⠀⠀this is a dark, angst-driven piece centered on intense military themes and emotional conflict. expect a raw, gritty narrative exploring rage, vulnerability, and the weight of expendability in a high-stakes war zone setting.

a/n: i made sure to use structural repetition as a narrative device, repeating key phrases and ideas—like y/n's expendability and matt's inner conflict—to emphasize emotional tension, highlight trauma, and reinforce the story's themes of rage and vulnerability in this setting, so if you found repetition of some phrases, you're not going crazy babe. that was me and it was intentional.

warnings: military themes. violence. trauma. ptsd. anger issues. power dynamics. emotional conflict. dark themes. explicit language. mature content. deniability. human trafficking mention. chemical weapons mention. torture mention. death threats. emotional manipulation. training harshness.

pairings: harsh leader!matt × fresh meat!reader

you can create your own experiences with harsh leader!matt with this c.ai bot here!

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✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . 　

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶

the room smelled like stale coffee and arrogance, a stench that clung to the walls of every briefing room matt had ever been in. he sat in one of those cheap, hard-ass chairs, the kind that dug into his spine like it was trying to break him, while the brass lounged in their cushy leather armchairs, looking down at him like he was some grunt fresh out of basic.

he hated them, hated their pressed uniforms, their smug faces, their voices dripping with condescension; but he didn’t let it show. he never did, he just sat there, arms crossed, jaw tight, his eyes locked on the table in front of him, waiting for them to get to the point.

they were talking shit, as usual. «operational efficiency,» «strategic imperatives,» all the buzzwords they loved to throw around to make themselves feel important.

matt tuned most of it out, his mind drifting to the last time he’d been in a room like this, when they’d ripped into him for not being hard enough on the rookies.

fuck ‘em.

he’d trained harder units than these clowns could dream of.

but then, they dropped the bomb: a new mission. and not just any mission—this was the kind of op that left scars, the kind that chewed you up and spat you out in pieces, if it didn’t kill you outright.

this organization didn’t fuck around.

they were the shadow behind the shadow, the ones who handled the darkest, dirtiest shit on the planet: human trafficking rings, kidnapping networks, drug cartels, black-market arms deals—you name it, they dealt with it.

they sent teams into hellholes no one else would touch, places where the rules didn’t exist, where morality was just a word you laughed at over a beer. assassinations, rescues, sabotage—it didn’t matter, they did what needed to be done, no matter the cost, no matter who got caught in the crossfire,

and if you didn’t come back? tough shit. no one would know… no one could know.

this was black ops, deep cover, the kind of work where your name didn’t even make it onto a casualty list. you just disappeared.

coronel harris, the silver-star asshole with a face like a bulldog, leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his voice low and deliberate. “this op’s a big one, sturniolo: high-value target. russian arms dealer, ivan volkov. runs a network out of a compound in eastern ukraine. we’re talkin’ fortified walls, armed patrols, the works. he’s moving product; chemical weapons, nerve agents, shit that could wipe out entire cities. intel says he’s got a shipment goin’ out in seventy-two hours, so we need that shipment stopped, and we need volkov neutralized permanently."

matt didn’t flinch, but his mind was already running the numbers.

eastern ukraine.

active war zone.

russian mercs, landmines, drones, the whole nine yards.

this wasn’t just a hit—it was a suicide run.

he kept his face blank, his voice flat. “and you’re sendin�� a rookie into that shitshow? you got a death wish for ‘em, or you just tryin’ to clean house?”

harris smirked, the kind of smirk that made matt want to slam his head into the table. “that’s where you come in. you’ve got the experience, you’ve run ops in worse conditions… but we need fresh blood on this, someone expendable, someone who won’t be missed if things go south.”

major ellis, the skinny prick with glasses who always looked like he was about to piss himself, chimed in, his voice nasal and grating. “the compound’s rigged to hell. ieds on the perimeter, snipers on the rooftops, and volkov’s got a private army—ex-spetsnaz, real hard bastards, we’ve got drone footage showing tripwires, pressure plates, the works. whoever goes in needs to be fast, quiet, and disposable, no extraction plan, no backup. if they get caught, they’re on their own, deniability’s key.”

matt’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together. disposable. that’s what they thought of the rookies. that’s what they thought of her.

he hated them for it, hated the way they talked about lives like they were just numbers on a spreadsheet but he didn’t let it show. he couldn’t, weakness was death in this game, and he’d be damned if he let these bastards see him crack.

harris leaned back, his chair creaking under his weight. “we’ve been watching your recruits, sturniolo, most of ‘em are soft, but the girl—y/n—she’s got potential. green as hell, but she’s got fight. this could be her chance to prove herself… or not. either way, it’s not our problem.”

matt’s blood ran cold.

he didn’t move, didn’t flinch, but something deep inside him cracked, a hairline fracture in the stone. 

y/n. the fresh meat. the rookie who’d gotten under his skin, who’d pushed back when he’d tried to break her, who’d taken everything he’d thrown at her and come back for more. the girl he’d fucked raw in her room, the girl he’d held onto like a lifeline when the nightmares came.

no.

that night had been a mistake, a slip, a moment of weakness he’d buried deep, locked away where it couldn’t touch him… but now, hearing her name, picturing her out there, in the dirt, bleeding out, alone—it hit him like a frag grenade to the chest.

he didn’t let it show.

“y/n?” he repeated, his voice flat, like he didn’t give a shit. “she’s not ready, she’s barely holding her own in training; you send her out there, she’s dead weight. she’ll get herself killed, and she’ll take the op down with her.”

harris smirked, leaning back in his chair. “it’s your job to make sure she’s not, you’ve been soft on her, sturniolo, maybe this’ll light a fire under her ass. she gets herself blown to hell by a tripwire, that’s on you. but we need someone expendable, and she fits the bill. no family ties, no connections. if she doesn’t come back, no one’s gonna ask questions.”

matt’s fists clenched under the table, his nails digging into his palms hard enough to draw blood, he wanted to lunge across the room, grab harris by the throat, and squeeze until his eyes popped out of his skull.

soft? fuck you. he wasn’t soft, he’d never been soft.

but y/n… she wasn’t just another rookie, she was the one who’d stood up to him, who’d stared him down when he’d pinned her against the wall, who’d taken his rage and his need and thrown it back at him. she was the one who’d seen him at his weakest, who’d held him when the nightmares came, who’d kissed away his tears like he wasn’t a monster.

and now they wanted to send her into a meat grinder, into a kill zone where the odds of coming back were zero.

“tell me more about this stupid op.” matt scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. 

ellis adjusted his glasses, his voice grating like nails on a chalkboard. “the infil’s gonna be rough, no air support, no drones, no comms once you’re past the border. you’ll be on foot, moving through contested territory. expect ambushes, sniper nests, the works. volkov’s got eyes everywhere—locals paid to rat out anyone who looks suspicious."

"if they spot you, you’re dead. if they don’t, you’ve still got to breach the compound, take out the guards, and get to the shipment. and volkov—he’s paranoid, always surrounded by his spetsnaz goons. you’ll need to be surgical, sturniolo. no room for fuck-ups.”

harris nodded, his eyes glinting with something cold and cruel. “and the girl—she’s your responsibility. she steps on a mine, gets her head blown off by a sniper, that’s on you, but if she pulls it off, maybe she’s worth keeping around. if not, well, we’ve got plenty more where she came from.”

matt’s vision tunneled, the room shrinking to a pinpoint of rage as he pictured it—y/n, her body torn apart by an ied, her blood soaking into the dirt, her eyes staring blankly at the sky.

he pictured her captured, tortured, screaming for help that would never come.

he pictured her gone, erased, just another ghost in the machine… and for the first time in years, he felt something—fear, raw and ugly, clawing at his chest. he hated it. hated her for making him feel it. hated himself for letting it happen.

matt leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and stared harris down. “you want her out there? fine. but don’t come cryin’ to me when she doesn’t come back. i’m not babysittin’ her. she fucks this up, it’s on you.”

the room went quiet, the tension thick as smoke.

the suits exchanged looks, nodding like they’d won some kind of victory. matt loathed them for it, but he wasn’t done, he wasn’t sending her out there alone.

not because he cared—fuck that, he didn’t care. he couldn’t. but he wasn’t letting her go without backup. not her.

“i’m goin’ with her,” he said, his voice low, dangerous. “that’s the deal: you want her out there? fine, but i’m leadin’ the op. non-negotiable.”

ellis raised an eyebrow, his voice dripping with skepticism. “and why’s that, sturniolo? you don’t trust her to handle herself?”

matt smirked, but there was no humor in it. “trust? nah, i don’t trust any of you assholes, but i’m not lettin’ some rookie fuck up my record; she screws this up, it’s on me, so i’m goin’. end of story.”

harris leaned back, his chair creaking under his weight. “you’re volunteering for a suicide run, sturniolo, you know that, right? no extraction, no backup. if you go in, you’re on your own, if you get caught, we don’t know you. if you die, we don’t mourn you.”

matt didn’t flinch. “yeah, i know how this works, i’ve been doin’ your dirty work for years, but i’m goin’. you want volkov dead? you want that shipment stopped? i’ll get it done… but i’m not sendin’ her in alone.”

the suits exchanged looks again, their faces unreadable.

finally, harris nodded, his voice cold. “fine, you’re lead and she’s your shadow, but don’t expect us to pull your ass out of the fire. you’re on your own.”

when the meeting ended, matt stormed out, his boots pounding the concrete like he was marching to war, no stopping until he was outside, the cold night air hitting him like a slap.

he lit a cigarette, the flame flickering in the dark, and took a long drag, trying to shove down the thoughts clawing at his mind.

y/n. out there. in the shit. he pictured her, her defiant eyes, her stubborn jaw, the way she’d looked at him that night, soft and gentle, like he wasn’t a monster. he hated her for it. hated himself for letting it matter.

but he wasn’t letting her die out there, not because he cared but because he couldn’t let her be another ghost on his conscience. that was it. that was all.

he took another drag, the smoke burning his lungs, and muttered to himself, “fuckin’ rookie. better not get me killed.”

═══════════════════════════

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . 　

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶

the training yard was a graveyard of silence, the kind of quiet that pressed down on your chest like a boot on your throat.

the rookies stood in a loose semicircle, their faces pale, their eyes darting like they knew something was coming but didn’t want to face it.

the air was thick with the smell of sweat and fear, the kind of stench that clung to you like a second skin. 

matt stood in front of them, his combat boots planted in the dirt, his arms crossed, his face a mask of cold, unyielding steel. he didn’t need to raise his voice. he didn’t need to shout. his presence was enough, a storm cloud ready to unleash hell.

y/n was there, front and center, her jaw tight, her eyes locked on him like she was bracing for a fight. she always did that—stared him down like she wasn’t scared, like she wasn’t just another piece of fresh meat waiting to be chewed up and spat out. matt hated her for it. hated the way she made him feel, the way she made him remember that night in her room, the way she’d seen him at his weakest. he hated her for making him care, even if he’d never admit it.

but right now, he wasn’t the weakling she saw that night, the man who’d held her like a lifeline. he was matt, the trainer, the leader, the asshole who’d break her if he had to.

“listen up, maggots,” he barked, his boston accent sharp as a blade. “you’ve been playin’ soldier long enough, it's time to see if any of you are worth a damn: we’ve got an op. high-stakes, high-risk, the kind of shit that’ll make you wish you’d stayed home cryin’ to your mommies, and one of you lucky bastards is goin’ in.”

the rookies shifted, their eyes darting to each other, their breathing shallow.

matt let the silence stretch, let the fear sink in. he wanted them to feel it, to taste it, to choke on it.

he scanned the group, his gaze cold, calculating, like he was picking targets on a range. but his eyes landed on y/n, and for a split second, something flickered in his chest.

he shoved it down, buried it deep, and kept going.

“y/n,” he said, his voice low, dangerous, like the hiss of a fuse burning down. “step forward.”

she didn’t hesitate, she stepped out of the line, her boots kicking up dust, her shoulders squared, her eyes locked on him.

she didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, but matt could see the tension in her jaw, the way her hands clenched at her sides. she knew something was coming. she wasn’t stupid. but she didn’t know how bad it was, not yet.

he took a step closer, close enough to smell the sweat on her skin, close enough to see the flicker of defiance in her eyes. “you’ve been chosen,” he said, his voice flat, emotionless. “congratulations, rookie, you’re goin’ into the shit: eastern ukraine. russian arms dealer, ivan Volkov. runs a compound rigged to hell—ieds, snipers, ex-spetsnaz goons who’d slit your throat just for fun. he’s movin’ chemical weapons, nerve agents, shit that could wipe out cities. your job? breach the compound, take out the guards, stop the shipment, and put a bullet in volkov’s skull. simple, right?"

her eyes widened, just for a second, but she didn’t say anything.

matt didn’t give her the chance, he leaned in, his voice dropping to a growl, low and vicious. “but here’s the kicker, sweetheart: this ain’t a fuckin’ field trip. no air support, no drones, no comms. you’re on foot, movin’ through a war zone with landmines, tripwires, snipers waitin’ to blow your head off where you step wrong, you’re a red mist. you get caught, you’re fucked—tortured, raped, left to rot in a ditch. and if you die? tough shit. no extraction, no backup. you’re on your own and deniability’s key. you don’t come back, no one’s gonna know and no one’s gonna care. you’re just another ghost.”

the words hung in the air, heavy, suffocating. the other rookies stared, their faces pale, their eyes wide with horror.

y/n’s breath hitched, her chest rising and falling faster, but she didn’t look away. she didn’t break.

matt wanted to shake her, to scream at her, to tell her to run, to quit, to get the fuck out before it was too late. but he didn’t. he couldn’t, he had to be the asshole, the trainer, the leader, he had to break her, even if it killed him.

“you think you’re tough?” he snarled, his voice rising, cutting through the silence like a knife. “you think you can handle this? you’re nothin’. you’re fresh meat, and out there, you’re dead meat.”

“you step on a mine, your legs are gone, your guts are in the dirt. you get spotted, they’ll carve you up, make you beg for death. and me? i won’t be there to save your ass, you’re on your own, rookie. you fuck this up, you’re dead, and i’ll be the one who sent you.”

her eyes flashed, anger and fear warring in her gaze, but she didn’t back down. “i can handle it,” she said, her voice steady, but matt could hear the tremor underneath. “i’m not scared.”

he laughed, a harsh, bitter sound that echoed through the yard. “not scared? bullshit. you should be because you’re walkin’ into hell, and you’re not comin’ back. you think you’re ready? you’re not. you’re weak. you’re soft. you’re gonna die out there, and it’s gonna be on me. but you know what? i don’t give a shit, you wanted to play soldier? this is what you get.”

he turned away, his back to her, his hands clenched into fists.

he couldn’t look at her, couldn’t see the hurt in her eyes, the fear he’d just poured into her like poison.

he wanted to take it back, to tell her he was going with her, to tell her he wouldn’t let her die, but he couldn’t, he had to be the asshole, the trainer, the leader. he had to break her, even if it broke him too.

“dismissed,” he barked, his voice cold, final. the rookies scattered, their footsteps frantic, their whispers echoing in the silence.

y/n didn’t move, didn’t leave, she stood there, staring at him, her chest heaving, her eyes burning with something he couldn’t name.

he wanted to turn around, to grab her, to shake her, to kiss her, to tell her he was sorry… but he didn’t; he walked away, his boots pounding the dirt, leaving her alone in the yard, alone with the weight of what he’d just done.

ㅤ﹙ 𝟑𝟑𝟑 ﹚ㅤּㅤㅤ˻ㅤaegan is typingㅤ˺ᅟ⠀ i appreciate the love shown through reposts, but let me be clear: my tales are not to be copied or adapted without a whisper to me first. my words are my treasure, and i guard them jealously.

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[autisticadult]

The deal

Chapter two: the meeting

Warnings: once again yall, pretty tame :) mafiaboss!elijah AU :) slow burn has me in a chokehold so buckle up. As always, minors DNI !!!! Dom/sub dynamics are coming !!!!

A/N: I’m so glad chapter one got so much love yall :) I am really feeling slow burn for this for some reason so I hope that’s ok, I did give yall a nice lil moment at the end though, enjoy <3

Taglist(message me if you’d like to join!): @tinysunshine

Life under Elijah Mikaelson’s roof was nothing like you’d expected, though you weren’t sure what you had expected. Perhaps more violence, more overt displays of the power that made him the most feared man in New Orleans. Instead, you found yourself tangled in a web of subtleties, power plays, and rules so unspoken they might as well have been etched into the mansion’s walls.

For the most part, Elijah left you alone during the first few weeks, appearing only when he had some use for you. These interactions ranged from casual conversation to tasks he assigned without explanation. At first, you had hoped that he might lose interest in you, that his fascination was fleeting. But as the days passed, you realized Elijah wasn’t the kind of man who let go of things he claimed as his.

One evening, after finishing a task in the kitchen—sorting a shipment of imported bottles for Elijah’s collection—you wandered into the dining room, hoping to steal a moment of solitude. Instead, you found Rebekah seated at the massive oak table, swirling a glass of red wine in her hand.

“Y/N,” she drawled, her tone sharp as a dagger. “Adjusting to life in the gilded cage?”

You hesitated in the doorway. Rebekah was beautiful and dangerous, her presence a constant reminder of the family’s reputation. But she was also unpredictable, and you couldn’t tell if she was genuinely curious or looking for a reason to toy with you.

“Trying,” you replied carefully.

Her lips twisted into a smirk. “Smart girl. But I wonder, do you truly understand what you’ve done?”

You blinked, unsure of her meaning. “I’m protecting my brother.”

“Oh, I’m sure you believe that,” she said, taking a sip of wine. “But you’ve chained yourself to Elijah, and he doesn’t do anything without reason. Whatever he sees in you, it won’t be simple. Or easy.”

Rebekah’s words unsettled you, but you pushed the feeling aside. “I can handle it.”

She laughed, the sound musical but laced with disbelief. “Can you? Or are you just too stubborn to admit you’re in over your head?”

Before you could respond, the door to the dining room swung open, and Elijah entered, his presence immediately filling the space. He didn’t look at Rebekah; his dark gaze went straight to you.

“Y/N,” he said smoothly, “a moment, if you please.”

You followed him without question, feeling Rebekah’s knowing gaze on your back.

Elijah led you to his study, a room you’d been in only once before. He gestured for you to sit, but as always, his politeness felt like a command rather than a suggestion.

“I’ve been observing you,” he began, leaning back in his chair. His words were measured, deliberate, as though each one carried weight.

You shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny. “And?”

“You’re resilient,” he said, his tone almost… approving. “You’ve adapted more quickly than I anticipated. Most would have crumbled under the pressure by now.”

“Maybe I’m not like most people,” you replied, trying to mask your unease with confidence.

His lips curved into a faint smile. “No, you’re not.”

There was something in the way he said it that made your pulse quicken—a mix of admiration and something darker.

“I have a task for you,” he continued. “A test of sorts.”

You straightened in your chair, wary but curious. “What kind of test?”

“A meeting,” he said simply. “Tonight, you’ll accompany me to a gathering of… associates. Your role is to observe and, if necessary, speak on my behalf.”

Your stomach tightened. “Speak on your behalf? Why me?”

“Because I wish it,” he replied, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Consider it an opportunity to prove your worth.”

It wasn’t a request, and you knew better than to refuse. “I’ll do it,” you said, forcing confidence into your voice.

“Good,” he said, standing. “Wear something appropriate. We leave in an hour.”

The meeting took place in a dimly lit private club, far more refined than The Red Raven. The air was thick with tension, the kind that came when powerful people converged in a single room. Elijah moved through the crowd like a shadow, his every step purposeful. You stayed close, trying to blend into the background while keeping your senses alert.

At the center of the room was a long table surrounded by men and women who looked as dangerous as they were wealthy. Elijah took his seat at the head, his calm demeanor commanding instant respect.

You stood behind him, your hands clasped in front of you, trying not to let your nerves show. The conversation that followed was a delicate dance of words, veiled threats, and subtle power plays. Elijah spoke sparingly, but when he did, his voice cut through the room like a blade.

At one point, the attention shifted to you.

“And who’s this?” asked a man with a heavy French accent, his gaze raking over you. “Your new pet, Elijah?”

The insult made your blood boil, but before you could react, Elijah raised a hand, silencing the room.

“Y/N is my… advisor,” he said smoothly, his tone leaving no room for dispute. “She’s here to observe and ensure my interests are protected.”

The man smirked, clearly unimpressed. “I hope she’s worth the trouble.”

Elijah’s dark gaze fixed on the man, and the room grew unnervingly quiet. “Everything I do is worth the trouble, Monsieur Leclerc. You would do well to remember that.”

Leclerc paled, muttering a hasty apology. The meeting continued, but you couldn’t shake the weight of Elijah’s words—or the way he’d so effortlessly silenced a man who had clearly underestimated him.

When it was finally over, Elijah escorted you outside, the cool night air a welcome relief from the oppressive atmosphere of the club.

“You were a good girl tonight, darling.” he said, a little too casually for your liking, as you walked toward his car.

“I was?” you asked, shooting him a shy glance while still feeling the lingering tension from the meeting.

He stopped, turning to face you. Elijah reached out, taking her chin into her hand as he spoke, his calm tone demanding to be respected. “Yes. But remember this, Y/N—appearances are everything in my world, to me. Tonight, you were seen as an extension of me. Don’t ever give anyone a reason to doubt your loyalty. Or mine.”

His words sent a chill down your spine, but you nodded, understanding the weight of what he was saying. As y:n obediently whispered out a small “yes sir, I understand.” Elijah dropped her chin and turned to the car.

As you climbed into the car, you couldn’t help but wonder if you’d truly passed his test—or if this was just the beginning of something far more dangerous.

The ride back to the Mikaelson estate was silent, the hum of the engine the only sound between you and Elijah. You stared out the window, watching the streets of New Orleans blur into shadows and flickering lights. The gravity of the night weighed heavily on your shoulders, each moment replaying in your mind like a warning.

Elijah, as always, was unreadable, his gaze fixed forward. You wanted to ask him why he’d chosen you for tonight’s gathering, why he thought you were capable of navigating a room full of predators. But you knew better than to question him so openly.

When the car finally pulled up to the grand estate, he exited without a word, leaving you to follow. The mansion’s looming facade seemed more oppressive than ever, its beauty a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing within you.

As you stepped inside, you heard a voice call out from the parlor.

“Back so soon?” Rebekah appeared in the doorway, a half-empty glass of wine in her hand. She leaned against the frame, her sharp eyes scanning you. “How did our little dove fare in the lion’s den?”

Elijah didn’t break stride. “She did as I expected,” he said, his voice calm but laced with finality. “Goodnight, Rebekah.”

With that, he disappeared down the hallway, leaving you alone with his sister. Rebekah’s gaze lingered on you, a mixture of curiosity and skepticism.

“Well?” she prompted, arching a brow. “What did he make you do?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” you said, though the words felt hollow even as you spoke them.

She let out a soft laugh, swirling her wine. “Oh, Y/N, you have no idea what you’ve signed up for, do you?”

You frowned. “Why do you keep saying that?”

“Because Elijah’s games are never as simple as they seem,” she said, stepping closer. “He’s a master of manipulation, and everything he does—everything—is part of a larger plan. You may think you’re just surviving, but you’re already a piece on his board.”

Her words sent a shiver down your spine, but you refused to let it show. “I’m not a pawn.”

Rebekah smirked, tilting her head as if appraising you. “Then prove it. Survive his tests, outmaneuver his enemies, and maybe—just maybe—you’ll live long enough to understand what you’ve truly gotten yourself into.”

She brushed past you, her laughter echoing softly as she disappeared into the depths of the house.

You stood there for a moment, her words swirling in your mind. A piece on his board. The thought unsettled you, but a spark of defiance burned in your chest. If Elijah thought he could control you, if he thought you’d play his game without question, he was wrong.

Whatever his plans were, you were determined to be more than a pawn.

Later that night, you found yourself in the small room Elijah had assigned to you. It was modest compared to the rest of the mansion, but it was yours, a rare pocket of solitude in a house full of chaos. You sat on the edge of the bed, replaying the events of the evening in your mind.

Elijah’s words echoed louder than Rebekah’s. “You were seen as an extension of me.” That single statement carried a weight you hadn’t fully grasped until now. Being tied to Elijah meant more than survival—it meant navigating a world of power, deception, and danger.

As you stared at the faint moonlight streaming through the window, you couldn’t help but rethink over everything from the meeting. The gravity of your situation setting in.

The knock on your door came late, and you hesitated before answering. The mansion was quiet, the sort of stillness that left every sound amplified. You half-expected Kol’s familiar antics or Rebekah with another barbed comment. But when you opened your mouth to call out, your voice caught, something stopping you.

“Come in,” you said finally, barely above a whisper.

The door opened, and it wasn’t Kol. Elijah stepped inside, his figure cutting an imposing silhouette against the dim hallway light. He closed the door softly behind him, his eyes locking onto yours. He looked calm, composed, as always—but there was a weight to his gaze tonight that made the air around you feel charged.

“Elijah,” you said, standing automatically. “Is something the matter?”

His head tilted slightly, studying you like you were a puzzle he hadn’t yet solved. “No,” he said, voice low, smooth as honey. “I simply wished to… clarify something.”

“Clarify?” you asked, your pulse quickening. His presence was unnerving, but not in the way it should have been. Not in the way someone so powerful and dangerous should unnerve you.

“You’ve done well these past weeks,” he began, taking a step closer. “Adapted quickly. But I sense you’re still questioning your place here.”

Your brows furrowed. “I told you I’m here for my brother—”

“And I believe that you were,” he interrupted, his tone gentle but firm. “But I also believe you’ve underestimated what it means to be in my world. What it means to be tied to me.”

Your breath hitched. You wanted to look away, to find some corner of the room to focus on instead of the intensity in his dark eyes. But you couldn’t.

“Everything here has rules, Y/N,” he continued, stepping closer. “Unspoken, perhaps, but binding nonetheless. Every move you make reflects on me. Every choice you make… reflects us.”

You swallowed hard. “I’m trying, Elijah. But this—this isn’t something I’ve ever—”

“I know,” he said, his voice softening. “And yet, you’ve endured. Adapted.”

His words sent a strange warmth through you, though you couldn’t quite place why. And then he took another step closer, his presence utterly consuming now.

“But you still don’t trust me,” he murmured, tilting his head. “Not fully.”

You blinked at him, startled. “I—”

His hand lifted, fingers brushing against your jaw so lightly it was almost like a question. The room seemed to narrow, leaving only him and the way your pulse quickened under his touch.

“You hold me at arm’s length,” he said softly. “Afraid of what it might mean to let me in. And yet, you’re still here.”

“Because I don’t have a choice,” you replied, though the words felt thin even as you said them.

His lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. “You do,” he said. “You’ve always had a choice. You chose to step into my world, to take this path. And now…”

His hand moved to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling lightly in your hair. The sensation sent a shiver down your spine, and your breath caught. “Sure, it started with your dearest brother but..” Elijah said with a small smirk, looking at you with hungry eyes.

“You must decide if you’ll let me show you what it truly means to be here,” he finished, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Elijah…” You said his name, but you weren’t sure if it was a protest or a plea.

“If you wish for me to stop,” he said, his gaze locked on yours, “say the word, and I will.”

Your heart raced, the air thick between you. But you didn’t say anything.

And then, slowly, deliberately, he closed the distance between you. His lips brushed against yours, tentative at first, like he was waiting for you to pull away. When you didn’t, the kiss deepened, his hand tightening in your hair, anchoring you to him.

It wasn’t hurried or desperate. It was deliberate, every movement carrying an unspoken promise. He kissed you as though he was trying to unravel every fear, every wall you’d built between you.

When he pulled back, his forehead resting lightly against yours, his voice was barely audible. “This world is dangerous, Y/N. I am dangerous. But if you choose to stay by my side, I will not let you falter. Do you understand?”

You swallowed hard, your hands still gripping the fabric of his jacket. “I… think I do.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression unreadable but intense. “You’ll come to understand fully,” he said, his tone both a promise and a warning. “In time.”

As he stepped back, the space between you felt colder, but the fire he’d ignited in your chest remained. And though he didn’t say anything else before leaving, the lingering warmth of his kiss spoke louder than words.

Whatever game Elijah was playing, whatever role he saw for you, you’d find a way to survive. And maybe, just maybe, you’d find a way to turn the tables. For now, all you could do was think

‘what the hell just happened.’

[harmonyrae]

Power Couple

(Inspired by this fanart. All credits to the artist, I couldn't find a direct link to them, but THANK YOU for inspiring me to write this!)

Summary: AU of how Sylus & you (reader) met. Both are leaders of large factions in the N109 Zone, Onychinus (Sylus) and Himitsu (you). They have been cutting into your territory over the past few weeks, so you decided an introduction is required. You laid the trap and Sylus walked right into it. But this is just the beginning...

CHAPTER ONE - Golden Opportunity

Three weeks of nothing but blood and lost profits. You’re exhausted, drained, frustrated. You throw back a second glass of wine and lean back in your chair. You kick off your heels and pull your feet up into the chair, settling yourself in for another late night. You glance over at your heavy wooden desk. A pile of documents and photographs, detailing the gruesome exchange Himitsu and Onychinus had earlier that day. 

Your contact with the N109 Zone police, if you can even call them “police,” dropped the folder off along with a desperate plea to stop the carnage. 

“Looks like it’s getting worse, your boys are working overtime and only getting cut down. Please, I’m begging here, tell Hunter to resolve this. I can’t keep bringing you this intel. My superiors are already on edge.”

You always chuckle when you hear the name “Hunter” - the name of the head of Himitsu. At least that’s what the public believes. You had to come up with a name that carried some weight and maybe some danger. But was ambiguous, most refer to “Hunter” as a he, making you smile every time. You wish you could reveal yourself and watch their jaws drop when they realize a woman runs one of the deadliest crews in the Zone. But you’re far too careful to show your hand. There’s only one person who knows and you always intended to keep it that way.

Every move you make, every client you secure, Onychinus is right on your fucking heels. Himitsu has gunned them down over and over. You’ve ordered their warehouses to be burned to the ground and dealers bought out. The violence continues, and has been getting worse every day. You lean forward to grab the wine bottle off your desk and pour another glass. How do you get this to stop? You need to get back to Linkon and recruit some new blood for your shrinking crew. Not to mention work on repairing the damage made to the Himitsu reputation and bank accounts. You swirl the dark liquor in your glass, you lean back once more, contemplating your next move. 

A shrill creak brings you back to reality and you look over at the door to your office opening slightly. Dorian, your right hand and the “face” of Himitsu, enters quietly. You can tell by the look on his face that the news he brings is not good. 

“How many glasses deep are you?” Dorian says before sitting on the edge of your desk. You chuckle softly.

“Not enough I’m sure.” Dorian smirks, a hint of mischief in his eyes.

“Good news and bad news.”

“Just rip the bandaid off.” You gulp down your third glass of wine and pinch the bridge of your nose, bracing for what Dorian will say next.

“Our latest shipment coming in from Linkon was intercepted. I don’t have to tell you by whom.” His voice deepens. “Onychinus is taking bigger risks, attacking a convoy so close to the border.”

“Did we lose everything?” You can feel your stomach flip as your brain has already started crunching the numbers. Not only was money lost, but one of your most important clients was depending on you to get that shipment to them. Disappointing them will be a huge hit.  

“Well, yes, but…” Dorian can’t finish his sentence before you stand up and flip open your golden butterfly knife, dark sapphires inlayed in the handle. You start pacing, flipping the knife in quick circles and slashes. Your nerves were officially shot and so were your chances of retaining that client. Your bare feet shuffled along the carpet. 

“Boss, do you remember the last time you were angry pacing and practicing your new little hobby?” His teasing tone only made your frustrations grow. You wince at the memory as you glance down at the scar on your knee. You were careless and hadn’t held the knife correctly, the slice across your flesh happening so quickly you thought it hadn’t happened. You shake your head and glance up at Dorian.

“Do you actually have good news related to Himitsu or are you going to give me some bullshit about a new bakery stall opening at the night market?” 

Dorian chuckles. He stands and walks toward you, careful to avoid your hand continuously flipping the butterfly knife. “We lost a lot today, but gained something that will turn the tide.” 

You snap the butterfly knife closed and look at Dorian closely. He might be taller than you by several inches, but your white-hot stare sent the right signal. Dorian sank into the red leather armchair in front of your desk. He raises his hands in surrender.

“It’s a bit of a long story, but I’ll tell you the abridged version.” His typical goofy smile tugging at his lips helped relax your shoulders. 

“No, tell me everything.” You grab the wine bottle on your desk, now already half-way empty and sit down in the armchair next to Dorian. You don’t bother to use the glass, now abandoned on the desk, you just drink from the bottle as he tells the story.

Himitsu always had a backup plan, and this convoy was no exception. A massive order of damaged protocores coming directly from the UNICORN Division. The deal you made with the disposal company to reroute the truck to the N109 Zone had been in place for nearly 2 years. A backup squad always accompanied the operation. Traveling in the neighborhood parallel to the convoy's route. The route had changed every month to avoid an interception from police or competition. Somehow, Onychinus knew what path they had chosen this month and launched their attack on the truck, backup was only two blocks away and arrived quickly. While the product was taken, a member of the Onychinus team was injured and left behind. Dorian was fortunate enough to be riding with the squad when the attack happened and made the split second decision to keep the man alive. Dorian informed you that your golden opportunity is handcuffed to a chair, ready for an interrogation. 

You stand up, trying to ignore how dizzy you’d become, and straighten out your fitted dress. “I’m going to talk to them.” Dorian reaches out for your arm to steady you and attempts to pull you back. You lose your balance and he catches you pulling you to his lap. Dorian laughs at your tipsy state and you can’t help but join in. 

“I don’t think that is a smart play, boss. He’s still unconscious. We had to dig a couple bullets out and put a couple staples in his head. Get some rest, talk to him in the morning.”

“Fine.” 

You stand up slowly. You circle around your desk to pick up your shoes before continuing to your office door still barefoot. You smile to yourself as you leave your office and head to the elevator. You have a piece of the puzzle. This man could give you confirmation about the intel you’ve gathered on the leader of Onychinus. And it would offer you the chance to set the trap you’ve been dreaming about for the past few weeks.  

You hit the penthouse button and pace around the elevator until you reach the top floor. You press your thumb to the pad on your door and push it open when the chimes confirming the lock has come undone. You drop your shoes at the door and use your butt to close it behind you. The chime automatically plays to secure the lock. You place the nearly empty wine bottle on the kitchen counter and shuffle to your room. Along the way, you remove your heavy gold chain necklace and golden hoops and tug at the zipper of your dress. 

You discard the jewelry on your bedside table and let your dress fall to the floor in a heap around your ankles. You don’t bother to remove your makeup - one of your many bad habits - and slip into bed in your underwear, relishing the cool feeling of the silken sheets against your warm skin. You usually don’t drink that much, but lately, wine has been your closest friend. Besides Dorian. He’ll just have to get used to cleaning up after you for a few more days. This man will be your ticket out of this bloody war. You smile into your pillow, remembering the cage you have prepared for the illusive Onychinus leader.

“Sylus…” You mutter into your pillow as you drift off to sleep. 

Chapter 1: https://shorturl.at/Bx95C Chapter 2: https://shorturl.at/3PwTi Chapter 3: https://shorturl.at/a7xnF Chapter 4: https://shorturl.at/fKYgX

[cads-the-cat]

Some stuff on the ToG Graphic Novel Shipping situation because I'm annoyed

Why this wasn't done in this case is beyond me. They knew even before announcement that it would probably be very popular PLUS THEY KNEW HOW MANY LIMITED BOOKS THEY HAD FOR TIER 3 AND 4 SO THEY KNEW EXACTLY HOW MANY SLIPCASES THEY NEEDED FOR THOSE!! Usually when you plan a book, even before it is finished, you calculate how many you will likely sell etc. and then you book a printing slot WAY I ADVANCE to get stuff printed in time. What went wrong here?

I work in book publishing. Depending on where stuff is printed, it is usually printed MONTHS in advance. For example, stuff that is set to release sometime summer 2025 was printed in December 2024!!!! And even if you print locally/nationally and do not import you still print months in advance to avoid such disasters AND THAT INCLUDES EXTRAS LIKE SLIPCASES!

Now I understand that stuff can happen like printers breaking down (I think that's what was once said about this situation).

However, from what I've gathered is that both Killer Merch and Sumerian are absolutely shit at communicating. Don't know when Killer Merch communicated there would be a delay for the first time, but according to sumerian they continued to not handle communications well so that's why we never got a real update on shipping.

But it's not only Killer Merch who is to blame for bad communication. Sumerian isn't better. How did we first find out that they wouldn't be shipped from 20th November and instead a week later? I and a few others did when we checked the website and they changed the date. Since then we got one email tailing the shipment plan and then one a week AFTER tier 2-4 was supposed to ship that there was a delay. Since then we got absolutely nothing.

And the worst thing is that Sumerian constantly complains about the high volume of emails about the shipping. IF YOU SENT OUT REGULAR EMAIL UPDATES TO INFORM PEOPLE WAITING ABOUT THE CURRENT SITUATION YOU'D GET LESS! YOU WOULDN'T HAVE TO REPLY TO EVERY SINGLE PERSON INDIVIDUALLY

Instead, people either email them and wait months for a response because they're so overwhelmed (I feel sorry for the people in customer support because it's very unlikely that they have anything to do with the situation as they don't make the choices etc. And have to deal with way too many emails) with requests or people have to @ them on twitter to get some half assed response and people like me get to find out the state of our orders through the Screenshots of this (at this point I want to thank the folks who share the stuff here on tumblr so I know where the hell my order is🙏).

I know this is a big release and stuff but planning and communication are 0/10, do not recommend

If you want to be seen as a respectable company who delivers good products, you can take the two companies as a negative example of what not to do. PLEASE LEARN TO COMMUNICATE PROPERLY WITH ALL PARTIES INVOLVED. IT'S REALLY NOT THAT HARD, ESPECIALLY IN TIMES OF THE INTERNET

Thanks for coming to my Ted talk

[serickswrites]

first- lovelovelove your writing!!!!

no pressure request: a classic team whump betrayal BUT the traitor is team leader!!! (like maybe they work for an organization or something but the leader of this particular team has been secretly working for the enemy)

maybe there’s even another member of the team that’s also working with the enemy (whether they know about each other or not i don’t know, but either way could probably work well)

anyway i was just scrolling ur betrayal tag and you write it so well so i decided to suggest a version i enjoy,, no pressure of course!!! love ur work, keep it up:))

Hello, friend! I can absolutely write this for you (I love this idea!) This is a series with 6 parts including this one. It will be published under 'Twist'

Warnings: captivity, restraints, betrayal

"UNHAND ME! LET ME GO!" Smallest Teammate screeched as they were dragged along the corridor. The absolute worst had happened: they had been captured by their enemies and brought to the enemy lair. They knew it had to be the mole. It had to be the mole. There was no other way for them to be caught.

They had to stay strong. They had to keep their wits about them. And most of all, they had to protect the rest of the team, including Team Leader, no matter the cost. The mission, the purpose of their organization, could not fail. They would give everything up so that it did not fail.

Smallest Teammate's captors handled them roughly, twisting their arms behind their back hard. One captor held Smallest Teammate's cuffed wrists in a bruising grip. "We'll be letting you go, just as soon as you're ready to start talking."

"I won't tell you anything! ANYTHING!" Smallest Teammate shouted as they shoved back against their captors.

"Then you can sit in here and think with your comrade. Perhaps it'll be nice to see there are worse things that can happen to you."

Smallest Teammate's mouth went dry as they were shoved into a cell and saw the familiar hunched over form of Team Leader. Team Leader's wrists were cuffed tightly behind their back, arms twisted painfully. They lay very still in the center of the cell. No. No. "They got you, too?" Smallest Teammate said as they scurried over to Team Leader.

Team Leader rolled onto their side and stared at Smallest Teammate, their bruised face pinched with pain. "Been here.....few days I think. Did they bring in anyone with you?"

Smallest Teammate shook their head. "No. No, I'm alone."

"Thank God for that. Well, not that you were captured. I mean that's terrible, I--"

Smallest Teammate nodded. "I know what you mean Team Leader. It's better just one than the entire team. I don't think they know where Teammate One and Teammate Three live. And Teammate Two is out," Smallest Teammate looked at the door pointedly before scooting closer to Team Leader, "doing some recon as Organization Leader ordered."

Team Leader looked relieved. "That's good about Teammate One and Three. I don't even know where they live."

"Oh, they live two apartment buildings over from me. So not far." Smallest Teammate's brow furrowed. "Hopefully they are more vigilant than I am."

"What recon mission did Organization Leader send Teammate Two on? So much has happened while I've been here. And Teammate Four, where are they?"

"Teammate Four's probably at the coffee shop on Main Street. They have a crush on the barista there." Smallest Teammate took a breath. "Organization Leader reckons they have a way to break into Oppositional Organization's base." They looked around. "Well, I guess that's where we are."

"How would they break in? Think that means they can rescue us without even knowing we are here?"

Smallest Teammate smiled. "Yep, they're definitely going to be able to save us. And as for how they can break in," Smallest Teammate dropped their voice low, "rumor has it that this place imports a lot of product and their receiving team isn't very thorough in their checks. Teammate Two is observing their shipment patterns to come up with a plan of attack."

Team Leader smirked. "Thank you, Smallest Teammate. That's all I needed. All we needed."

Smallest Teammate froze. "What do you--"

Team Leader popped the cuffs off their wrists. "You gave me everything I need to round up the rest of the team and take care of all of you once and for all."

"NO! It can't be. You....You....I trusted you!"

Team Leader chuckled. "I'm the perfect plant. I've been working against Organization for years from within. And now my life's work will be complete. Really, I should be thanking you more, Smallest Teammate."

Team Leader practically skipped out of the cell. They could hear Smallest Teammate's screams from far down the corridor. But it all didn't matter. They had won. They had beaten Organization. And now they just had to round up the rest of the team and then they could stand victorious at long last.

Tags: @mousepaw @jumpywhumpywriter @knightinbatteredarmor @hufflepuffwritingstuff2 @anightmarishwhump

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @celestialsoyeon @st0rmm @ay5ksal @pedro-pedro-pedro-pedro-pe

@acer-whumpstuff @organizedchaos03

[doralcustomsbrokers]

Navigating U.S. Import Regulations with a Miami Customs Broker

Importing goods into the United States involves navigating a complex web of regulations, documentation, and compliance requirements. Whether you’re a seasoned importer or new to international trade, partnering with a knowledgeable customs broker in Miami can significantly ease the process and ensure your shipments clear customs without a hitch.

Customs Clearance Services

One of the primary roles of a customs broker is to facilitate customs clearance. This involves preparing and submitting the necessary documents to U.S. Customs and Border Protection (CBP) and ensuring that your shipment complies with all applicable laws and regulations. A Miami-based customs broker, with expertise in the region’s trade dynamics, can expedite this process, helping your goods move swiftly from port to market.

U.S. Customs Clearance

Navigating U.S. customs clearance can be daunting, especially with the ever-evolving regulations. A customs broker in Miami stays updated on the latest changes in import laws, ensuring your shipment is compliant. They handle everything from tariff classifications and duty calculations to ensuring all required permits and licenses are in place.

Handling Import Shipments

Efficient handling of import shipments is crucial to minimize delays and avoid additional costs. A customs broker manages the logistics of your shipment from the moment it arrives at the port, coordinating with carriers, warehouses, and other stakeholders to ensure a smooth and timely release of your goods.

Consultation on Import Regulations

Understanding import regulations is essential for compliance and cost management. A Miami customs broker provides consultation services to help you navigate the complexities of U.S. import regulations. This includes advising on tariff classifications, duty rates, and other compliance requirements specific to your goods.

FDA Compliance Consulting

If you’re importing goods regulated by the Food and Drug Administration (FDA), such as food products, cosmetics, or pharmaceuticals, FDA compliance is critical. A customs broker with expertise in FDA regulations can help ensure that your products meet all necessary standards, avoiding costly delays or rejections at the border.

Importer Security Filing (ISF) and Customs Bond Services

Importer Security Filing (ISF), also known as “10+2,” is a mandatory filing requirement for ocean shipments to the U.S. A customs broker can handle this filing on your behalf, ensuring that it is done correctly and on time. Additionally, they can assist with obtaining the necessary customs bonds, which are required for most import transactions to guarantee the payment of duties and taxes.

Managing In-Bond Shipments

In-bond shipments, which are goods that are transported through the U.S. without being subject to customs duties, require careful management to ensure compliance. A Miami customs broker can manage the in-bond process, ensuring your goods move efficiently to their final destination.

https://www.doralcustomsbrokers.com/customs-clearance-consulting/

[interstellarroadkill]

imposter syndrome hits different when you're constantly feeling like a dumbass for not picking up on social cues and never knowing when to shut your damn mouth

[vren-diagram]

What are the great positive effects of automated freight handling that longshoremen are denying you? What would become so much cheaper?

https://blogs.worldbank.org/en/transport/why-ports-matter-global-economy

Efficient port infrastructure has also been identified as a key contributor to overall port competitiveness and international trade costs. Unfortunately, ports and terminals, particularly for containers, are too often main sources of shipment delays, supply chain disruptions, additional costs, and reduced competitiveness. The result far too often is that instead of facilitating trade, the port increases the cost of imports and exports, reduces competitiveness, and inhibits economic growth and poverty reduction. The effect on a country or the countries served by the port can be severe. Inefficient ports can slow the circular system of container shipping, thereby reducing capacity, and reducing costs. Ships have to wait unnecessarily incurring additional fuel costs, additional emissions, and additional costs.

Improving container port performance lowers the cost of trade, contributes to food security, improves resilience, and reduces unnecessary emissions from vessels. The role of ports as the linchpin in the global economy is a major reason why the World Bank and S&P Global Markets are tracking port performance for nearly 350 global ports in the Container Ports Performance Index (CPPI).

When the cost of things goes up, that makes almost everyone worse off. I don't know how this could be clearer. You don't like it when you pay more money for things. Almost nobody likes paying more money to get the same things.

The US currently has some of the worst performing ports in the world. Because of resistance to modernization and make-work programs. Driven by dockworkers unions that use their monopolization of government-granted monopolies on infrastructure to....extract large amounts of money for themselves. This literally causes everything to be a little more expensive than it has to be. This to benefit dudes doing the equivalent of digging up holes just to fill them in again.

[mollysunder]

Does Sevika Have What it Takes to Run Zaun?

The power vacuum in Zaun is sure to be a major source of conflict next season. There will be plenty of figures, both known and unknown, that will try to gain control of what's left of Silco's Shimmer empire and thus the center of Zaun's black market. Of all the candidates that could possibly replace Silco, one of the strongest contenders is Silco's right hand, Sevika. Sevika has many of the qualities that make her an excellent candidate to take Silco's place. Sevika is one of few key players that is trusted by the members of Silco's organization, brutally competent at her job, and genuinely believes in Zaun's independence. The real question is, can Sevika handle Silco's mantle?

Sevika has a lot going for her, but just as much against her, and one of her main problems is that she uses Jinx as a crutch for her shortcomings. When the Firelights destroyed the shipment of Shimmer that was supposed to go out on Progress Day, she laid the blame for the operation's failure squarely on Jinx. It's true that Jinx did injure at least one member of her team in friendly fire and failed to protect the cargo, but everyone else failed too, including Sevika. Not only were all of the crew easily ambushed, none of them had any countermeasures for a known enemy. One guy grabbed a harpoon gun and missed miserably with each shot. Jinx herself wouldn't have gotten involved if Sevika and the crew were better able to work proactively, maybe by investing in a net gun.

Worse still, Sevika claimed she could have handled the situation without Jinx, which is practically a lie. Without Jinx, the Shimmer would have been destroyed much faster, there would have been no one to delay the Firelights or take down 5 of the 8 that were present. But Sevika would rather use the situation to cast more focus on Jinx to undermine her position rather than manage the critical failure in defense that the rest of the team demonstrated under pressure. Silco even pointed this out, the audience was just more inclined to see his opinion as biased.

You can't let Jinx be the excuse for why everything goes wrong, all it does is make everyone zero-in on just Jinx's mistakes rather than take a few steps back to examine why things went wrong. If that actually happened, then someone might actually ask, "How did the did the Firelights know there'd be an important shipment going out on Progress Day?". Or "How did they know which ship they'd be using if they obscure any identifying information on the ship manifests?". And more importantly, "Is there a mole?". Instead, you get a team that drinks and parties after a real shitshow because their direct boss confirms that all their problems are just one person.

This all bleeds into another main issue of hers. Every time Sevika's in a confrontation, she thinks like an individual rather than a leader. The first time she fights Vi, she let's two of her underlings runaway rather than help her. When Vi comes back for round 2 with the same special hextech that caused so much mayhem at the Shimmer Refinery, Sevika tells the entire crew there to leave so they can go 1-v-1. Everytime something comes up, Sevika chooses not to delegate work or strategize with others around an obstacle, she'd rather take on the responsibility for problems like this by herself.

You could argue that Sevika was the only one capable of fending off Vi, especially with Sevika's new prosthetic's enhancements. But Sevika left no room for support in the background to at least distract Vi or give Sevika cover. If we go way back to the Cannery, Silco has to hold back Sevika from fighting Vi because he thought it was a better idea to use Deckard than do the same thing over again. And he was right! It was better to throw a Shimmer'ed up Deckard at Vi, and reserve Sevika when everyone else lost to Vi. If he hadn't Sevika wouldn't have saved him from the explosion.

If all this wasn't enough, the way Sevika is portrayed in terms of power, doesn't bode well for her potential as a leader. Plenty have pointed out that smoking is a symbol of power in Zaun, those with even a modicum of power smoke. What isn't always pointed out is how anyone who's interrupted smoking, inevitably loses power.

The first time it happened was with Vander, Marcus snatched his pipe and extinguished Vander's flame in his drink. The next episode Marcus' deal with Silco sealed the end of Vander's regime. A man on a smoke break at Silco's refinery (probably a manager) is immediately held at gunpoint by an enforcer part of the raid, where everyone caught was likely arrested and lost their jobs. Silco never actually lost his cigar, and so when he was killed, it wasn't politically motivated, it was an accident.

Curiously, Sevika and the Enforcers from the Progress Day attack actually smoke the same kind of cigarillos. These enforcers happen to be the only Piltovans we see smoke in the series, maybe because they're lower class or former Zaunites themselves. Unlike all the the other times, no one had to directly force them to stop smoking, Jinx made them drop it by simply terrifying them. And Jinx would go on to kill at least a score of enforcers including the Sheriff. Jinx likely threw the chain of command in disarray, doubly so if she killed at least 5 councilmen who the Sheriff would report to.

It makes for an interesting parallel when Vi first attacks Sevika and knocks out her symbol of power. In that scene Sevika managed to win her card game with Trump cards that heavily resembles Jinx and Viktor, but even when she wins, she still loses her cigarillo. All Vi needed to do was catch Sevika off guard and apply force, the same as the other enforcers (and even the Firelights). Later she'll let Finn light up her cigarillo while he affirms her strengths in Zaun.

By the finale, we see her after she's been beaten by Vi, Sevika chooses to go to Silco's office to smoke one of Silco's cigars while he'sgone, but she can't light it on her own. While this might foreshadow that she'll try to take Silco's place, Sevika struggles to light the cigar because if you notice in her hand is a lighter with a fancy "F" on it, Sevika's using Finn's lighter. Silco, Vander, and Finn all had their own matches and lighters. To light Silco's cigar, Sevika uses means by which she took from Finn, a man she just killed for an ill planned selfish gambit for power.

This alone wouldn't look too bad, because as I see it, in Zaun, it's not the act of smoking but the imagery of smoke itself that's associated with power, and you don't need to smoke to have smoke. Look at Jinx and Vi, both command considerable influence on the ongoing developments between the two cities and align with strong figures. Neither of the two smoke, instead they cover themselves in smokelike tattoos, Jinx's tattoos literally resembles the blue smoke of her first succesful bomb. In contrast to their predecessors both manage to embody their power more wholly onto their person in a way that's less vulnerable than the smoking tradition to usurpation. Sevika herself also wears smoke like patterns on her collar, which are less prominent or permanent than Jinx and Vi's tattoos.

Each issue alone is cause for concern in the viability of Sevika's potential leadership role, but altogether they create a solid line of doubt for if she can pull it off. To make it work she needs to shape up Silco's former crew because she can't be the only one pulling any weight. They're all going to face a conflict that will only grow more complex, demanding, and fast changing as time goes on. A situation like that prior to Jinx's rocket would have easily have incapacitated them, now it's all going to happen on a larger scale. Sevika needs to recognize what went right and wrong for Silco, Vander, and Finn.

Tldr: The chance for Sevika to be Zaun's new leader will be an uphill climb for her for sure. Her biggest problems is that she takes the lead rather than utilizing the team, she gets easily caught off guard, and Jinx can put blinders on her perspective. She's kind of like an older more seasoned Vi that never gave up on Zaun's independence warts and all.

[mariacallous]

Well, it’s good we’re suddenly paying attention to postal logistics. Retailers, traders, and consumers are trying to figure out what U.S. President Donald Trump’s suspension—and then reimposition—of the postal service’s de minimis rule means. The end of customs-free imports for Chinese goods worth less than $800 was perhaps inevitable, and drugs and artificially cheap clothes should definitely have a harder time entering the United States. So far, though, the executive order has mostly led to chaos that has forced Trump to suspend the measure.

Allow me to nag: Knowing some Latin is exceedingly useful. Those who have had the privilege of learning this versatile language will know that de minimis means “about the smallest [things].” For the past nine years, the United States has been rather generous in its definition of the smallest things. The de minimis rule for goods coming into the country per post has been $800 since 2016, which means that only goods worth more than $800 are subject to customs fees. That can buy quite a lot, especially online.

China has been the big winner of this loophole, especially budget fashion manufacturers like Shein and Temu, which don’t have stores in the United States but ship almost everything directly to their U.S. consumers. (Shein has a warehouse in Indiana, from which it ships some items and also handles returns, and Temu announced last year that it was going to launch U.S. warehouses.)

For $800, one also gets quite a bit of fentanyl. The synthetic opioid that has killed hundreds of thousands of Americans, including nearly 75,000 in 2023, mostly arrives in small parcels from Mexico and China. Six years ago, Beijing imposed heavy restrictions on fentanyl, but crafty entrepreneurs instead began exporting the lethal drug’s essential components. Today, China is the world’s leading exporter of such precursor chemicals, according to an October 2024 report.

That makes the de minimis parcels arriving in the United States every day a mixed bag, and they’re growing at a dizzying rate. By last October, U.S. Customs and Border Protection (CPB) was processing some 4 million de minimis shipments per day, up from 2.8 million per day in 2023. “Bad actors are exploiting this explosion in volume to traffic counterfeits, dangerous narcotics, and other illicit goods including precursor chemicals and materials such as pill presses and die molds used to manufacture fentanyl and other synthetic drugs that are killing Americans,” CBP noted.

It’s these drug packages that Trump tried to reduce with a Feb. 1 executive order ending the $800 de minimis rule for goods made in China. “I, DONALD J. TRUMP, President of the United States of America, find that the sustained influx of synthetic opioids has profound consequences on our Nation, including by killing approximately two hundred Americans per day, putting a severe strain on our healthcare system, ravaging our communities, and destroying our families,” he explained in the executive order.

De minimis shipments are a mixed bag—and an enormous one at that. Under a normal government, any change to de minimis rules would need to be carefully planned with CBP, the U.S. Postal Service (USPS), FedEx, DHL, and other logistics companies. That didn’t happen. And now that the executive order has been signed, it has to be implemented, since lex dilationes abhorret—the law abhors delay.

As a result, the executive order has caused logistical turmoil. To begin with, there are the parcels that were midair when Trump signed the order. Then there are the ones that had just arrived but had not been processed yet by CBP. Remember, over 100,000 de minimis packages arrive in the United States every hour. Not all of them are from China, of course, but that just means that CBP has to go through all the parcels that have recently arrived and separate out the ones from China.

And then, CBP could, of course, destroy the fentanyl packages, but the legal shipments have to be stored somewhere and then returned to their senders, since it’s the sender—not the recipient—that pays customs duties.

Oh, and did I mention the packages in China awaiting shipment to the United States? Since customers are unlikely to want to pay more to absorb the customs costs, and Shein, Temu, and others would be likely to retroactively add to their bills, the parcels had to return to the sellers and refunds had to be initiated.

Facing this mess, shipping giants threw up their hands. USPS and other freight companies suddenly had to deal with tons of packages with unclear destinations—and even less clarity about who would pay. USPS announced it was going to stop handling parcels from China altogether. Then, on Feb. 7, the White House announced the executive order would be delayed to give federal agencies more time to prepare. That suspension was, in fact, inevitable.

It makes sense to close the loophole. The $800 de minimis was a globalization-era luxury. Those who thought it up seem not to have countenanced the possibility of it being used for drug shipments, or that Chinese fast-fashion retailers would systematically use it to undercut competitors that ship and sell their goods the traditional way, via bulk country-to-country shipments and sales to consumers from warehouses or shops within the United States. When it’s closed, that’s going to mean a substantial blow to firms like Temu and Shein, which may not win favor with some of Trump’s allies who have their own stakes in those firms.

This hastily composed executive order has mostly brought chaos upon the United States, and now there’s the embarrassment of having to delay its implementation. That seems to be a consistent pattern with the new administration’s shotgun approach to governance. Trump, let me introduce you to a motto coined by Emperor Augustus: festina lente—make haste slowly.