#rbv

[refeita]

i see right through me

a vida me ensinou a ser vazia às vezes, antes que pudesse entender que fui cheia. volto no tempo velejando em memórias que me são caras morrendo de medo de esquecer os rostos, esquecendo vez por outra. tenho em mim as digitais de todos aqueles que se foram, para longe ou para outro plano, cheia de calor humano alheio. não o meu. as pessoas me olham e tenho medo que vejam o que a solidão faz com uma menina sem mãe, a menina que jogou terra sobre o último sinal de amor primordial sem derramar mais que uma lágrima. guardei minhas cascatas para o privado, para quartas-feiras cinzentas depois que todos já haviam ido embora e só restava eu e meus próprios braços envolvendo o corpo. as mãos frias, os pulmões cheios de ar e a mente desligada. é um trabalho diário construir em sua homenagem enquanto tento destruir as amarras que me ensinou a ter, produzir uma herança maior que a dor e o sofrimento vindo de alguém que tinha os olhos carinhosos mais quentes que conheci. os anos se somam no calendário e não lembro mais como era ter sua presença em casa. pintamos as paredes, mudamos os lençóis e trocamos as janelas; fugimos de lembrar do que doía no fundo da alma, mas agora nos afasta de rememorar o que esvanece com o tempo. não lembro mais seu timbre, ainda que consiga imitar sua caligrafia tão parecida com a minha. não sei mais o que diria frente as situações porque se foi quando ainda era uma menina assustada, não me viu virar uma mulher aterrorizada pela perspectiva de não ser o que você gostaria que eu fosse. me recuso admitir em voz alta que é pesado carregar todos esses vazios que silenciam o mundo, não ouso dizer em prosa alguma que nas paredes das minhas ruínas estão gravadas suas palavras passadas. eu me esforço para não ser só uma menina sem mãe, mais uma moça perdida na estação central olhando a porta se abrir, para não ser sozinha entre aqueles que querem abraçar minha alma. entretanto, você sabe, onde quer que esteja, que eu ainda sou uma menina. eu ainda não tenho mãe e eu continuo tentando me agarrar às suas memórias com unhas pequenas de criança, sangrando, enquanto sinto você sumir.

[oceanstriology]

Querido diário

Escrevo algo vazio

Minto que não azio

Novamente pelo átrio

Perdido por esse pátio

Represento um falso marido

1 % de amor com o ódio escondido

Um dia terei de escolher

Se eu pudesse parar de ser

Só o mais cego é capaz de ver

O melhor soldado a se abster

Um império de maldade

Trocado por uma frase

Tocado por um frade

Fico rico e com a amizade.

[gnfountains]

these photos are so funny. there's certain people on twitter who'd kts over these images

[starrieart]

eceeef

[nosbastidoresdopier]

Atletas de Penha garantem pódio na Corrida RBV em Brusque

Com a participação de 2 mil pessoas, a Corrida RVB, disputada na cidade de Brusque no último domingo (17), teve atletas penhenses no pódio. Dylan Schaefer, de 17 anos, participou da prova de 3km e garantiu a segunda colocação geral, com o tempo de 10 minutos e 18 segundos. Já o atleta Sandro de Novaes, de 40 anos, participou da prova de 14 km registrando o tempo de 54 minutos e 58 segundos,…

[moonridge]

ooc: thinking about how despite how animated ozus can be sometimes their voice is usually relatively monotone.

[gutsby]

Cowboy Killers

Pairing: Cowboy!Joel x Reader

Summary: On a mission to find—and fight—your best friend’s lying, cheating boyfriend at the bar, you end up throwing your drink in the wrong face and landing in a sticky situation with Joel Miller, who never plays fair.

Warnings: 18+. Drunk-Assholes-to-Enemies-to-Lovers. Oral (m!receiving). Road head. Age gap. Daddy kink.

Note: My favorite sub-genre of country music is ‘I’m Gonna Fucking Kill My Husband,’ and I think Miranda Lambert’s ‘Gunpowder & Lead’ is a perfect representation of that.

Word count: 4.1k

Forgive and forget.

Forgive and forget.

Forgive and—

“I’m about to lay this motherfucker out,” you announced.

Across the line, your friend laughed.

“Yeah? You see him?”

Of course you saw him. Who else would be wearing a Carhartt flannel and jeans in ninety-four degree heat? Not a soul in this world but your friend’s own lying, piece of shit, hopefully-soon-to-be-ex boyfriend, you guessed.

The game that Old Fuckstick Miller had decided to play tonight was a dangerous one—he was dumb as shit, and you were drunker than a skunk. He was dating your best friend, and she was not present at the Tipsy Bison to see the barefaced clusterfuck taking place before you now.

She was home, over thirty minutes away. He had told her that morning he would be working late, and not to wait up. You were here, at the bar, approaching one A.M. with a Redbull Vodka clenched in either fist and a Texas-sized frown on your face, seeing the very same man with his hands all over a woman that wasn’t your friend. You’d wanted to puke as soon as you saw them. You knew you could never trust a man who claimed to be an Austin native and couldn’t name a single George Strait song.

Your friend had only been dating the guy for a month, and you’d just seen his face in pictures up until now, but from what you could see less than twenty feet in front of you—slightly blurred from all the drinks you’d had—this guy was him. A dick. There, cheating on your best friend.

And no man would get to do that and walk out unscathed if you had anything to say about it.

Your grip tightened on either one of your fizzy drinks and, barely managing to cradle the phone between your head and your shoulder, you gestured over to another friend.

“Dave. Take it,” you said, words slurring a little.

Dave York cocked an eyebrow but said nothing as you passed him one of your RBVs and shimmied off the barstool. By the time he was able to pose his question, your ass, your phone, and your one remaining drink were already wobbling the other way. Vaguely, you heard him:

“Where ya headed, hon?”

You turned and raised your drink, then seriously doubted he would be able to hear you over the blare of the music, but yelled back anyway, ‘I’M GONNA KILL SOMEONE!’

The age-old pro-forgiveness aphorism continued to thump in your brain as you made your way over and began to contemplate every feasible method of murder.

A gun in the face would’ve been too simple—and besides, you’d never owned or shot a firearm in your life.

Poison could be fun, but from the way you were approaching the man now, you seriously doubted he’d ever let you get within a mile of his drink. You nudged the phone closer to your ear and took a sip from your own.

“Closing in,” you told your friend simply.

She’d already given you the go-ahead to execute the confrontation and beat his ass any way you pleased after the fact. Now it wasn’t so much a matter of ‘if’ but ‘when’ you’d finally get to encroach on this little loved up scene at the other end of the bar. The man had had his back turned to you, and the stunning redhead hanging off his neck, likewise, had no idea what was coming. You smiled.

“Promise you won’t go to jail this time?” your friend said.

“Will you bail me out again if I do?” Your grin got bigger.

“Well, duh.”

“Good deal. I’ll be the shitfaced inmate with ‘Fuck Men’ tattooed on her forehead. Wait for Travis County to call.”

“I love you, psycho.”

“Love you more.”

You ended the call.

And you were fully ready to end this man’s life when you saw him lean in to kiss the woman’s neck—that was sick.

You weren’t thinking straight. You weren’t seeing straight

You yelled out, ‘He-e-e-ey, honey!’ without blinking.

The couple turned.

As soon as the man had done a full 180, you flung your drink in his face and made sure the cup struck his nose.

“You cheatin’ FUCK!”

He flinched, sprayed by your vodka-infused energy juice.

The music overhead was loud, but not so deafening as to prevent the bar from hearing your shriek. From the front of the room, a band was playing ‘Gunpowder & Lead,’ and you couldn’t help but feel the song had been fate.

“What the f—” the adulterer started, evidently stunned.

You knocked the Shiner Bock out of his hand and spat:

“Working late, are we?!”

And spilled another patron’s beer reeling back.

“Got a little caught up on the way home?”

Gesturing toward the green-eyed beauty to his left. At first, the girl fixed her stare on you as if you’d sprouted another head, but then, by turns, she was tilting it to him.

“You have a girlfriend?” she hissed.

Cheater McFuckstick was wiping his beard with his hand

Shaking his head.

“Hell no, I ain’t never—”

“LIAR!”

Channeling your inner Representative Wilson circa 2009, you let your mouth fall open and stared at the big, burly man like the Congressman had once done to President Obama all those years ago. The semi-stranger in front of you was far less composed than his political counterpart.

“What the fuck is your problem?!” he snapped.

You felt your cheeks heat up.

“Is she your girlfriend?” would-be mistress said, shrill.

“NO!” you and been-knew asshole yelled together.

You saw the man’s nostrils flare, and at the same time, the woman beside him departed. Quickly. A few people around you cleared the way, while others still stared, gawked, and murmured amongst themselves. The Miranda Lambert cover band continued on without a hitch, though you could tell there had been a stir in the crowd. They probably thought the worst of it was over.

They thought wrong.

“You’re a dick,” you seethed, unrelenting.

You almost expected the man to turn and leave.

You thought wrong.

“You’re a cunt.”

And the man chucked a stray whiskey sour in your face.

The $15 spirits splattered on your skin like the meanest insult of all. His aim was better. Though he didn’t let go of the cup, as you had with him, he did make sure to coat the whole of your twisted look with the liquor, and once it landed, he had had the nerve to do something else, too.

He brought the glass to his lips then drank what was left.

“How’s it feel?” he sneered.

You stood in wet, sticky silence for half a second; arguably, you’d earned that cocktail to the face.

On the other hand, who the fuck did he think he was?

You grabbed a random can of Keystone Light and flung it at his chest to give him a hint—and catch him off-guard.

“You’re a bitch, Tommy Miller!”

“Wh—”

“Maria’s my best friend, you absolute f—”

“What—”

“—and you cheated on her for what? All so she—”

“What did you just call me?!”

“A BITCH!”

“No, the NAME!”

“TOMMY MILLER!”

“I’M JOEL!”

Oh.

Oh.

You and Joel were shortly escorted out of the bar.

Joel’s name, and a trace of bourbon, were still fresh on your tongue when you found yourself stranded in the middle of the Tipsy Bison parking lot two minutes later. You leaned into a car beside you and held your stomach.

“Someone drop you on the head as a baby?” Joel barked.

Presently, for you, the world was tilting sideways, and your head was throbbing at a nauseating tempo.

“Go around slingin’ drinks at any old man you—”

Green. Green must’ve been the color of your face as you braced your hands on your knees and assumed a stance as if to scream at the ground. Rather than expecting any noise to ring out, though, you had only to squeeze your eyes shut and hold onto a hunch for something much less pleasant. And viscous.

Reeking mostly of Red Bull and regret, if you had to guess.

Joel took a big step back, and then he took another.

“Da-a-adgummit, girl, what the—”

He turned away just in time to miss the sight of you emptying your guts on the ground, but not quite fast enough to be spared the sounds of you retching. They were loud. Joel Miller was known to be a largely imperturbable force around these parts, but even he was made to feel queasy hearing that. Out of habit, he clapped his hand to his own gut and stumbled off. He stared at the bar, then at his car, then at the gravel crushed under his feet for what felt like the longest time. Then his gaze lingered to his lower half, and he thought:

‘Please, please don’t gimme no daughters. Please.’

He was forty-five. The time for making babies and raising daughters to be anything like a woman of your ilk was probably long past him. All the same, he kept his gaze on his crotch and sighed. Balls, you better not betray me.

When he heard the crunch of rocks, he turned around.

“HEY!”

Oh, no. No. Not tonight.

You were staggering to your car, keys in hand.

“Hey!” Joel called again, jogging after you.

It seemed the second shout had done him no more favors than the first. You were fumbling to get the key inside the door, and you looked as determined as ever.

Over your shoulder, you tossed back, careless:

“You ain’t the boss of me, Tommy Miller.”

You got the key to turn. You opened the door. You were just about to climb inside what looked to Joel to be the ugliest Dodge Ram pickup he’d seen in his life, when he grabbed your arm.

“It’s Joel,” he growled. Pinching your elbow tight as he tugged it back, “And you ain’t driving anywhere tonight.”

Somewhere in front of him, tilted away from his line of vision, you must’ve been grinning, because the next thing he heard from you was the scoff of a laugh.

“Oh yeah?”

Joel flipped you around to face him.

“Yeah,” he snapped.

Feeling a bit like a kid for mimicking your tone.

What were you, twenty-two? Twenty-three? You couldn’t have been a patron of a place like Tipsy Bison for very long, or else he would’ve recognized you tonight.

Then again, you struck him as the type to have had a fake ID since you were fifteen, so he really couldn’t know.

“I’m twenny-wuh-un,” you slurred up at him, exaggerated, once he’d made you step down from the running board and onto the ground. Answering his last unspoken question with the same, sleepy grin as before. Then lifting one of your hands to wag a finger in his face, “I can drink legal anywhere I want to in this country.”

“Not there,” Joel nodded to the interstate.

You looked to where he’d gestured and whistled. Standing and staring, like he had done to his crotch.

“Well fuck me-e!” you said next, dragging out the sound a childish amount, “You the law or somethin’, Mr. Joel?”

“Ain’t no cop.” Joel rolled his eyes.

You kept smiling. Then you turned on your heels.

And instead of trying to climb back into your truck, you sauntered off—in what direction, Joel couldn’t tell. You were more so bumbling about, turning in circles like the world’s most scantily-clad, semi-intoxicated ballerina. And then you stopped. You put your hands on your hips.

“‘Cause I’m the law,” you resumed in a slow, deliberate drawl. The twang you used was mostly feigned, “And you cain’t beat the law. Don’t nobody get away with that, not even a bunch’a Alabama smart alecks, believe you me.”

Joel didn’t know what the fuck you were talking about. The man was Texas born and bred, and you knew it.

He communicated as much by pinning you with a wide, bewildered stare, and something in that seemed to amuse. You stared back, making your eyes bug out too.

“It’s a quote from a movie,” you said, after a beat, “You’ve never seen Fried Green Tomatoes before?”

Joel couldn’t say that he had.

Joel reckoned there was a lot more than just movies he didn’t share in common with you. Miss Twenty-One. Barely a year past the age he’d been when he’d moved out of the house and tried to make a living on his own.

This woman, this girl he saw twirling out in front of him now probably couldn’t pour piss out of a boot with the instructions written on the heel if he’d asked you to. Joel shook his head and moved his feet, frown etching deep.

“Alright, princess. Up.”

You didn’t seem to understand, until he’d lifted you. Up.

You were thrown over his shoulder and carried to a truck much nicer than yours in less than fifteen seconds or so.

“Stinks in here,” you said as soon as he’d set you down.

Then, sniffing the air—and grinning:

“Aw, hell, Miller…you smoke?”

Joel wished he’d said no.

Wished he’d rolled his eyes and told you to pipe down, stop asking him questions. It would’ve made the drive a whole lot easier, and more peaceful. Nowhere near as painful, either, if he were being perfectly honest—the strain in his jeans had already gotten to be more than he could bear, and all you’d asked for was a pack of smokes.

“They call ‘em Cowboy Killers,” you said, matter-of-fact.

“I know what they’re called,” Joel grumbled in reply. Flicking the radio on and hoping to find a tune that would drown out the too-lovely, cloying voice you’d assumed as soon as you thought you might win a cigarette off of him. More chatty now than ever.

And for one, blissful moment, Toby Keith had you beat. The calm was fleeting. As soon as ‘Who’s Your Daddy’ started to drift through the car’s old speakers, you reached across and turned the knob to the left.

“Gross,” you muttered.

“What?”

“Got a light?”

“Blow me.”

Joel’s harsh, clipped tone was deliberate. The way he’d made himself mean—meaner than he’d been around a woman in a long, long time—was a choice. He couldn’t let your faux sweetness win him now. Not after you’d thrown two drinks in his face, mocked his truck, and foreclosed any possibility of getting laid by way of all your publicized infidelity philippics and shit-talking. Giving in to your charms from where you sat in the passenger seat now would only sink him further in his own esteem. Simply put, Joel’s ego couldn’t take it.

“Okie doke,” you said presently. Shrugging.

“Now keep your—HEY!”

Joel nearly swerved his truck off the road and into a ditch. Your deft little hands had slipped into his lap—and started palming his crotch through the denim.

He’d just managed to right the vehicle before jerking a look your way, staring at your hand, then your face:

“What the fuck was that?!”

“You said ‘blow me,’ Joel!” you huffed, and you seriously appeared as distraught as he was, “Sorry for listening!”

Joel grit his teeth with all the force of a cold steel trap.

“You’re fuckin’ nuts.” He gripped the wheel even tighter.

“I’m aware.”

“Where the hell do you live, anyway?”

You told him.

Your hand slipped down to the seat beside him.

And just as Joel let out what felt like the tiniest sigh of relief—he knew where that was, and the address sounded vaguely familiar—he yelped again. This time, he managed to keep control of his truck, but it was hard.

Your fingers had returned, and they were kneading the bulge under his jeans. Joel flushed from head to toe.

He didn’t have so much as half a mind to make you stop. He didn’t want to see you slink back over to your side of the car. But you were twenty-one, and he was forty-five. And you were both under the influence to some degree. And he was driving, for fuck’s sake. Shit like that only worked in dreams—not on a highway in a town like this.

He turned the radio dial to 75. At length, he heard it loud:

‘WHO’S YOUR DADDY? WHO’S YOUR BA-A-A-ABY?’

He saw you cringe.

“C’mon, Joel,” you groaned, “That’s…yuck.”

The fingers of the one hand kept digging, rubbing, but the other reached out and turned the music down again.

Joel shifted in his seat, feeling the pleasure start to bloom from the pit of his stomach, but not wanting to let you off that easy. Briefly, he looked from the road to you.

“What? You got a problem with Toby Keith?”

“I got a problem with anyone sayin’ ‘daddy’ like that.”

You unzipped his fly. Popped the button of his jeans from underneath the soft shelf of belly hanging over it, and held him, finally. You could only cup his erection through his boxers at that point, but the friction was enough to send a shiver through the whole of the old man’s body. He hadn’t been touched like that by a hand that wasn’t his own in…he couldn’t remember how long. He sighed.

“That why you’ve got your hand down the pants of a man old enough to be your father?” Joel quipped.

He couldn’t help it.

Your hand only gripped him tighter. From the passenger seat, you’d leaned over and started crawling. Scowling.

Your knees swiftly planted themselves on the old, upholstered cushion of the bucket seat, and you slipped a touch beneath the waistband of his underwear. With a hand that was smooth and soft and eager to please, you wrapped your fingers around that base and leaned in.

“You sound like you want me to say it,” you whispered.

Under your hand, he pulsed. His gaze stayed on the road.

“Don’t make no difference to me, sweet pea,” he said, and was amazed how even he was able to keep his tone:

“But those ‘Cowboy Killers’ you wanted…”

Your fingers curled tighter. Your head sank lower.

“…they don’t come cheap, y’know.”

Oh, you knew. He saw a smile snag at the corners of your lips as you brought them to his lap, and he had to force himself to look at the road again. It was empty and dark.

The tarmac stretched out for days. The fields rolling past warned sternly, ‘Don’t let her win,’ and something more in between each tree seemed to invite deliberation—remembrance, maybe. Joel was far too focused on the feel of your mouth to give the woods a second thought.

You’d worked the first inch between your lips in a slick, obscene sort of kiss; you made room for just the head and then toyed with a bead of precum leaking out of his slit. You licked it, squeezed the shaft in your hand, and hummed while the first real moan rumbled through him.

Joel turned to putty with just that flick of your tongue. He didn’t have to see your face to know he was losing.

On the wheel, his grip grew tighter, and he choked out:

“Ain’t your fuckin’ lollypop, kid.”

Then, dropping one hand to push down on your head—make you take him to the back of your throat in one go.

“Daddy wants you to suck him like a big girl, hear?”

At the base of his cock, he felt you gag. From the bottom of his heart, Joel knew there was no sound sweeter than that. He ran his fingers over your skull and tapped gently.

“If you want those smokes,” he told you—and really, with all the warmth and moisture of your mouth enveloping him now, he’d had to try to sound rougher than he was, “You’re gonna do what daddy says and suck him right.”

You gagged again, then squeezed his denim-clad leg with the hand that wasn’t wrapped around his member.

Joel yanked you by your hair and made you look up.

Your cheeks were already smeared with spit and tears. Much to his surprise, he found your eyes alight and soft.

Suffused with desire, too, from what he could see.

“Yes, daddy.” You grinned up at him.

Joel knew if he let your gaze stay on his a second longer now he’d either crash his car, blow his load, or fall in love—and he simply refused to let you succeed on any of those fronts, so he shoved your face back down.

You sucked him obediently. Greedily. Mouth growing more pliant and wet by the second, as if your jaw and salivary glands had contrived to get him as close to release as possible, as quickly as they were able.

Joel took a left onto a road he had only a dim recognition as being connected to yours, and he got that feeling again. You were bobbing your head, taking him further, flattening your tongue along the bottom of his member when his pleasure swelled inside him. At the same time, he felt a sense of dread. His hands were shaking on the wheel. He didn’t dare steal a look down to the sweet, soaked, perfect little mouth sucking him dry, because he knew that feeling would only strike twice as hard. He had to cum, or make you stop, or bring his truck to a halt.

As it was, he felt five tiny crescents sink into his thigh as you gripped him tighter, and a noise bubbled up in your mouth. Your breathing went shallow, and your lips stretched wide—you were trying, and succeeding, in deep-throating his thick, throbbing, much-too-old-for-a-girl-her-age member down close to your windpipe, and Joel could feel it. He hit his blinker, not thinking, and saw a sign that marked your street. Trepidation hit him again.

Fully, this time, in a feeling that was more like terror.

He didn’t have another second to question it, either. By the time he had the old, lone farmhouse in his sights and his heart nearly halfway up his throat with fear, your own throat pulsed, and opened the last two inches to him in. Your nose found their home in the rough, grey, wiry hairs at the base of his belly, having swallowed him whole, and Joel quickly sensed the start of what he knew too well.

He came down your throat in one, two, three, four, five long spurts, and didn’t let his foot off the gas even once.

He saw your house, approaching closer now, and paled.

No fucking way.

You’d wanted to skip the whole way up your drive.

Spit still drying on your cheeks, cum resting comfortably in your belly, and a smile as bright as the sun on your face as you waved to the F-150 pulling off toward the road, you’d never felt more alive—or smug—in your life.

“Is your dad…Lucien Flores?” Joel had asked no more than a second after his dick slipped out of your mouth.

“The one and only.”

Somehow, his face got even paler. His jaw visibly clenched, and his palm hit the top of the wheel. Hard.

It was then that you’d learned your father had hired Joel Miller on as a full-time ranch hand sometime last week.

He’d remembered the address, vaguely, but didn’t connect the dots until he’d pulled up in front of your house and damn near punctured your windpipe with his pulsing dick from how fast he’d jumped up—and cum.

His spend had almost shot through your nose with the force of it, but you didn’t mind. Once he’d revealed the wild, gory, and admittedly hilarious details of his newfound employment, you were too busy laughing your ass off to care if he’d torn your throat in two with his dick.

“So you really are a cowboy, then,” you’d said, giggling.

Joel had scowled. Rolled his eyes. Practically turned the color of a tomato when you leaned in and kissed him.

Now you were waving to him from your front door.

Joel’s truck was slow to go. The taste of him was fresh.

And there, weighing light in your back pocket while you said goodbye was a brand new pack of Marlboro Reds.

2:21 AM

You were safely in bed. You checked your phone.

Aside from fourteen missed calls, you saw:

1:09 AM – Maria

DUDE

1:09 AM

TOMMY JUST CAME HOME

1:09 AM

THAT’S NOT HIM AT THE BAR

1:13 AM

IT’S JUST JOEL!! HIS BROTHER!!!

1:13 AM

ABORT ABORT ABORT

1:42 AM

DAVE SAID YOU BEAT JOEL UP???? CALL ME

1:54 AM – Dave York

Ur gonna fuck that old dude aren’t u

[norts-trolls]

"A robot? Running restaurants. Aren't there like...a fuck ton of movies as to why that's a stupid idea? I mean, I can get your higher ups being lazy fucks to build you if I really had to think about it. Unless you're a cyborg then you're a whole different can of bait I don't intend to open. 4/10, i guess."

GRAB BAG JUDGE

Hi I am on bed rest cuz I uhoh oppsie got hurt at new job. So gimmie funny little guys for my freaks to judge. You know my usual rules. 1-2 characters trolls, humans, aliens whateves. Judge backs not required but welcomed always!

[heromonty]

girlfriends Viola Monty & Hermia Capp

Can not remember the last time I even looked at a VV sim. Missed my gaunt/pinched faced Capps <3

Trying to do what I did with my RBV sims and keep them looking relatively the same to maxis’s version of them but omg do 90% of the Capps look like they got their buccal fat removed. And it’s so much more visible on the males lmaoo.

[skyfallscotland]

i just saw one of your responses to the rescue chapter but i just want to tell you (idk if this is for everyone) but i LOVE the twists you do with rbv. dont doubt yourself bc it makes it so interesting and somehow you always find a response or action better than the original lines/plot. i loved the new chapter (i violently sobbed) thank you 💗

Thank you haha, it will rip your heart from your chest make sense when we get there, I promise! 💗

[lastscenecom]

サウスウエスト航空は米国の代表的なLCCだ。 まず同社は、米国内でも中小規模都市間をつなぐ短中距離飛行に特化している。 さらに同社は中型のボーイング737だけを使っているが、これは短中距離飛行しか行わない同社の戦略にマッチしている。同じ機体しか買わないのだから、購入時のディスカウントも期待できる。 使用機体が1種類しかないことは、トレーニングの効率化に寄与する。 結果として、同社のターンオーバー（空港に着陸してから再出発するまでの時間）は平均15分で済み、これは業界内で頭抜けて短い。 したがって、1機の飛行機で1日に他社より多くのフライトを運行できるので、これはパイロット1人当たりのフライト数の増加にも寄与する。したがって同社はパイロット数を抑えて、人件費を抑制できる。 さらに機内食を提供しないことで費用を抑えているが、これは、ターンオーバーのさらなる短縮化にも貢献する。そして何より、短中距離飛行だけに注力しているからこそ、機内食なしで済むのだ。 米国ではこれまでデルタ航空、ユナイテッド航空、USエアウェイズなど、多くの既存の米国航空会社が、サウスウエストのやり方を模倣しようとして、ことごとく失敗してきた。

経営学研究に大きな影響を及ぼしたRBVの持つ課題 連載 入山章栄の『世界標準の経営理論』第20回 | 戦略｜DIAMOND ハーバード・ビジネス・レビュー

[postsofbabel]

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[fatelcved]

drinking more coffee to wake up my brain and hitting y'all with some lil nari fun facts <3

her mother is actually a third generation korean american who moved to south korea to reconnect with the culture; there she met nari's father who was the heir to a big skincare company. dude is now estranged from his family and works in sales for a competing company bc he's petty like that asdfg

that being said, nari is only familiar with her mother's side of the family, though apparently there's been talk of reaching out to her father's parents to see if their relationship with her dad can be mended

nari mains as support and high damage characters whenever she plays games like overwatch and occasionally streams matches on twitch ( but very occasionally bc she's busy busy uvu )

back in high school, people called her the snack fairy bc she's always got snacks on her :' ) her bag is heavy bc she's got a convenience store in there man

speaking of school, nari was a decent student but struggled bc she joined rbv at 16 and tended to prioritize honing her musical and dancing skills. she got very little sleep and nearly failed her math and science classes

will tease and badly flirt with you to get some laughs but will become a red, babbling mess the minute you return her teasing <3

[paperstorm]

Is Ronen using is RBV in the trailer to say 'I love you'?

Yes he sure is. And Carlos as we know is completely weak for it.

[operationalinsights]

HRM Integration: A Strategic Imperative for Organizational Excellence

An integrated approach to Human Resource Management (HRM) seeks to combine various theories, practices, and economic frameworks to optimize the management of human capital within an organization. HRM is no longer seen as a mere administrative function but as a strategic partner that aligns workforce management with organizational goals. Let’s explore why this integrated approach is essential, how it works, and its significance.

1. Theoretical Frameworks for HR Strategy

One of the core reasons for adopting an integrated approach is to leverage diverse theoretical frameworks in HR to address the complex challenges modern organizations face. Here are some significant frameworks involved:

Resource-Based View (RBV): This theory posits that human capital is a unique and valuable asset that can give firms a competitive advantage. Organizations that focus on developing internal talent and nurturing unique capabilities are more likely to succeed. HR practices, therefore, are directed toward identifying and retaining employees whose skills align with strategic goals.

Human Capital Theory: Human capital refers to the economic value that employees’ knowledge, skills, and competencies bring to the organization. An integrated HR approach takes this into account by investing in employee development through training, education, and creating pathways for skill enhancement. Organizations with high levels of human capital can often innovate faster and remain competitive in a globalized economy.

Transaction Cost Economics: This framework helps organizations decide whether to "make" or "buy" labor (i.e., whether to develop talent internally or hire externally). The decision hinges on which option is more cost-effective. When organizations face skill gaps, they have to evaluate whether it’s better to invest in internal training or to outsource certain roles. Integrated HR systems take these decisions into account, balancing between internal development and external acquisitions based on cost, time, and strategic fit.

2. Why Integration is Necessary

In today’s rapidly changing business environment, standalone HR practices may not be enough. An integrated HR approach allows organizations to optimize decision-making and improve efficiency. Integration is necessary for several reasons:

Alignment with Strategic Goals: By adopting an integrated HR approach, organizations ensure that their workforce management aligns with broader business strategies. Instead of treating HR as an isolated department, it becomes a key driver of organizational success. For example, high-performance work systems (HPWS) integrate recruitment, training, and performance management with long-term business goals to ensure that the entire workforce is contributing to the company's objectives.

Response to Market Dynamics: Labor markets are dynamic, and an integrated HR approach allows organizations to respond to these changes by adjusting their HR practices. For instance, if a certain skill becomes more valuable in the market, companies can quickly adopt talent acquisition strategies, upskill existing workers, or change compensation practices to attract top talent. In contrast, traditional HR practices may lag behind in responding to such external shifts.

Efficiency through Synergies: An integrated system creates synergies between different HR functions—such as recruitment, performance management, and compensation—ensuring that all work together harmoniously. A disjointed approach could lead to mismatches, such as recruiting high-talent employees but failing to provide development opportunities or offering compensation that doesn’t match industry standards.

3. The Role of Economic Theories

One of the key aspects of integration in HRM is the inclusion of economic principles. For instance, the Cobb-Douglas Production Function allows HR departments to understand how various inputs like capital (in the form of technology, infrastructure) and labor (skills, expertise) contribute to the output of the firm. This helps optimize the mix of low-skill and high-skill workers, and in determining how resources should be allocated to maximize productivity.

Similarly, efficiency wage theories suggest that paying above-market wages can lead to higher employee effort, morale, and productivity. Firms using integrated HR strategies may adopt these insights to not only motivate their workforce but also reduce turnover and increase organizational loyalty.

4. Challenges and Critiques

Despite the benefits, integrated approaches to HR are not without their challenges. One key problem is measurability. For example, while transaction cost economics helps determine whether outsourcing is beneficial, qualitative factors such as worker morale and commitment (which are harder to measure) also influence productivity. Studies like those of George (2003) and Logan et al. (2004) show that outsourcing can have hidden costs in terms of employee dissatisfaction and decreased morale. These “intangibles” often escape economic models but play a critical role in shaping workplace culture and performance.

Another challenge is long-term flexibility. While integrated systems allow for strategic alignment, they may not always account for future changes in the business environment. Economists like Wright and Snell (1998) argue that organizations need to build HR systems that remain flexible and responsive to future needs, rather than being overly reliant on current cost-benefit analyses.

5. Practical Examples

Toyota’s Lean Manufacturing System: Toyota is an example of a firm that has successfully integrated HR practices with business strategy. The company focuses heavily on teamwork, continuous improvement (Kaizen), and skill development. Its internal labor market fosters long-term employee loyalty and career growth, which is directly linked to Toyota’s success in maintaining high productivity and innovation levels.

Google’s HR Architecture: Google is another firm that uses a combination of internal development and external acquisition to manage its workforce. Its HR architecture is based on providing a unique value proposition to its employees, offering perks, development opportunities, and a strong company culture to retain top talent. Google also adopts high-commitment systems that give employees autonomy and encourage creativity, directly linking these practices to its innovation success.

Conclusion

An integrated approach to HRM provides a comprehensive framework that incorporates both traditional HR practices and economic principles to maximize workforce effectiveness. By aligning HR practices with business strategies, organizations can enhance both short-term productivity and long-term flexibility. However, as with any system, challenges arise in terms of measuring intangible factors like morale and flexibility in response to future uncertainties. Nonetheless, firms that successfully implement integrated HR strategies, like Toyota and Google, provide real-world evidence of the benefits of this approach.

[corgicon]

ppl talk about RBF but there's no awareness for RBV (resting bitch voice)