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mostlysignssomeportents · 2 months ago

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Everyday homeowners are human shields for Wall Street’s Internet of Shit slumlords

The American Dream, such as it is, used to be two dreams, one based on work and solidarity, the other on asset appreciation and disconnected individualism. We killed the first one.

As the New Deal gave way to the post-war social safety net, Americans discovered two paths to social mobility: they could join a union, and they could buy a home. Joining a union meant that your wages would rise with productivity, and that the democratic ideal that you were meant to approach once every two years at the ballot-box could follow you into the building you spent more waking hours in than any other: your jobsite.

Labor unions used their political power to win labor rights, so that even workers who weren't a union couldn't be arbitrarily fired, or maimed on the job with impunity, or harassed or abused. And while the labor movement was mired in the same racist legacy that every American institution brought forward out of genocide and slavery, where racialized people started unions of their own or demanded representation from the unions who nominally represented them, they thrived.

Then there were houses. On the one hand, owning your home insulated you from the petty tyranny of the landlord, the threat of eviction, rent hikes, indifferent or dangerous building maintenance, and all the other miseries that arise when you think of a building as your home and someone else thinks of it as an asset, and the board is tilted so that they win every argument.

But homeownership wasn't just sold as a way to get out from under scumbag landlords: it was primarily sold as a way to build intergenerational wealth. Your house wasn't just a place to live: it was an asset, and it appreciated.

And if the dividends of labor protection were unevenly distributed between white people and racial minorities, the dividends of home ownership were almost entirely hoarded by white families. Federal policies – redlining – combined with racist lending at the local level, meant that Black families and other racialized groups were stuck in tenancy, while white families build wealth thanks to federal subsidies:

https://web.archive.org/web/20170220005558/https://www.demos.org/sites/default/files/publications/Asset%20Value%20of%20Whiteness.pdf

Those were the two American dreams: a good job and your own home. We killed the first one, and the second one devoured us whole.

Without a strong labor movement, wages stagnated. Corporate power waxed, and with it, the power to pollute, to poison, to maim and to defraud. The labor movement wasn't strong enough to stop Reagan from killing free UC tuition when he was governor of California. It wasn't strong enough to hold back spiraling health care prices. It wasn't strong enough to block the business lobby from neutering antitrust and ushering in four decades of market concentration, market capture and corruption. Workers couldn't save their defined benefits pension and were railroaded into market-based 401(k)s, forcing them to play the stock casino against their bosses, ever the sucker at the poker table.

With stagnant wages and out of control medical, educational and end-of-life bills, homeownership – the thing you do as an individual, where your gain is someone else's loss – became the American secular religion. Your house wasn't just a place to sleep and keep your photo albums: if it appreciated enough, you might be able to liquidate it on your deathbed and pay off your eldercare, your healthcare, your kids' college debt, and leave enough left over for your kids' downpayments.

And so every American who had a home became the enemy of every American who didn't – including one another's children. Every home built threatened your own property values. The racist, batshit American school funding formula, which sees schools funded out of property taxes, meaning the richest kids get the best schools, turned out to be a great way to increase your property values.

Protections for tenants, meanwhile, threatened the entire American way of life – the American dream itself. Every protection a tenant got – protection from eviction or rent hikes, the legal right to a safe and well-maintained home – reduced the value of every home in town.

After all, the better a landlord has to treat their tenants, the less money a landlord can make from a rental property. The less money a landlord can make from a rental property, the less they'd bid on a house like yours if it went up for sale.

And since anyone planning to buy your house to live in it has to outbid a landlord who might want to rent it out, giving tenants any protection threatened everything – the one asset you owned, which was your plan a, b and c for paying off all that health, education, and assisted living debt:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/06/06/the-rents-too-damned-high/

Today, the house-as-asset scam is breathing its last. There are millions more people who need homes than there are homes available. Sure, homelessness is a fantastically complex problem, but you could address every aspect of it – addiction, mental illness, joblessness – and millions of people would still be homeless, because there aren't enough homes for them to live in:

https://headgum.com/factually-with-adam-conover/myths-about-homeless-people-with-dr-margot-kushel

70% of all inflation in 2024 came from the cost of housing; a quarter of that came from illegal collusive behavior by landlords to hike rents:

https://www.thebignewsletter.com/p/up-to-a-quarter-of-rental-inflation

Wall Street landlords have raised gigantic war-chests and are buying up homes at a rate never before seen, converting every available single-family home in many cities from an owner-occupied home to a rental. Private equity and hedge fund landlords have elevated charging junk fees to an absurdist theater project: you pay a "convenience" charge for paying your rent in cash. But also for paying your rent by direct transfer. Oh, and also for paying in cash. When Wall Street is your landlord, your home is a slum, dangerously undermaintained, sometimes lethally so:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/02/08/wall-street-landlords/#the-new-slumlords

Capitalists hate capitalism. The best thing to sell is something your customer can't live without, and that no one else has for sale. That's why "the market" loves private prisons so much:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/02/captive-customers/#guillotine-watch

The vast sums Wall Street is putting into buying up all of America's available housing stock is a bet that they can establish regional monopolies over having a home, and charge all the market can bear.

That's the plan at Invitation Homes, a company that was just targeted by the FTC for a slate of eye-watering crimes against the tenants in the 80,000 single-family homes they've acquired:

https://www.ftc.gov/news-events/news/press-releases/2024/09/ftc-takes-action-against-invitation-homes-deceiving-renters-charging-junk-fees-withholding-security

Invitation Homes purchases homes as they come on the market, and they're also a leading customer of the "build-to-rent" housing industry, a fast-growing segment of new housing starts.

Writing about the FTC's enforcement action against Invitation Homes, Matt Soller brings in Starwood Capital Group, who manage Invitation Homes properties, and own 14,000 more homes in the sunbelt. Invitation and Starwood hate the anti-monopoly movement, and Barry Sternlicht, Starwood's billionaire CEO, really hates FTC Chair Lina Khan:

https://www.thebignewsletter.com/p/monopoly-round-up-corporate-slumlords

The FTC complaint lays out a suite of just comically sleazy things ways that Invitation abuses its tenants, starting with false advertising. The company lists its houses at relatively low rents, then charges a large fee to apply to live there. When you pass the application process, you're told the rent is actually much higher, and if you walk away from the deal, you forfeit your application fee. That scam's netted Invitation $18m since 2019.

Stoller really hates junk fees, calling them "convenience fees without any convenience, service charges without any service performed." He lays out Invitation's long list of junk fees, which honestly sound like a list that Chatgpt would spit out if you prompted it for fifty junk fees that wouldn't pass the giggle-test: "utility management fees" "Lease Easy bundle fees," "air filter delivery fee," "smart home technology fees," etc etc.

"Smart home technology fee?" Yeah, Invitation's gone in hard for Internet of Shit smart home tech. The SVP who oversees Invitation's smart home fee program was ordered to "juice this hog" (you guys, juice doesn't come from hogs).

After decades of recruiting everyday American homeowners to demand anti-tenant policies that benefit giant corporations, American tenants have few rights on paper and even fewer in practice. That's left the door wide open for Invitation to abuse their tenants in a myriad of dismal and unimaginative ways: stealing their deposits, trashing their credit reports to retaliate against complaints, illegal evictions, busted appliances, mold, vermin, insects – the whole slumlord playbook.

As Stoller writes, there's a twist: "this landlord isn’t just a random slumlord, it’s one of the biggest Wall Street players in housing."

There are vast fortunes to be made in converting the human right to housing into an asset class, but those fortunes end up in the hands of a very small number of billionaires. On their own, they wouldn't have the political power to dismantle protections for tenants.

Realistically speaking, most kids who grew up in their parents' owner-occupied homes are going to end up tenants, thanks to undersupply and housing inflation. But those kids' parents have spent decades demanding policies to make their homes as valuable as possible – including mortgage tax breaks (but not rent tax breaks!), looser eviction laws, and less enforcement of what few protections tenants have.

Middle class homeowners are the useful idiots and human shields of the billionaires who are determined to force every American under 40 raise their kids in a rented slum full of spiders, ratshit and black mold, which will still cost 60% of their take-home salary.

That's why the FTC's action against Invitation Homes is such a big deal. And as Stoller points out, Chair Khan is really just implementing Kamala Harris's campaign promise to get Wall Street out of the landlord business.

Wall Street's raid on your bedroom and kitchen has inspired a generation of "finfluencer" copycats who buy and flip apartment buildings, sucking ever-larger amounts of cash out of them until they're unfit for human habitation, with mountains of rat-infested garbage ringing their crumbling walls:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/22/koteswar-jay-gajavelli/#if-you-ever-go-to-houston

Any future worth living in is going to get housing right. We need to stop thinking of housing as an asset and realize that it is, first and foremost, a human right. That's the premise of my 2023 solarpunk novel The Lost Cause, which just came out in paperback:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865946/thelostcause

You can't protect yourself from rising seas or rising healthcare bills through individual home-ownership. Solidarity – the kind of solidarity that once powered the union movement, and that is powering it again – is the only way to defeat the housing profiteers. The New Deal wasn't perfect, which is why whatever we do next has to be bigger, further reaching, and more inclusive than what FDR did almost a century ago.

The only minority that should be excluded from the next New Deal is billionaires.

Tor Books as just published two new, free LITTLE BROTHER stories: VIGILANT, about creepy surveillance in distance education; and SPILL, about oil pipelines and indigenous landback.

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

https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/01/housing-is-a-human-right/#rentier-tech

Image: Sam Valadi (modified) https://www.flickr.com/photos/132084522@N05/17086570218/

Carlos Delgado (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Wall_Street_-_New_York_Stock_Exchange.jpg

CC BY 2.0: https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

#pluralistic

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whatsnewalycat · 10 months ago

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RUTHLESS

Stepdad Joel Miller x Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+ ONLY)

Word Count: 5.1k+

Warnings: DDDNE, literally just a fucked up stepdad/mom's bf fantasy, could read "mom" as tess but I don't name her or assign physical features to her or reader, post-outbreak, reader is def over 18 but not by much so yeah age gap, NON-CONSENSUAL, power imbalance, unethical d/s dynamic, slapping, spanking, punishment, orgasm delay/denial, humiliation, degradation, face fucking, anal sex, little to no aftercare

A/N: Category is "That old man would fucking never... but if he did..." Please be mindful of the warnings and don't read if it might trigger you. Sorry, mom. Sorry, God.

[ my masterlist ] [ taglist ] [ AO3 ]

------

Within the secluded world of your big noise-canceling headphones, you scan through silence on the CB radio, pausing for a few seconds on each channel before moving on to the next.

Channel 11: Nothing.

Channel 12: Zilch.

Channel 13: Nada.

When you turn the dial to channel 14, though, you pick up chatter and start transcribing.

Channel 14 7/17/22 19:56

—got a bundle of carrots today. Budaydas, onions, too. Want me to come by tomorrow and make some stew? Over.

Got enough for the kids? Over.

And leftovers. Over.

I’ll be at Margie’s around supper time. Over and out.

The air goes silent.

After a minute goes by with no follow up transmissions, you glance at the clock. 7:58. Almost time for check-in.

You tune the radio to channel 32 and review your transcription.

Many people speak in code, encrypting their messages in seemingly benign conversations. To the untrained ear, they’re normal exchanges, people making small talk about jobs and rations and kids. Goodnight calls and check-ins that use predictable inquiries to convey messages.

—got a bundle of carrots today. Budaydas, onions, too. Want me to come by tomorrow and make some stew?

Most of it you can translate from memory. The drug traffickers that use channel 14 have frequented the same lingo for years. Likely because of the high turnover rate of personnel. There’s less confusion that way. Confusion in communication raises more alarm bells for eavesdroppers than using the same code words across the board.

You flip through your cipher for channel 14, searching for budaydas, but find nothing. Scrunching your nose up, you say the word out loud, “Budaydas. Buh-day-das.”

Carrots, onions, budaydas in a stew.

“Oh,” you nod in understanding, then jot down your translation, muttering under your breath, “Fucking Boston accents.”

(Someone) picked up tranquilizers, benzos (budaydas = potatoes), and opioids. The caller wants to meet up and trade as previously agreed.

The rest of it is easy enough to interpret without the use of a cipher. You probably don’t need to write down the translation, but do it in case your mom or Joel need to reference the notes at a later date.

There’s enough to distribute product across their network of dealers in Boston QZ, plus more to stockpile. They’ll meet at their hub in Area 1, Margaret St, at midnight.

You exhale through slack lips, glancing at the clock as it ticks over to 8:00, then pick up the microphone and hold down the speak button.

“Radio check.”

A few seconds go by before you hear a familiar gruff voice crackle over the radio waves into your ears, “Loud and clear. Over.”

Your nostrils flare when you hear him. Joel Miller. The bane of your existence. Your de facto stepfather, only because you don’t really remember life without him by your mom’s side.

This isn’t to say he’s a father figure to you by any means. The two of you never shared the kind of heartwarming paternal bonding moments you read about in books. That would require warmth and vulnerability, which he distinctly lacks.

Once, when you were maybe 11 or 12, you made the mistake of calling him Dad. The way he looked at you made you feel like dirt. Fire burning behind his dark eyes, he corrected you with one stern syllable that taught you your place: “Joel.”

You sit up straighter and take a moment to gather yourself before responding.

“Did you get your message from Uncle Paul? Over.”

“I did. Over.”

“How’s the weather in Kansas City? Over.”

“Cloudy. Over.”

Fuck.

You swallow around nothing, then clear your throat and ask, “And Grandma, how’s she? Over.”

“Fine, just busy is all.”

You exhale a sigh of relief that melts the tension between your shoulders. Joel continues.

“Anything new with you? Over.”

Tapping your fingers on your notes, you answer, “Rumor has it the market is gonna be busy tomorrow. Harvesting time, I guess. Other than that, same old same old. What about you? Staying out of trouble? Over.”

It feels strange, having a casual conversation with him like this. Even if it’s just a data exchange dressed up as a casual conversation.

There’s a long pause, then he says, “Fine, yeah. Well. See you soon. Over ‘n’ out.”

Stiff as a board. Cold as ice. Joel Miller, everyone. Round of applause.

You snort, rolling your eyes as you unplug the headphones and toss them on the table. It takes a moment for you to re-acclimate to your surroundings.

The dingy two-bedroom apartment is quiet and still. Outside, the setting sun casts the world in a dark golden haze. A FEDRA patrol vehicle roars down the street, broadcasting the curfew alert from a loudspeaker. Faint shouting from a few units down momentarily piques your curiosity before you decide it’s none of your business.

You stand from the chair and reach your hands above your head, lungs expanding in a powerful yawn, then take a lap around the apartment to stretch your legs.

Something catches your eye when you walk by the entry. A note slipped under the doorframe. On the outer fold, your name is written in a familiar scrawl.

Your heart skips a beat.

You pick it up and unfold the paper, revealing an invitation.

I miss you. Come over when you’re done surfing the airwaves. XO, Bert.

Warmth trickles down between your thighs. A smile spreads across your face. You glance up at the door, then to the CB radio and scanner on the desk.

Indecision churns in your belly.

You are explicitly forbidden from leaving the apartment while your mom and Joel are out on runs. A safety precaution you’ve protested dozens of times to no avail. They expect you to stay put and warn them if you notice any signs of potential danger. In return, you receive a cut of the profit and a roof over your head. Security, in short. Which is more than most could say.

That being said… You break this rule from time to time, when the circumstances allow.

Like when the Fireflies and FEDRA have been quiet for weeks and there are no smoke signals in sight. Like when you’re five nights into a seven day seclusion and think you might die of boredom if you don’t get the fuck out of here. Like when your boyfriend slips a note under the door and asks you to come over.

You look down at the paper in your hands, re-reading the words I miss you.

Fuck it, what’s the worst that could happen?

—

Just before midnight, you wander down the hallway to your unit, jelly knees wobbling with each step. As you absentmindedly trace your tingling lips, still puffy from kissing, you unlock the door and push it open, then frown.

The lights are on.

They were off when you left, you’re sure of it. When you step further into the apartment, your foot catches on something. A backpack. This faint buzzing starts behind your ears as you blink at it, wishing it would go away.

Motherfu—

“Where the fuck have you been?”

Your stomach plummets to the floor when you hear his voice. A thick knot of panic tightens around your windpipe as you look up to find Joel standing just a few paces away in the living room.

He stares you down, dark eyes glowing with fury, and questions you again, “Where were you?”

“N-nowhere.”

The blatant lie sits sour on your tongue. His lips purse, so you fumble out another, “I went for a walk.”

“A walk,” he repeats, tone disbelieving, “You went on a walk after curfew wearing that?”

You look down at your clothing. A short skirt and tank top. Your throat bobs in a guilty gulp, then you meet his eyes again and nod.

“And when did you leave on this ‘walk?’”

Your mind whirs as you try to come up with an answer. It feels like a trap. You try to calculate an answer that will provide minimal blowback.

“I don’t know, maybe twenty minutes ago?”

“Try again.”

The electricity humming through you takes on a red, frustrated edge, and you snip, “I don’t fucking know, dude. It was a while ago, I wasn’t paying attention. Where’s my mom?”

“Your mom sent me here to make sure you were alive,” he says pointedly, taking slow, deliberate steps towards you, “We’ve been tryin’a reach you for three hours. I got here an hour ago. That’s a helluva lot longer than twenty minutes, ain’t it?”

Shrinking into yourself, you search his face. Jaw set, eyes boring into yours. Waves of anger roll off him as he approaches, and you remember all those rumors you heard about him on the radio. The fear you heard in grown men’s voices when they recounted run-ins with that bitch and her guard dog.

You remember what Bert said about him: He’s fucking ruthless.

“You aren’t supposed to leave the apartment when we’re outside the QZ.”

“I know.”

“Then why did you?”

Your heart thuds against your ribcage.

Joel has never directed this kind of outright anger towards you. Sternness, sure. Contempt, maybe. But this is different. You’re in fucking trouble.

There has to be a way out of this conversation.

You drop your gaze to the floor and ask, “Is my mom ok? Did something happen to her?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

Righteous indignation straightens your spine and wills you to meet his eyes again, “I’m not saying shit until you tell me what happened to her.”

“She sprained her ankle, but she’s fine. She’s safe,” he tells you, then takes another step forward, “Why did you leave?”

You respond by rolling your eyes.

“Answer the question.”

With an irritated sigh, you search his face, then tell him, “You don’t know what it’s like to be here. Isolated for days or weeks at a time. I fucking hate it. It’s so lonely and boring, I feel like I’m losing my mind—”

“Oh, cry me a goddamn river.”

You scowl at him, staring him down, “Fuck you.”

“Watch your fucking mouth, you disrespectful little shit.”

Red flashes through your field of vision, hot and angry and defiant. You gather the moisture in your mouth on your tongue and spit at him. It splats on his cheek.

His face twists up with fury for one second before he charges, closing the distance between you. The impact pushes your back to the door with a thud.

He grabs your jaw, fingers digging hard into the soft flesh of your cheeks. His eyes are hot coals, burning into you. The muscles in his jaw twitch, nostrils flaring, breath shaky.

When he speaks, it’s through gritted teeth, “You don’t know what it’s like out there.”

“No, because you won’t let me fucking leave—”

“You should be fucking grateful, you know that? Being here is a fucking cake walk. Your mom ‘n’ I have seen things, done things—horrible things you couldn’t even imagine,” he husks, searching your face, grip tightening so hard it makes you whine. “We keep you safe, and all we ask is that you stay put and keep a lookout for us when we’re gone.”

Even if you wanted to respond, you can’t. The vice grip he has on your face renders your mouth immobile.

All you can do is stare back at him, studying his furrowed brow and clenched jaw. Full lips pinched thin as he glowers at you.

You notice how close his broad body is to yours. The heat radiating off his tightly-wound muscles onto your skin. His ragged breath scatters across your face and wafts into your open mouth. You taste the bootleg whiskey on his breath and your pulse jumps.

Warmth drips down your spine and pools at the center of you, a horrifying sensation that makes you squirm.

“Were you with your little boyfriend? Hmm?” he asks, eyes darting around your face, trailing down to your body for a moment before returning, “That boy downstairs? Figure you musta been, on account of how you’re dressed.”

You don’t say anything. You can’t. But it doesn’t matter, because it’s not really a question.

“Abandoning your post to go out and get fucked, is that it?”

A whimper slips from your throat as heat swells beneath your skin.

He wouldn’t be treating you like this if your mom was here. He wouldn’t say these things or be this close to you. Knowing this, you understand that whatever is happening right now is wrong.

You also understand that you like it.

You hate that you like it, and hate him for making you like it, but you like it all the same.

Letting go of your face, he demands, “Answer me.”

“Fuck you.”

Before you even realize what’s happening, you feel a sharp, hot sting on your cheek and yelp.

He fucking slapped you.

“Wrong answer.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you retort, bringing your hand to the welt forming on your cheek, “I’m gonna tell her.”

“Yeah? You gonna tell her I found you sneaking in at midnight, too? That you compromised our safety to go out ‘n’ get dicked down?”

You harden your gaze on him, lips pressing together with disdain.

“She wouldn’t like that, would she?” he asks, the smallest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, “She’d probably kick you out on your ass.”

“She wouldn’t. You guys need me.”

“And you need us,” he counters, searching your face, “So what do we do to make sure this doesn’t happen again? Hmm?”

A dozen inappropriate images flash through your head, each more lurid than the last. An electric, tingling feeling shoots out from the base of your spine and works through your extremities.

You swallow hard and shake your head, “I won’t do it again.”

“If I don’t punish you, you will. You’re fucking disrespectful. Selfish. You need discipline.”

Again, a flash of frustration taints the world red. Crossing your arms over your chest, you scoff, “Just because you’re fucking my mom doesn’t mean you’re my dad. I am an adult and you are not the boss of me.”

He sighs and takes a step back, planting his hands on his hips. His gaze drifts around the empty apartment, jaw gnashing back and forth for a moment before he returns to twist the deadbolt closed and grab your arm.

“What the f—” you swat at him and dig your heels into the floor, but it does nothing as he drags you by his steel grip, pulling you stumbling along behind him into the living room.

He sits on the couch and forces you to lay over his bent knees, one big hand securing your wrists behind your back while the other flattens against the swell of your ass cheek. As soon his touch leaves, it returns, a sharp snap tingling across your skin.

Shocked doesn’t even begin to describe the chaos throbbing through you.

“You’re right, you’re an adult. And I’m not your dad,” he asserts, lifting his hand. Your whole body clenches in anticipation. “But as long as you live here, I am the fucking boss of you,” he slaps your ass again, “Do you understand me?”

It surprises you when you hear yourself sob, “I’m sorry—”

He does it again and again, hissing, “Yeah, you’re fucking sorry now, aren’t you?”

Each firm slap he lays down is firm, unflinching. Ruthless.

It overwhelms your senses and becomes the only thing you feel. The universe world narrows down to just his palm on your skin. The reliable and exquisite pain ringing through you. Smack. Smack. Smack.

Every time he draws his hand back, you don’t think you can handle it again. But you do.

Soon, you start to crave the impact. His skin on your skin. You can’t feel the start or end of it. It’s just him and you. Pain and pleasure. Sobs and moans, all blended together.

Far away, you hear him chide you for not wearing underwear beneath your skirt. Then he asks, “Are you fucking enjoying this?”

Too ashamed to admit it, all you do is whimper in response.

Smack.

He sucks in breath through his teeth, then grabs the meat of your ass and rumbles, “You do, don’t you?”

When his grasp on your wrists releases, you pull your elbows beneath you and look over your shoulder at him, watching as he spreads your cheeks apart and stares down between your legs. You’re probably shiny and wet with the evidence of your desire.

His lips form an ‘o’ when he kneads you back together and spreads you apart again. The motion teases all your hungry nerves and makes you moan. It feels so fucking good.

You realize then that he’s grown stiff against your belly, hard cock leaving no mistake.

“You fucking like it, too, don’t you?” you ask him, your voice breathy and amused, “I can feel how turned on you are.”

Slipping a hand between your bodies, you press against his strained zipper. His cock jumps at the contact, and he groans, dragging his fingers through your slick lips.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, eyes fluttering closed as you nod in approval. He works your clit in steady, firm circles while you smooth your hand along the big bulge in his pants, letting out a string of whines at the bubbling pleasure inside you.

You lose yourselves here, both of you squirming and panting and petting the other. So wrapped up with how fucking good it feels that you forget to feel ashamed.

When he smacks your ass now, you croak through clenched teeth, “Fuck yes.”

He likes that you like it. You can tell by the way he groans and throbs beneath you. This knowledge inspires your pulse to pound and your muscles to tense.

“Joel,“ you whimper, opening your eyes to meet his heavy-lidded gaze, “I’m gonna fucking come, don’t stop—”

“Did I give you permission to do that?” he asks, slowing his touch to a torturous rhythm, “Did I say you could come?”

You shake your head and whine, “Please, Joel, please—”

“Are you sorry for what you did?”

“I’m sorry—”

“Are you gonna do it again?”

“No no no, I won’t, I promise, I’ll be a good girl—”

He groans, tossing his head back as you frantically rub at the bulge in his pants. Your palm chafes against the stiff denim, but you don’t stop. You would do this for eternity if it meant he’d let you find your release.

“Oh yeah, you’ll be a good fucking girl for me?” he asks, touching you just soft and slow enough to twist your nerves ragged, but keep your orgasm out of reach.

“I will, I promise. Please, Joel,” you whisper, holding his gaze as your face gets all hot, “Please make me come, please please—”

“Show me you mean it.”

He doesn’t need to explain what he means. While he takes off his jeans, you scramble off his lap and kneel between his spread knees. His eyes stay glued to yours as you slide your hands up his thighs.

Batting your lashes at him, you wrap your lips around his swollen cock. He fills your mouth. He feels smooth but hard against your tongue. He tastes salty and heady and when you inhale the musk of him, you moan around his girth.

Nodding, he anchors his grip behind your head and bucks his hips, forcing his dick down your throat. When you gag, he doesn’t let up, but thrusts into the sensation, grunting, “Fuck. Yes,” before letting you pull off, gasping for air.

You wrap your hands around him, all shiny and slick with drool, and pump his length for a moment while you catch your breath, then take him in your mouth again.

This time, you sit up taller. You relish the stretch of your lips as you bob up and down. Savor the tug of his fingers curled tight in your hair. Memorize the sound of his huffs and grunts as he fucks your face. The wet squelching gurgle of his cock squeezing down your windpipe.

“Look at me,” he orders, so you do.

He’s all blurred from your watering eyes, but you can make out the dark irises and stay locked onto them while relaxing the muscles of your throat to take him easier. When you make an enthusiastic humming noise, he groans. It’s wanton and lusty and lights a fire in your belly.

Joel has never treated you this hard or soft. His regard for you has always been callous. Closed-off. Indifferent. With your assistance on the radio, he treated you like a tool for survival. Before that, or even in-between smuggling runs, he treated you like some kind of a household pet he had little regard for. Your mom’s responsibility, never his.

For years and years, you ached for more.

When you were younger, you used to sit up nights and wonder if he’d ever consider you his daughter. He wouldn’t, though. He won’t.

But this is something.

Distinctly, you want to please him. Be the best he ever had. You want to sink your claws into his brain and leave your mark for years to come. You want him to look at you after this and feel a flicker of desire and self-loathing. You want him to think of you when he fucks your mom. You want him to hate how you made him feel.

When you pull off him and start to work his soaked length with your hands, you pant, “Does that feel good? Am I doing a good job sucking your cock?”

“It’s good,” he nods, lets out a groan that pinches his eyes shut, then meets your gaze again, “So fucking good, Jesus Christ. Is this what you were out doing tonight? Sucking cock?”

“Not tonight.”

“But he fucked you, didn’t he? That boy?”

You nod, stroking him slower. His eyelids flutter.

“Did he fuck your pussy or your ass?”

The question sends a jolt through your middle. You recall the sex you had with Bert. Barely an hour has gone by since he pulled out of your cunt to shoot his load on the mattress, but it feels like a lifetime ago.

“My pussy,” you answer, then gather a thick, hot wad of saliva on your tongue and spit on his cock. You spread it with a slow churning motion, watching Joel’s face twist up with pleasure.

“Were you bein’ smart about it at least?” he asks, studying you, “We don’t need you getting knocked up.”

“He pulled out,” you shrug.

He grunts in acknowledgment, then sits up and pulls on your arm to join him on the couch, “C’mere.”

You follow his guidance, lying back on the cushions as he strips off his shirt.

The only times you’ve seen him shirtless were accidental and slightly embarrassing for both of you. But now, you notice how his smooth chest glows in the dim light. Now, when you drink in the sight of his big arms and broad shoulders, heat bubbles up your spine.

While you pull your tank top off over your head, he tugs your skirt down your thighs, asking, “You ever taken it up the ass?”

You shake your head.

His eyebrows jump a little like he’s surprised. A sadistic kind of smirk plays across his lips as he pushes your knees up to your chest, then spreads you apart, the head of him nudging at your backdoor.

He doesn’t ask for permission. He doesn’t ask if you want it this way, or if you want him to be the first. He doesn’t even warn you about the initial shock and pain you experience when he rocks his hips forward and breaches the tight hole.

You yelp and try to lurch away from the sharp pain, but he grabs you and holds you there.

Sitting up on your elbows, you cry, “That fucking hurts, Joel.”

“Wouldn’t be much of a punishment if it didn’t hurt a little, would it?” he murmurs, disinterested, watching your asshole stretch to accommodate the head of his cock.

The sensation is overwhelming. Like being stabbed or split open. At first, you hate it. You sputter and gasp and shake your head as he pushes himself in further and further.

Then he pauses the invasion, releasing his steel grip on you to tilt your chin up and meet his gaze, “Just relax.”

His eyes burn into yours, making your pulse jump. You bear witness to his heaving chest and parted lips and feel him twitch inside you. Sparks sizzle across your body, but you still scowl at him.

“It hurts, I don’t like it.“

“It’ll get better, you just gotta relax,” he coaches.

“Why can’t we just have normal sex?”

He grunts, thinks about it for a moment, then tells you, “First off, this is not normal sex,” he points between your chest and his, “This will not be a normal thing, you understand?”

It stings a little, if you’re being honest. But you nod, “I understand.”

Nodding, he licks his lips. He throbs inside you, hips jerking a little in reaction. This time, the friction feels good enough to make you whimper.

“Second, we don’t need another mouth to feed around here,” he says, searching your face, “We’re stretched thin enough as is. You know what I mean?”

“But if you—”

“Pulling out can still stick. This way’s tried and true, trust me.”

“Trust you,” you scoff under your breath and roll your eyes.

“What’s that?”

You meet his hardened gaze, feeling emboldened enough to ask, “Do you fuck my mom in the ass?”

“That’s none of your business,” he warns.

“So, what, you can interrogate me about my sex life, but I can’t do the same?”

“That’s right,” he barks, “Know why?”

In response, you glare at him.

He takes this moment of bitter silence to drag his knuckles up your slick, swollen lips. The light touch branches out beneath your skin and makes your heart pound. You gasp a little, but try to hide it. He clocks it immediately.

“There we go,” he murmurs under his breath, almost as an aside, smoothing the pad of his thumb in soft circles on your clit. Pleasure churns beneath the touch, hot and hungry for more. When you whimper, Joel’s eyes go wild for a second, then he says, “I am the fucking boss of you, understand?”

You swallow a moan as he arches forward and starts to roll his hips. It feels better now. Good. Fucking amazing, almost. Electric and gooey. He fills you so completely with each thrust, you wonder how you can even breathe.

“So if I tell you to be home, that’s where you’ll be. If I ask you where you’ve been, who you were with, what you were doing—you tell me the truth. Understand?”

Nodding, you gasp, “I understand.”

“You don’t get to ask me about your mom. You don’t tell your mom. You don’t sneak out to go get fucked by some boy who doesn’t even know what to do with you—”

“Holy shit, Joel I’m gonna—” you gasp at the pressure building at the base of your spine, spreading thick and hot and delicious across your body.

“And you don’t come without my fucking permission. Understand?”

“I understand I understand,” you cry, literal tears burning behind your eyes at the ache of trying to keep the ecstasy at bay, “Please can I come, please please please—”

“Are you sorry?”

“I’m sorry, I’ll never do it again—”

“That’s right, you’ll never fucking do it again. Why’s that?”

“You’re the boss,” you beg, your voice so raw and pleading it sounds foreign. He pounds into you now, a wet slap that echoes off the apartment walls. It takes all your concentration to keep your pleasure contained, to not spill over the edges, but you hear yourself babble somewhere far away.

“You’re the fucking boss. I’m sorry I’m sorry I won’t disobey you again I’ll be a good girl I’ll do anything just please give me permission to come daddy please please please—”

When he moans, loud and depraved, it just about breaks you, but you manage to keep your resolve long enough for him to pant, “Go ahead, let it go.”

With a choked sob, you untether your pleasure and allow it to expand, growing hot and wide and unlike anything you’ve ever felt. Every muscle in your body tenses up as the sensation swallows you whole, then spits you back up, sending wave after wave across your body.

“That’s it, that’s a good girl,” he grunts, taking his hand from your clit to hold your knees down and fuck your ass hard and fast and ruthless.

It surprises you when heat starts stretching out from the middle of you again. Your heart starts to race as the feeling grows.

“Ffffuuuuck,” you whimper, “That feels so fucking good—”

“I told you, didn’t I?”

“You did you did holy shit,” you meet his eyes and nod frantically, “I love it I love it—please can you come in my ass?”

“Is that what you want? Want me to come in your tight little asshole?”

A feral noise escapes you, and you sob, “Yes—”

“Do you wanna come too?”

“Yes—oh my god, yes, please please please daddy—”

“Come with me, baby.”

You let the feeling overtake you again, gasping out, “thank you thank you thank you,” as it takes you strong and fast. Pleasure pulses through your body, causing you to convulse and strain against Joel’s grip spreading you open. He releases a moan from his belly and gives you a hard, deep thrust that he holds for a shuddering moment. After emptying himself inside you, he pulls out, falling back to his seat on the couch.

Chest heaving, you prop yourself up on your elbows and study him. He pinches his eyes shut and catches his breath before meeting your gaze again.

His expression goes soft long enough for something dangerous to flicker between you.

Then he turns away and starts getting dressed.

“Get yourself together, I’m gonna go get your mom.”

As you sit up, you fold your legs into your body and watch him button his shirt.

“Joel—”

He looks at you, searching your face expectantly, but your brain goes static and you’re not even sure what you were going to say.

“This stays between us, understand?”

His tone is firm but gentle. You swallow hard and nod, “I understand.”

Nodding, he glances down at your lips, then back to your eyes. He rises to his feet to leave, but before he does, he leans down to press a kiss into your forehead.

“Good girl.”

[ NEXT PART ]

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dandelionsresilience · 2 months ago

Text

whether the internet becomes an intolerable surveillance state, ubiquitous subscription model, or unusably ad- or AI-ridden shithole, I think we need to remember

how to do things offline

either on your personal hard drive (just because it’s an app doesn’t mean the information is stored in your device) or on paper. I’m not saying the collapse of the internet is imminent, and I’m not suggesting we do everything completely without technology, or even stop using it until we have to. (to be clear, I also don’t think the internet will just blink out of existence, suddenly stop being a thing at all; rather I think it might continue to lose its usefulness to the point where it’s impossible to get anything done. anyway) but some people may have forgotten how we got by before the internet (I almost have!), and the younger generation might not have experienced it at all.

I figure most people probably use the internet mainly for communication with friends and family, entertainment and creation (eg. writing), and looking up how to do things, so here’s how to do those things offline:

First and most importantly, download everything important to you onto at least one hard drive and at least one flashdrive! files can get corrupted and hardware can get damaged or lost, but as long as you keep backup copies, you have much-closer-to-guaranteed access versus hoping a business doesn’t decide to paywall, purge, or otherwise revoke your access. I would recommend getting irreplaceable photos printed as well

download and/or print/write down:

anything important to you - photos/videos, journals, certificates, college transcripts

contact info - phone numbers and/or addresses of friends/family (know how to contact them if you can’t use your favourite messaging app), doctors (open hours would be good too), veterinarians if you have pets, and work

how-to’s - recipes (one, two), emergency preparedness (what do I do if… eg. I smell gas)

other things you might google: cleaning chemicals to NOT mix, what laundry tag symbols mean, people food dogs and cats can and can’t eat, plant toxicity to pets

and know offline ways to find things out - local radio station, newspaper, a nearby highway rest area might have a region map, public libraries usually have a bunch of resources

also, those of you who get periods should strongly consider not using period tracking apps! here’s how to track your period manually

free printable period tracker templates (no printer? public libraries usually charge a few cents per page, or you can recreate it by hand)

moving on to entertainment, you can still get most media for free! it’s completely legal to download your favourite movies to your own personal hard drive, you just can’t sell or distribute copies (not legal advice)

movies: wcostream.tv (right click the player) - the url changes every once in a while but usually redirects; I recently noticed that it’s hiding a lot of movies behind “premium,” so it may or may not work anymore | download youtube videos

music: how to get music without streaming it | legal free downloads

games: steamunlocked.net - doesn’t have every game and can be slow to update, but very reliable

books: free online libraries | legal free downloads

otherwise passing time:

active outdoor games

for road trips (social verbal games)

for when power’s out

for sheltering in place (not all offline, but good ideas)

board games (often found at thrift stores)

ad-free customisable games collection (mobile)

read, write, draw, or whatever your craft is, sing, dance, clean, reorganise, take a bath

go outside - excuses include napping (if safe), eating, reading, finding cool plants/animals/rocks, playing with the dog

places to go include:

zoos and museums can be surprisingly cheap

parks and nature preserves

library, mall, or game shop

and a few miscellaneous things for good measure:

time budgeting | household management

how to use a planner | I’ve had success with visually blocked-out schedules like these

please add on if you have any other offline alternatives to common uses of the internet!

#anti capitalism #off grid #internet #technology #how to #my post

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jselectromectz · 2 years ago

Photo

#Distribution Boards and Enclosures Tanzania #Electrical Panel Builders #Electrical Panel Builders Tanzania #Electrical Distributors Tanzania #Industrial Automation Company Tanzania #Industrial Automation Controls Tanzania #Power Factor Correction Tanzania #Panel Boards Fabrication Tanzania

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stubz · 1 month ago

Text

Black out

"I want that backup generator up and running! All power on essentials only! Engines, med-bay, defenses, everything else is secondary!" the Captain roared to all those in the command room.

"Calis! What's our status?"

"Generator is 5 mekrons away from being ready, dispatch has covered 30% of the ship already and distributed lights. No report of any injuries yet, although there are several dozen passengers stuck in the elevators. We are in contact with them and they are all alright."

"And the-"

"The youngling centre is fine, Kim and Max have reported to me that they are fine as are the younglings." the first mate smiled knowingly.

"...good. Alert me should anything change."

"Of course Captain."

"10 mekrons away from the station Captain. Repair workers are already at the dock ready to board and fix our power and the station has prepared board for us."

"Excellent. Calis!"

"Yes Captain!"

"Care to join me in getting our young?" the first mate smiles and nods.

"How do you think they faired?"

"Well, it's hard to say. According to Kim and Max they have light, probably flashlights, but for the children to be stuck in a mostly dark room for 6 horvaths..." Calis shrugged.

"True...I assume that Nova is a tad nervous by now...she never liked the dark. Even if we can see well enough in the dark." Captain lightly smiled.

"I am certain that the humans have thought of something to keep her and the others calm."

"Without a doubt!" He laughed. "Probably introduced them to some new game I'll be no doubt playing for the next few weeks."

"As will I, Dali will no doubt-what on earth is that light?" as the two got closer they noticed a warm orange glow seeping out from under the door. The entrance to the youngling centre.

"...that's not a flashlight..."

"...do you smell smoke?"

The two adults looked to one another before rushing the door.

"Dali?!"

"Nova!"

"Mapa!"

"Papa! Look look! We're roasting mars-millows!"

"...Captain...Calis...care to try a marshmallow?" asked a sheepishly smiling Max.

For a moment neither the captain or first mate spoke, too confused by the sight before them. A circle of younglings sat in the middle of the centre, all of them holding out little sticks with marsh-mell-ohs on the end. In the centre sat a youngling whose head and shoulders were on fire holding his own stick and marsh-mell-oh.

"...Max, is that...is that youngling a Fyreian?" slowly asked Calis.

"Yes, yes he is."

"And are you using him...to cook?"

"...he said it was fine." the youngling in the middle of the circle of younglings eagerly nodded.

"...good to know but why are you...roasting marsh-mell-ohs on him?"

"...it was Kim's idea!"

"Hey! ...Okay yeah it was my idea and in my defense we've kept the kids busy like this about 2 hours and it was a last resort."

"...alright. Now how does one roast one of these white squishy things?"

...

"So how did you come up with this idea?" the captain asked, glancing away from his roasting marshmallow.

"Well after doing every game we could think of we had to take a break to think of what else we could do. That's when the first kid actually had time to realize that we're stuck in the dark...and then we had a mass panic."

"We tried everything to calm them down but the both of us were too tired to do that properly," winced Max apologetically. "since well, we're well past our usual shifts. But luckily Kim came up with this idea!"

"Marshmallows! Now obviously we couldn't use a real fire and we can't just let 20 kids use candles to roast them so-"

"Wait wait wait...a candle?" Calis asked.

"Yea, during blackouts I would light a candle and roast marshmallows with it."

"...carry on."

"So we decided to use Fure since he can control how hot he gets and he's easier to manage than a fire."

"Told you they would have the younglings entertained." Calis whispered to their captain who snorted.

#black out + candles + marshmallows + boredom = roasting marshmallows at the kitchen table with a candle and chopstick #was so gud #roped my mom into doing it with me #she thought i was a genius while my brother thought i was developing a marshmallow addiction #i will teach a child this #just not a young one #one that can be trusted with candles #...so probably not a child but a teenager #idk #the adventures of kim and max running a space child centre #humans are space orcs #humans are space oddities

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fans4wga · 1 year ago

Text

Writers Guild West Official: Era of Hollywood Mergers Hastened the Strike

August 10, 2023

Laura Blum-Smith, the Writers Guild of America West’s director of research and public policy, considers the strike a result of a tsunami of Hollywood mergers that has handed studios and streamers the power to its exploit workers.

“Harmful mergers and attempts to monopolize markets are a recurring theme in the history of media and entertainment, and they are a key part of what led 11,500 writers to go on strike more than 100 days ago against their employers,” Blum-Smith said on Thursday at an event with the Federal Trade Commission and Department of Justice over new merger guidelines unveiled in July.

She pointed to Disney, Amazon and Netflix as companies that “gained power through anticompetitive consolidation and vertical integration,” allowing them to impose “more and more precarious working conditions, increasingly short term employment and lower pay for writers and other workers across the industry.” But she sees revisions to the merger guidelines that address labor concerns a key part of the solution to prevent further mergers in the entertainment industry moving forward.

“The FTC and DOJ’s new draft merger guidelines are part of a deeply necessary effort to revive antitrust enforcement,” she added. “Compared with earlier guidelines, the new ones are much more skeptical of the idea that mergers are the natural way for companies to grow. And they focus more on the various ways mergers hurt competition, including how mergers impact workers.”

In July, the FTC and DOJ jointly released a new road map for regulatory review of mergers. They require companies to consider the impact of proposed transactions on labor, signaling that the agencies intend to review whether mergers could negatively impact wages and working conditions. FTC commissioner Alvaro Bedoya, who was joined by agency chair Lina Khan, said in a statement about the guidelines that “a merger that may substantially lessen competition for workers will not be immunized by a prediction that predicted savings from a merger will be passed on to consumers.” Historically, transactions have been considered mostly through the lens of benefits to consumers.

The guidelines lack the force of law but influence the way in which judges consider lawsuits to block proposed transactions. They also tell the public how competition enforcers will assess the potential for a merger’s harm to competition.

Antitrust enforcers have steadily been taking notice of negative impacts to labor as a result of industry consolidation. “We’ve heard concerns that a handful of companies may now again be controlling the bulk of the entertainment supply chain from content creation to distribution,” Khan said last year during a listening forum over revisions to the guidelines, in a nod to anticompetitive conduct by studios that led to the Paramount Decrees. “We’ve heard concerns that this type of consolidation and integration can enable firms to exert market power over creators and workers alike.”

Adam Conover, writer and WGA board member, said in that April 2022 forum that his show Adam Ruins Everything was killed by AT&T’s acquisition of Time Warner in 2018 when TruTV’s parent company forced the network to cut costs. He stressed that a handful of companies “now control the production and distribution of almost all entertainment content available to the American public,” allowing them to “more easily hold down our wages and set onerous terms for our employment.” It’s not just writers that are impacted by an overly consolidated Hollywood either, he explained. After Disney acquired 21st Century Fox in 2019, he said that the studios pushed the industry into ending backend participation and trapping actors in exclusive contracts preventing them from pursuing other work.

Blum-Smith said that aggressive competition enforcement is necessary as “Wall Street continues to push for more consolidation among our employers despite the industry’s history of mergers that failed to deliver any of the consumer benefits they’ve claimed that left writers and audiences worse off with less diversity of content and fewer choices.”

“More mergers will leave writers with even fewer places to sell their work and tell their stories and the remaining companies will have even more power to lower pay and worsen working conditions,” she warned. “Strong enforcement against mergers is essential to protect workers in media and workers across the country and these guidelines are an important step in the right direction.”

#sag-aftra strike #sag strike #actors strike #hollywood #wga strike #writers strike

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rottenpumpkin13 · 5 months ago

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What if the entire Shinra Building was suddenly left without electricity on an unbearably hot day with no backup power supplies? (the irony and absurdity of the whole situation seems kinda funny 🤭)

The Heat Wave From Hell (Literally)

• The hottest day in Midgar arrives with the worst scenario possible: all the power, including generators and backup systems, is down in the Shinra building—and in the Shinra building alone. It would be easy to leave and find another place in Midgar with air conditioning while the power gets fixed, but everyone has obligations and work that keep them there. Surprisingly, everyone is handling it well.

*Genesis walks into the SOLDIER lounge and sees everyone in various stages of suffering—with Angeal being the most prominent, since he's laying on the floor in only his uniform pants*

Genesis: Goddess, you look terrible.

Angeal: Aren't you hot?? Why are you still in full uniform?

Genesis: As if I would abandon the dress code and my gorgeous coat for a bit of mild heat. You're all overreacting.

*Kunsel passes out in the corner*

Genesis:

*Sephiroth appears out of nowhere with a watering can and pours it over his corpse*

Genesis: !?

Angeal: Sephiroth, what are you doing?

Sephiroth: Hydration is crucial in combating this heat. Not drinking enough water will lead to dehydration, which can cause dizziness, confusion, heat stroke, and eventually death.

Genesis: Oh please. That's what weak people tell themselves to make peace with the fact they can't handle a little heat.

Angeal: You're sweating, do you know that?

Genesis: You're hallucinating.

Angeal:

*Just then, Zack drags in Cloud—literally, by the legs, because the man is passed out*

Zack: Good news! I found Spike and he's just as close to dying as I said he'd be.

Cloud: My body isn't built to endure heat. Summer in Nibelheim was equal to autumn here.

*Sephiroth offers Cloud a water bottle*

Cloud: Thanks, but I don't drink water unless it's cold.

Sephiroth: Hydration is crucial in combating this heat. Not drinking enough water will lead to dehydration, which can cause dizziness, confusion, heat stroke, and eventually death.

*Cloud starts tapping his forehead*

Sephiroth: What are you doing?

Cloud: Trying to find the off button.

• Zack takes Cloud to Angeal's office since the window there is huge and allows air flow.

*Cloud is rocking back and forth*

Cloud: I can't take this much longer. I can feel my sanity slowly slipping away. Why don't we use ice materia to cool off?

Zack: Because all the materia in the building is being used by the president and the board to keep them cool.

Sephiroth, appearing in the doorway: Inequality. Unfair distribution of resources. The rich bask in their cool environment and leave the rest of us to endure unnecessary suffering.

Cloud: Where did you even come from!?

Sephiroth: Drink the w a t e r.

*Zack shuts the door*

Zack: We don't have materia, but I got the next best thing!

*Zack pulls out a container of dry ice*

Zack: Ta-da! Look at what I got from Kunsel!

Cloud: Uhh....isn't that toxic?

Zack: Huh. I don't know. I'll go ask Genesis since he knows about chemistry.

*Zack opens the door*

Sephiroth: In extreme heat conditions, dehydration can lead to serious health complications and death within a matter of—

*Zack shuts the door*

Zack: Eh, we should be fine. Hey, let's go put these in the vents and cool the place up!

Cloud: Good idea!

• The heat seems to be getting worse. Sephiroth continues to make his rounds around the SOLDIER floor, insisting that people drink water, Genesis refuses to part with his leather, and Angeal is slowly losing what little sanity he has.

Angeal: I'm sweating so much, I feel like I'm melting. I smell like a zoo. I can't wait until the tower has cold water again so I can take a cold shower.

*Sephiroth offers him a bottle of water*

Sephiroth: I believe you will benefit from drinking some water.

Genesis, hyperventilating and sweating: Well, I'm not even bothered.

Angeal: JUST TAKE THE COAT OFF

Sephiroth: Drink the water.

Genesis: NEVER

Sephiroth: Drink the water.

Angeal: YOU WILL DIE

Sephiroth: Drink the water.

genesis: FASHIONABLY AND WITH DIGNITY

Sephiroth: Drink the water.

Angeal: DON'T BE A CHIL—IF YOU DON'T GET THAT WATER OUT OF MY FACE, SEPHIROTH, I SWEAR TO GOD I'LL TIE YOU TO THE CEILING BY YOUR HAIR.

Sephiroth: ........

• Angeal can't take it anymore and leaves. He heads towards the break room, where it's so hot, people have started taking frozen items from the break room freezer and are applying them to their bodies to cool off. This angers Angeal greatly.

*Angeal watches Kunsel walk off with a pack of frozen bacon on his neck*

Angeal: Guys, I get that it's hot, but there's no need for this!

*He watches Roche walk away with a bag of frozen french fries on his head*

Angeal: This is such a waste of food!

*Cloud walks by, rubbing frozen peas all over himself*

Angeal: Cloud, don't—

Cloud: IF YOU TAKE MY PEAS I'LL KILL A MAN

Angeal:

*Sephiroth comes up to them with a knife*

Sephiroth: Hydration or castration.

Angeal: Shiva's tits.

• Zack is sure his dry ice plan is fool-proof, but he wants to consult Genesis first. So he finds him in the data room….spinning on an office chair.

*Zack walks up to Genesis*

Zack: Hey Gen, how much dry ice can I put in the vents without it becoming toxic?

Genesis: If you pour the the dry ice in your lungs it'll taste like ice cream and you can then meet the goddess in another plane.

Zack: …..what?

Genesis: The goddess won't judge you for your sins if you find a raccoon and raise it to become a race car driver.

Zack: This is bad! You're delirious from the heat!

Genesis: Sometimes I wonder how many screwdrivers it takes to bake a cake but then I remember that the mako tastes sweeter if Sephiroth spits it into your mouth like a mother bird feeding her young.

Zack: Man, I know exactly what you mean.

• Zack goes through with his plan, but as the cool air hits his face, he starts having doubts—what if the amount he put in was too much? What if he poisons everyone? Better go tell Lazard before things get out of hand.

*Zack runs up to Lazard, who's struggling to cool himself off with a small, battery-powered fan*

Zack: We have a problem! I tried to cool the entire level by placing dry ice in the vents, but I accidentally put too much and it became toxic!

Lazard: Dry ice doesn't just become toxic like that, Zack. I'm sure it's all in your head. Try to relax and handle the heat wave in a civilized manner like everyone else.

*Angeal tackles Genesis to the ground and is trying to force him out of the leather coat*

Genesis: A BEAR IS ATTACKING ME!

Angeal: TAKE THAT DAMN COAT OFF. YOU'RE GONNA HAVE A STROKE!

Genesis: A BEAR IS FORCING ME TO UNDRESS!

Angeal: YOU'RE DELIRIOUS!

*Sephiroth appears with a hose and starts spraying the two of them with water*

Lazard: When this is all over, I will be taking an extended vacation where I will try various calming, illicit substances and none of you will hear from me for six months.

Zack:

• It turns out the amount of dry ice Zack put in the vents was too much, forcing them to evacuate the entire level and regroup in the Skyview Lounge. Word is that they're working on restoring the power, but in the meantime, everyone has to wait there. Meanwhile, Zack is growing increasingly worried about Genesis, and since Angeal has washed his hands with the situation, Zack turns to Sephiroth for help.

*Zack finds Sephiroth in the crowd and runs up to him, dragging Genesis along*

Zack: We have a problem! Genesis is delirious and making no sense.

Genesis: If you grind black pepper and place it in your socks, the ground will taste like cheese when you eventually walk the path to self discovery.

Sephiroth: That's because not drinking enough water will lead to dehydration, which can cause dizziness....

*Genesis sways in place*

Sephiroth: Confusion....

Genesis: Where did we hide the pet parrot who told everyone my secrets and cooked excellent omurice?

Sephiroth: Heat stroke....

*Zack feels Genesis' forehead*

Zack: OW THAT'S HOT

Sephiroth: And eventually death.

*Genesis faints*

Zack: !!!

Sephiroth: Wow. If only we had listened to Sephiroth and DRANK THE FUCKING WATER.

Zack:

Sephiroth:

Zack: Cool your tits, man.

#storytime #ff7 #ffvii #final fantasy 7 #sephiroth #final fantasy vii #genesis rhapsodos #angeal hewley #zack fair #cloud strife #lazard deusericus #crisis core

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a34trgv2 · 5 months ago

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Why It Worked: Inside Out

Introduction: Inside Out is an animated coming-of-age film produced by Pixar Animation Studios and distributed by Walt Disney Pictures. Directed and co-written by Pete Docter, with the screenplay being co written by Meg LaFauve and Josh Cooley, the film stars Amy Poehler, Phyliss Smith, Lewis Black, Mindy Kaling, Bill Hader, Kaitlyn Dias, Diane Lane, Kyle MacLachlan and Richard Kind as Joy, Sadness, Anger, Disgust, Fear, Riley, her parents Bill and Jill, and Bing Bong respectively. Released on June 19, 2015, the film was a major box office success grossing $858.8 million on a budget of $175 million. It also received critical acclaim from critics and audiences alike. According to Rotten Tomatoes, out of the 384 reviews aggregated, 98% gave a positive review with an average rating of 8.9/10. It also received numerous awards, including an Oscar for Best Animated Feature, several Outstanding Achievement Awards at the Annies, a Golden Globe for Best Animated Feature, and a Critic's Choice Movie Award for Best Animated Feature. It is often seen as a culturally significant film for mental health and the importance of expressing one's emotions. I saw this film for my birthday back in 2015 and I loved it right out of the gate. After multiple rewatches over the years, I stand by my personal opinion that this is a masterpiece of animation and visual storytelling. I'm overjoyed to talk about this film now that it finally has a sequel out.

The Plot: This film has 2 stories that are interconnected to one another, taking place in the mind of an 11 year old girl. On the outside, it's a bout a kid moving to a new city and being overwhelmed by the sudden changes happening all at once. On the inside, it's about Joy and Sadness trekking through Riley's mind, while along the way understanding each other's importance. Together, they create a very unique and engaging plot about growing up and learning to express yourself. The film brilliantly cuts between Riley, Joy and Sadness' journey, and what's happening at HQ to organically show what Riley's feeling and how her actions have psychological consequences. In addition to having powerful gut punching drama, it's also a very funny film with plenty of slapstick, goofy gags, and impressive word play that always gets me to belly laugh. Michael Giacchino also provides an enchanting, dreamlike score with great use of the piano and brass sections. The true highlight of the story is, of course, Pixar's masterfully crafted and innovative animation. The film makes Riley's mind so vibrant and expansive with Dream Productions and Imagination Land being major highlights. The outside world also looks very well done with the people looking very appealing, San Francisco looking grimy yet lived in, and Riley's old home in Minnesota looking very welcoming and colorful. Speaking of color, the use of colors in this film is nothing short of excellent from the radiant colors of Riley's memories, to Riley's clothes reflecting her current state of mind throughout the film. I also love how they use black and gray to represent faded memories and lack of emotion. If there's one word to describe Inside Out's story and animation, it's colorful.

Cast and Characters: This is an outstanding cast they brought on board for this film. Shout outs to the film's casting directors Natalie Lyon and Kevin Reher for picking out some excellent actors. Amy Poehler was phenomenal as Joy, perfectly capturing her bubbly and eccentric personality while also naturally showing her vulnerability and frustrations. Phyliss Smith sound perfectly dower and soft spoken as Sadness, yet at the same time making her sound so innocent and relatable. Lewis Black was the best match for Anger, making him sound crusty, cynical, and having a short fuse. Mindy Kaling brought in the right amount of sass and pettiness as Disgust and her comradery with the other emotions was brilliant. Bill Hader did a great job making Fear funny and relatable as a character. Kaitlyn Dias also deserve major props for her vocal performance as Riley, making her sound like a soft spoken but fun kid who goes through a great character arc in the film. Lastly, Richard Kind was the absolute surprise standout of the cast as Bing Bong as not only did he do a great job making him funny, but also made him relatable, selfless, a bit of an airhead, but also really resourceful. The cast did such a great job bringing these characters to life, with all of them being iconic and memorable in their own way.

Where It Falters: Outside of maybe adding another scene or 2 with Riley's life in Minnesota, I wouldn't change a thing with this film. It's one of those films where the only nitpick I have is I wanted more. Fortunately, that's remedied with the existence of the 2024 sequel. Coming out a couple years sooner wouldn't have been so bad either, but like I always say, quality>quantity.

Conclusion: There are a select few movies I consider to be a masterpiece. Inside Out is most certainly one of those movies. With outstanding writing, iconic characters, wonderful voice acting, masterfully crafted animation, and an enchanting score, it has more than earned its cultural significance. I cannot recommend this film enough, especially for those who struggle with expressing themselves such as yours truly. I promise this film will speak to you as it has for me after all these years. Thanks so much for reading and I'll see you soon ;)

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whereserpentswalk · 6 months ago

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You've been on a generational ship your entire life. There's about a million people on the ship, the population doesn't grow or shrink at all. Your entire life is and will be defined by a limited amount of room, a small space, barely large enough for everyone there to fit, that has become your entire world.

The humans that exist on generational ships are very alien to the humans that exist on planets. Your job is to maintain the ship and carry the culture of humanity but you don't need a human lifestyle to do it. Because reproduction needs to be done through artificial wombs all humans are neutered, with sterile sexless bodies. Everyone's job is determined by ship authority, and very dark things happen to those not able to perform some sort of duty. People spend the first fifteen years of their lives in virtual reality, learning about humanity in a simulation until they're ready to live as adults. Everything is so alien from the earth that you read about in books.

It wouldn't be so hard if society wasn't meant to resemble earth, meant to resemble the most conservative and traditional of earth. The American flags hanging up on the walls, despite everyone alive on board having never known America. The way the pods you live in have astroterf lawns, and fake blue skies painted above them, and the facades of American suburban homes. The way resources a distributed from things meant to look like family run stores, despite the monolithic power behind the economy. Even as monolithic as station authority is it still must dress as democracy, and must preach capitalism in a world with no markets, and patriotism in a world with no nations.

Despite your sexless body you're not free of performing gender. You wear dresses over your breastless neutered body, are expected to act feminine, to carry gender rolls into the planet you're going to. Your husband is expected to do the same for maleness. You love him but your situation feels like a performance with no audience. Despite having neither the instinctual desire nor the physical apparatus to you try to be physically intimate with him, it's what everyone does with their spouse, it would be weird not to.

Space isn't as empty as earth thought it would be. There are things that lurk in the void between stars. Nobody fully knows what they are, where they come from, even if they all come from the same place. Sometimes they put the ship in danger, sometimes the authorities make deals with them. But nobody is allowed to know. You're just all told to be afraid of them but not understand why you have to be afraid. The nightmares between stars aren't delt with with knowledge but with ignorance, they do seem creepy from the little you've seen of them but everyone kind of knows their power is being used for something by the station. Patriotism is always helped by having monsters beyond your borders.

Your entire you've dreamed of blue skies and stars and fields and forests and oceans and all those pretty things you've never seen, that you never will see. People always dream of being so high ranking they'll have access to suspended animation and life extension technology, but so few ever reach that rank. You've read all the classics they allow, read Dante, and Milton, and Homer, tried to let poetry bring you to earth but that planet is alien to you now. Sometimes you wonder what it would be like if you weren't raised in a world that copied earth, if you were accepted as a member of a race that lives on a ship, that exists so liminally. Would there still be such a longing. Mabye you shouldn't have been expected to meet a standard from another world. Mabye you weren't born to long for anything. Does it scare you to think you wouldn't want earth if they didn't tell you to?

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possumcollege · 8 months ago

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NOBODY needs to be defending these people. Major publishers, studios, streaming services, Tesla, Apple, Adobe, Amazon, social media companies- there isnt a single altruistic bone caught in their teeth. Profit from the output of exploited and captive labor IS their product now. When their contacts look like the one in question, the company is clearly stating that shareholders are the customers, not us!

Why else would it be anything but a stupid idea for Amazon to just nuke the majority of Comixology's self-published titles when they consolidated their services? If our experience was really foremost in their minds, why would they repeatedly purge, censor, demonitize, bury, and delete popular accounts with robust followings if not to allay the moral brainworms of shareholders and investors?

Forfeiting rights to our IP is not a "shitty deal," it's surrendering any potential ability to make money off of your own creative work. It's selling your property to a board of accountants to pitch into a portfolio. It's theirs to trot out as long as it's profitable and bury the instant its projected profit dips too close to the cost of maintenance. Hell, we've seen services drop popular series just because their projected profits started to flatten out! Mothballing it also has the added bonus of removing it from the market to further minimize potential competition. Like how there just weren't spider man movies for ages because the owner of the property didn't think it was worth developing but worth too much to sell.

They will make more money from suing you for trying to reclaim IP they mothballed than you did selling it to them in the first place. I guaranteee their budget for lawsuits is a lot deeper than the one they pay their "original" artists from.

By virtue of being a big, profitable, corporation, "their" IP is going to have an astronomically higher value in a court of law than any individual creator. The financial "damage" will be higher for infringing on their copyrights than any amount you can claim on your own. When it becomes theirs, their connections, their infrastructure, their reputation makes it an asset with much more value than you or I can possibly claim. So if you try to steal a bite back from them it's a bite of a *potentially* multimillion-dollar series. In their eyes, they bought the totality of your work, which you agreed was worth the price they gave you. It's value becomes more dependent on who owns it than whether it's even good.

You may not have the same potential to become flash-in-the-pan, short-term succesful without their resources, but you will still own your rights to distribute, alter, preserve, promote, and negotiate your share if you still own your work. That is worth everything as a creator who is passionate about what you've made and committed to protecting it.

The most effective power we can exercise as artists is our ability to say, "no" when someone else wants to pay us a disadvantageous fraction of our worth. You may lose potentially lucrative opportunities but "opportunities" presented by companies like Facebook or Twitter, whose real product is a platform for ads and data collection, with content as bait, are not opportunities to thrive on as independent artists. This specifically is an opportunity for the company to acquire property.

The myth that the publisher's strength is something for us to exploit, without them getting the lion's share is a trap that they feed from at will.

People like the poster up top are opportunists who see the process as a pipeline towards trading low-investment content for financial treats and maybe a share of ad revive. They're stalking horses for companies to exploit more talented but less experienced artists who are facing a daunting and overwhelming market where their work becomes harder and harder to show, let alone sell. A quick deal may feel like a win but it's selling the cow to save money on bottling the milk. Artists like this serve the publisher by making it seem like signing away your rights are just a necessary part of the game. However it's a game they are playing with exceedingly cheap stakes that weren't going to succeed on their own merit. So what if Mr. Business Perspective loses rights to his sexy Mario Bros. parody to a huge company? The point was always to unload it because it's a product, a bartering chip, a trinket. He's a Business Man, so he sees tactics that maximize profits to the business as maximizing their ability to buy whatever shiny tripe he cranks out. The business is his customer, not the reader. The business is his ally, not the creative community. Fuck him and fuck anyone who tells you the exposure is worth a damn if you don't retain rights to your work.

#comics #rant

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monstersdownthepath · 1 month ago

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Herald of Asmodeus: Basileus

CR 15

Lawful Evil Medium Outsider

Inner Sea Gods, pg. 278 (though the picture is from Council of Thieves: Mother of Flies, pg. 79

Yes, Medium sized. You see, Basileus is NOT the terrifying, diabolic apparition with multiple snakes emerging from it, but the tiny figure settled in its ribcage. Crafted from the very essence of Hell itself to fill Asmodeus’ lofty expectations--expectations which spelled death for at least six other Heralds before--Basileus represents the power of Hell incarnate, which includes the ability to cow any lesser being nearby into submission with nothing but a look. While his Veil of Forms normally keeps his true nature hidden from onlookers and makes him look attractive to anyone who can see him, he can raise or drop this comforting veil as a free action to wreak unholy terror on everyone that draws too close... but we’ll get to that later. First, a bit of background!

Basileus (or “Basil,” as I’ll be calling him from here on out) is Asmodeus’ perfect doll, crafted from Hell’s essence and, some say, the best parts of his past Heralds, all of whom disappointed him in some fashion. For a tyrant who desires absolute control, the only solution he would accept is the creation of a being who would follow his orders without question, hesitation, or creative interpretation. Basil does exactly as Asmodeus commands, following orders in accordance with both their spirit and letter with an efficiency that rivals machines, and thankfully for the mortal plane, these orders usually have him serving as an envoy and diplomat between Asmodeus and other powers across the Great Beyond. He is explicitly stated to rarely ever step onto the Material Plane, and even then only long enough to complete a task which directly benefits Hell and its infernal master. He tolerates mortals in the same way a sculptor tolerates dust and stone shards all over the floor, in that dealing with them is a side-effect in the process of creating something worthwhile, but they’re ultimately waste to be brushed aside and disposed of the instant the main project is finished, and certainly nothing to cozy up to and talk with. Basil’s contempt for mortals is one of his most famous aspects, to the point that even Asmodeus’ own followers hesitate to beseech their god for his Herald’s assistance, seeing the diabolic abomination as a last resort despite the power he offers his summoners, which includes the ability to grant a Wish once a day... but only for a mortal.

There is some delicious irony in Basileus having the most powerful spell available to him 1/day, a power no other Herald approaches, but he can only use it on the very mortals he despises. No matter how pitiful their lack of imagination or careless their wording, this power belongs to them. Unfortunately, he’s quite clever in manipulating people into getting what he wants out of their wishes, and only grants them in accordance with Asmodeus’ desires anyway, so the irony isn’t AS delicious as it could be.

Despite being a glorified mailman in terms of purpose, Basil nonetheless embodies perfection in every respect, both physical and mental: He possesses the strength to bend iron with his bare hands (26), arrow-dodging levels of dexterity (22), an indestructible constitution (25), staggering intellect (26), and enough charisma to clash with the most boisterous personalities and lay them low at his feet (25). The only stat of his that’s lower than 20 is his Wisdom, sitting at a 19. While many Heralds have one or two of his stats beaten out, no other Herald has such towering ability scores across the board, truly showing off Asmodeus’ craftsmanship... pity that he falls short in many other areas including, ironically, his hit dice. Though he has a nearly-unequaled stat distribution, he actually has less HD than the average Herald at 16, whereas most have 17 or 18 (though Sunlord Thalachos and the Menotherian both have 15 for whatever reason).

Of course, such flaws in his form aren’t evident to anyone not looking directly at his statblock. To everyone in-universe, Basileus is something like an advancing wall of death, something to be desperately avoided at all costs, because coming too close to the Herald of Hell may see one slain before they can even draw their weapon.

As previously mentioned, Basil normally hides behind a Veil of Forms, a specialized illusion which makes him look attractive to whomever is looking at him, regardless of their individual tastes and preferences. If he cannot be attractive then he will appear powerful instead, and oftentimes he combines the two... just not intentionally. Basil has no control over what onlookers see, nor does he gain any supernatural insight into whatever they’re seeing, and truth be told he doesn’t really care (if he did, he has a +23 Sense Motive to try and hash it out). The more important part is what happens when he drops his veil.

Basil can raise or lower his veil as a free action on his turn with no limit, allowing him to lower it and expose his true, diabolic form just enough to focus his crushing Gaze onto a creature within 30ft before raising it when that poor victim drops to the floor, dead as a doornail. You see, any being subjected to his Gaze must succeed a DC 25 Will save or be subjected to the illusory sight of the most terrifying thing they can possibly imagine, a sight so overwhelmingly horrifying that any creature with 6 HD or fewer is slain instantly if they fail the save, while everything above the threshold becomes irrationally panicked for 2d4 rounds if they fail, and REGARDLESS if they pass or fail, victims take 6d6 points of damage from the strain of seeing their worst fears brought to life before them. While he normally uses this power to snuff out a select creature like a candle, in pitched combat he can simply leave the veil down, blasting everyone around him constantly as long as they keep looking at him; the damage and panic recur every round a creature remains within 30ft of the Herald of Hell while also looking at him, as there is no 24 hour immunity clause.

You may notice a couple harsh limits to this otherwise overwhelming power: A strict 30ft limit, and victims must be able to see him. So long as you’re either keeping your distance or keeping your eyes closed, his terrifying gaze can’t affect you, and he lacks any ability which explicitly punishes a creature trying to blind-fight him like Sneak Attack... though this isn’t to say that the embodiment of Asmodeus’ will can be beaten by simply closing one’s eyes, no. He has plenty of other tricks up his horrible, horrible sleeves.

First and foremost is his least impressive aspect, his melee: Basil can cause horrible wounds to open up on any creature he touches, inflicting 1d8+8 damage. This is less than impressive, especially when stapled to his Medium-sized frame, but he has other options. Five of them, in fact! When his veil is down and his true diabolic body is exposed, he produces five additional, monstrous limbs which can slam anything within 15ft of him for 1d8+8 damage each, making his melee offense much scarier. However, this isn’t where he truly shines. No, his magic is the scariest thing about him.

As a being of illusions, Basil has quite the menagerie of illusion spells. At-will, he can use False Vision to prevent people from scrying on him or anyone he’s talking to, Mirage Arcana to shape the terrain to his liking, and Persistent Image for basically whatever distraction he needs. At 3/day, he can use Phantasmal Killer to terrify someone outside his 30ft aura of terror to death, but more dangerously he can use Greater Invisibility 3/day, which prevents him from using his lethal gaze but combines in a bad way (for everyone else) with his supernatural 60ft flight speed, his natural +25 to Stealth, and the rest of his offensive prowess, mainly consisting of his melee slams and his at-will Scorching Ray for any distant foes.

Cheating is only fun when the devil does it, so of course Basil can both Greater Teleport at-will and use Ethereal Jaunt 3/day BUT he has Dimensional Anchor to prevent anyone else from doing it. Likewise, all of his illusory power can be defeated with True Seeing, so he has THAT available at 3/day, and Greater Dispel Magic besides to destroy whatever spells or effects he cannot maneuver around. It’s especially fun to shuck buffs off anyone trying to fly up and harm him or use spells to make themselves immune to fear (his Gaze is a mind-affecting fear effect, so immunity to fear prevents the entire thing!), fire, or poison.

Poison? Oh yes. I forgot to mention the poison, didn’t I? It’s the very first spell you’d see in his statblock, as well! Cloudkill. At-will. The mist covering alone would be valuable enough, but the poisonous cloud slaughters anything too low-HD for him to care about in a single breath while sapping 1d4 Constitution slowly but surely out of everything else. Immune to poison himself (and Fire, but that’s besides the point), Basil can spray Cloudkill in every direction and even in his own space without fear every single round, and it makes trying to fight him through his Greater Invisibility all the more dangerous, as the twisting mists further hide his movements. And as mentioned, he enjoys cheating, which is why he has Blind-Fight for himself when he battles in his own poisonous clouds, giving him a much higher chance to actually connect with his melee or Scorching Rays than he’d otherwise have.

Basileus is a terrifying and potentially frustrating foe, often able to spell the end of a battle as a free action just by lowering his veil and blasting the entire party with 2d4 rounds of panic and 6d6 irresistible, typeless damage which will continue to grind down anyone not completely immune to fear. Then, when everyone is fleeing screaming from the awful thing, he fills their spaces with Cloudkill, blasts them with Phantasmal Killer or Scorching Ray, or simply LEAVES with his teleport or jaunt. The guy is a jerk, but you have to admire his efficiency; every other Herald needs at least one standard action on their turn to send the whole party packing!

You can read more about him here.

#monster spotlight #CR 11 to 15 #Horrible Heralds Month #Pathfinder #Dungeons and Dragons

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