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mostlysignssomeportents · 28 days ago

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What’s wrong with tariffs

I'm on a 20+ city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me in CHICAGO TONIGHT (Apr 2) with PETER SAGAL, and in BLOOMINGTON on FRIDAY (Apr 4). More tour dates here.

It's not that the Republicans and the Democrats are the same…obviously. But for decades – since Clinton – the Dems have sided with neoliberal economics, just like their Republican counterparts, so the major differences between the two related to overt discrimination, to the exclusion of the economic policies that immiserated working people, with the worst effects landing on racial minorities, women, and gender minorities.

So the Dems stood against discrimination in mortgage lending – but not for the minimum wage that would have lifted the lowest paid workers out of poverty so the could afford a mortgage. They stood for abortion rights, but against Medicare For All, which meant all women had the right to an abortion, but the poorest women couldn't afford one. And of course, in a country where racial and gender discrimination were still the order of the day, the poorest and most vulnerable Americans were racialized, women, disabled, and/or queer.

The Dems' embrace of Reaganomics meant that working people of all types experienced steady decline over 40 years: stagnating wages, economic precarity, increased indebtedness, and rising prices for health care, education, and housing. When Trump figured out that he could campaign on these issues, Dems had no response. Trump's "Make America Great Again" was meant to appeal to a time when working Americans were – on average, depending on their whiteness, maleness and straightness – better housed, better paid, and better cared for.

Of course, those benefits were unevenly felt: America was slow to extend the New Deal to racial minorities, women, disabled people, and other disfavored groups. Trump's genius was to marry white supremacy to economic grievance, tricking white workers into blaming their decline on women, brown and Black people, and queers – and not on the billionaires who had grown so much richer even as workers got poorer.

But Trump couldn't have pulled this trick off without the Dem establishment's total unwillingness to confront the hollowness of their economic policies. From Pelosi's "We're capitalists and that's the way it is" to Hillary Clinton's catastrophic campaign slogan, "America is already great," the Dems' answer to workers' fear and anger was, "You are wrong, everything is fine." Imagine having had your house stolen in the foreclosure crisis after Obama decided to "foam the runways" for the banks by letting them steal their borrowers' homes and then hearing Hillary Clinton tell you "America is already great":

https://www.npr.org/2014/05/25/315276441/its-geithner-vs-warren-in-battle-of-the-bailout

Racial and gender justice matter, of course, but when they're pursued without considering economic justice, they're dead ends. The point of racial and gender justice can't merely be firing half of the 150 straight white men who control 99% of the country's capital and replacing them with 75 assorted women, queers and people of color. The worst-treated workers in America are also its most discriminated-against workers, so the best way to help women, racialized people, and other disfavored minorities is to help workers: protect unions, raise the minimum wage, defend tenants, cancel student debt, and give everyone healthcare. In the same way that a special tax on incomes over $1m will disproportionately affect straight white men, an increase in the minimum wage will disproportionately benefit women and people of color – as well as the majority of straight white men who are also getting fucked over by people with $1m salaries.

Since the Clinton years, Democrats have been trying to figure out how to defend economic policies that help rich people while still somehow being the party of social justice. This has produced a kind of grotesque, Sheryl Sandberg "Lean In" liberalism, which stood for the rights of women who were also corporate executives. It's not that these women aren't treated worse than their male counterparts – misogyny is alive and well in the boardroom. But the number of women who experience boardroom discrimination is tiny, because the number of women in the boardroom is also tiny.

The right saw and opportunity and seized it. As Naomi Klein writes in Doppelganger, they created "mirror world" versions of social justice issues, warped reflections of the leftist positions that had been abandoned by a progressive coalition led by liberals:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/05/not-that-naomi/#if-the-naomi-be-klein-youre-doing-just-fine

In right wing, conspiratorial hands, rage at wage stagnation and lack of parental leave turned into reactionary demands for an economy in which women would be full-time homemakers while their husbands recovered their roles as breadwinners. The 1999 Battle of Seattle saw mass protests over the WTO and a free trade agenda that would let capital chase low wages and weak environmental and worker safety policies around the world. But Clinton went ahead and signed more free trade agreements, which were also pursued by Obama. So the right filled the vacuum with a mirror-world version of the Battle of Seattle's rage at billionaires, transforming the anti-free trade agenda into racism, xenophobia, and Cold War 2.0 sinophobia.

It's a cheap trick, but Dems keep falling for it. When the right declares itself to be against something, Dems can be relied upon to be in favor it, no matter how reactionary, anti-worker and authoritarian "it" is. During Trump 1.0, Dems lit James Comey votive candles and passionately defended the "intelligence community," a community that gave us CIA dirty wars and FBI COINTELPRO. Anthropologists call this "schizmogenesis" – when a group defines itself by valuing whatever its rivals deplore, and vice versa:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/12/18/schizmogenesis/

You can see schizmogenesis playing out right now, as "progressives" make Signalgate scandal into a fight over poor operational security (planning a war crime using a commercial app) and not a fight over war crimes themselves.

Signalgate will be out of the headlines in a matter of days, though – unlike tariffs, which will continue to make global headlines throughout the Trump presidency, as Trump continues his "mad king" policy of recklessly and chaotically erecting trade barriers that are certain to make supply chains more brittle and raise prices.

For the most part, the progressive discussion of Trump's tariffs takes the position that tariffs are always a terrible idea – in other words, that Clinton and Obama had the right idea when they created free trade agreements with countries around the world, and Trump is vandalizing an engine of American and global prosperity out of economic ignorance.

Economists support this analysis. But in a new, well-argued editorial in The Sling, University of Utah economists Mark Glick and Gabriel Lozada present a more nuanced version of the tariff debate, one that dodges the trap of neoliberal economics and schizmogenesis:

https://www.thesling.org/the-failed-assumptions-of-free-trade/

Rejecting tariffs is practically an article of religious faith among economists. As the NYT put it in their reporting of the 2025 meeting of the American Economic Association, "free trade is perhaps the closest thing to a universally held value among economists":

https://www.nytimes.com/2025/01/10/business/economy/economists-politics-trump.html

Every Econ 101 class has a unit on David Ricardo's "theory of comparative advantage," which argues that different countries have different capacities and specialties, and that free trade allows these advantages to be shared to the benefit of everyone, making trade a "positive expectation" game. The corollary is that tariffs make everyone worse off.

As Glick and Lozada write, the logic of this argument is unassailable, provided you accept its bedrock assumptions as true – and that's where the problem lies.

Economics has an assumptions problem. The foundational method of economic practice is to create models grounded in assumptions that are either not known, not knowable, or – incredibly – known to be wrong. As Milton Friedman famously wrote:

Truly important and significant hypotheses will be found to have "assumptions" that are wildly inaccurate descriptive representations of reality, and, in general, the more significant the theory, the more unrealistic the assumptions (in this sense)

https://pluralistic.net/2025/02/17/caliper-ai/#racism-machine

It's actually worse than it seems, because economics, as a field, has been violently allergic to empirically testing its assumptions, so it doesn't even know when it is operating on the basis of one of Friedman's "wildly inaccurate descriptive representations of reality." This is what Ely Devons meant when he said, "If economists wished to study the horse, they wouldn’t go and look at horses. They’d sit in their studies and say to themselves, ‘What would I do if I were a horse?’"

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/27/economism/#what-would-i-do-if-i-were-a-horse

What are the assumptions that underpin the orthodox view of free trade, then? As Glick and Lozada write, the case against all tariffs depends on five assumptions, all of which fail empirical investigation.

I. Full employment

The standard model of free trade assumes full employment – "when workers are displaced by imports, they can easily become re-employed at the same wages." This is the crux of the "social surplus" that free trade theoretically produces. This assumption doesn't hold up to empirical scrutiny. After the US dropped its tariffs, it experienced a 74% decline in manufacturing jobs – the best-paid jobs for non-college-educated men. Those workers didn't find equivalent employment – indeed, in many cases, the found no employment at all. From 2001-18, the US lost 1.132m manufacturing jobs to China, and gained 0.176m jobs manufacturing goods for export to China.

II. No externalities

The employment losses from free trade are not evenly distributed – they are geographically concentrated, and the greatest concentrations are in regions that flipped from Democratic strongholds to Trumpish heartlands over the decades since the US dropped its tariffs. The losses to these regions aren't limited to the directly affected manufacturing jobs, but all the other economic activity those jobs supported. The people who sold groceries, cars, and furniture to factory workers also lost their jobs. When young people abandoned the cratering regional economy, that devastated education and other services catering to families.

III. Comparative advantage leads to long-term growth and development

The theory of comparative advantage says that the world is better off when each country gets to do the thing it's best at. What are poor countries best at? Being poor: having a cheap labor force and weak rule of law to protect workers' health and the environment.

Without exception, the poor countries that grew richer did so in the presence of tariffs: "free trade is not a development strategy, it is a static policy that can impede development":

https://2024.sci-hub.se/1864/6d3f610c51446f057a4054080c70ab0e/chang2003.pdf#navpanes=0&view=FitH

IV. Floating currencies keep trade balanced

In theory, adjustments in the currency markets will rebalance imports and exports – countries whose currency declines will have to switch to domestic production, because goods from abroad will become costly. That's not what happened. Instead, foreigners have invested the US dollars they got from selling things to Americans into US securities and real estate, "which does not increase US productivity because it generates no new capital formation (at least directly)."

V. The US provides compensation for trade-related job-losses

While other countries with robust social safety nets offered retraining, income support, and other programs to cushion the blow of trade-related job-losses, the US – with the worst social safety net in the rich world – offered "woefully inadequate" supports to dislocated workers:

https://www.piie.com/bookstore/job-loss-imports-measuring-costs

Now, just because some tariffs are beneficial, it doesn't follow that all tariffs are beneficial. When the "Asian Tiger" countries were undergoing rapid industrialization and lifting billions of people out of poverty, they did so with tariffs – but also with extensive industrial policy and direct investment in critical state industries (Biden was the first president in generations to pursue industrial policy, albeit a modest and small one, which Trump nevertheless dismantled).

Trump is doing mirror-world tariffs: tariffs without industrial policy, tariffs without social safety nets, tariffs without retraining, tariffs without any strategic underpinning. These tariffs will crash the US economy and will create calamitous effects around the world:

https://archive.is/JvRF9

But the fact that Trump's tariffs are terrible doesn't mean tariffs themselves are always and forever bad. Resist the schizmogenic urge to say, "Trump likes tariffs, so I hate them." Not all tariffs are created equal, and tariffs can be a useful tool that benefits working people.

And also: the fact that tariffs can be useful doesn't imply that only tariffs are useful. The digital age – in which US-based multinational firms rely on digital technology to loot the economies of America's trading partners – offers countries facing US tariffs a powerful retaliatory tactic that has never before been seen on this planet. America's (former) trading partners can retaliate against US tariffs by abolishing the legal measures they have instituted to protect the products of US companies from reverse-engineering and modification. Countries facing US tariffs can welcome US imports – of printers, Teslas, iPhones, games consoles, insulin pumps, ventilators and tractors – but then legalize jailbreaking these devices:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/03/08/turnabout/#is-fair-play

That would deprive the largest US companies of their recurring revenue streams – from service, consumables, software, payment processing, etc – creating huge savings for consumers all over the world, and huge profits for the non-US companies that make these jailbreaking tools, and the small businesses that supply them. For example, your country could become the world's leading exporter of iPhone jailbreaking tools, and the world's powerhouse for alternative iPhone stores that charge 1-2% commissions on payments, as opposed to the 30% Apple takes out of every dollar (euro, pound, peso) that iPhone owners spend within their apps. This would tempt in all the biggest app companies in the world – from Patreon to Tinder, Fornite to the New York Times – who could offer their products at a discount and still make more money than they make on Apple's App Store.

But that's just one market this enables: the actual business of iPhone jailbreaking would likely work much like the market for phone unlocking more broadly: thousands of small and medium-sized businesses like dry-cleaners and convenience stores where you can bring your phone and pay a few dollars to have it unlocked and set up with a new app store where all the apps are the same – but everything is 20% cheaper.

This is a development opportunity without parallel. US tech monopolists worked with the US trade representative to rig markets around the world, allowing tech giants to siphon away vast fortunes from America's trading partners. These rich deposits of wealth are just sitting there, begging for some country to sink a shaft into them and pump them dry, secure in the knowledge that Trump has ejected from the global system of free trade and they have nothing to lose.

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/2025/04/02/me-or-your-lying-eyes/#spherical-cows-on-frictionless-surfaces

#pluralistic #economism #doppelganger #economics #free trade #tariffs #trumpism #anticircumvention #move fast and break kings #socialism of fools

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jewish-vents · 6 months ago

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I collect Rainbow High dolls. Between my full-time job as a suicide hotline operator and my part-time job taking care of my elderly dad, it's sort of the one thing that brings me joy that's uncomplicated. I went to pick up a Sheryl Meyer doll. She's one of only two Jewish dolls the company ever made. And then I couldn't find her, even though she'd been on the shelf the doll before. An employee, when I asked, helpfully informed me that they're not going to carry "zionist" dolls anymore.

I just stood there and felt so numb. Yesterday a man shot himself in the head while on the phone with me. Tomorrow is my dad's birthday. The next day is the US election. I just wanted to have a Jewish doll for my collection. I just wanted a Jewish doll with big brown eyes like me and blond hair like my sister who I could have on my shelf at home. I don't ask for a lot from life. This is the only thing I've sought out to add to my collection in four months.

Are Palestinians being helped by stores not selling Jewish dolls? Is some great political cause being helped by not having Sheryl on a shelf? Also, how do we know Sheryl's politics and stance regarding Israel and Palestine? She never mentions it in the show.

Oh, right, we don't. Because the "I'm not antisemetic, I'm antizionist" crowd is lying. "Zionist" just means Jewish.

#jewish vents #antisemitism #leftist antisemitism

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shojizbae · 11 months ago

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Mothers Day

Spencer Reid x Reader

As the newest member of the team, everyone is shocked by your boldness.

Everyone knew not to trespass when Las Vegas or Mental illness was a factor in the case. Everyone but you, apparently. By chance, the team's last case to Vegas was two months before your hire. Now, you were making very dangerous strides around a very delicate subject. The Unsub was suspected to be a man on a psychotic break and had begun devolving before the team had even been called in. Ever the overtly ambitious profiler you wanted to follow Spencer Reid for his ultra-secret contact.

"He prefers to go alone." My eyes met the dark brown hand on my bicep

"We really shouldn't be going places alone. You know the FBI minted the buddy system?" I shook him off

"I know, baby girl, but this is delicate. You just gotta leave it alone."

"Derek, you, of all people, should be aware of my incessant control problems."

"I have to agree with Morgan. This is something you need to let be."

"But you know I can't. Doctor Reid!" I darted off after him. He was tense, like the way people get when they hear a tornado siren and have to put themselves in their basement or put a mattress over their bathtub. He was preparing for disaster. "I truly believe it would be beneficial if I were to go with you."

"Would it be benefitting the case or your psyche?" He prods

"Well, both and neither." I readjust my little rectangular glasses, "As you know, I'm extraneously protective, to a fault. Also, I am working on my doctorate in psychology and I'm writing a dissertation on noncommutative disorder clusters. And I'm comfortable around disorders. Actually, I find it strange that when we talk about OCD, we call it a 'disorder' when people just like things organized in a particular manner." I snort to punctuate my rambling, but he only grits his jaw. "Aw man, that joke usually kills in my schizoid heredity focus group." He sighs as he tugs his satchel on.

"You need to stay quiet and low profile." He orders, and I know my dorky smile splits my face. He leads me to a big black SUV, where I take the driver's seat. He gives me directions, leading me from the way through town street and down some scary back roads. Eventually, we pass a sign that reads Bennington Sanitarium. He tells me to turn left, and we park in the back of the parking lot. He tells me to leave my gun in the car, and I follow him with my head down.

"So, who's this ultra-secret contact you have?" His stress seemed to triple, "Some fancy professor from Caltech?" He's being intentionally nebulous, I'm aware but there's some fun in playing nosy-cop.

"No, it's not someone who worked at Caltech."

"Oh, but a professor? Where'd they work, Burkley? Or maybe some school in Vegas. Let's see, there are not that many high-profile universities in Vegas."

"No, she hasn't worked in years." His voice sharpens in frustration, so I back down, readjusting my glasses, and licking the corner of my lips. We enter and a receptionist recognizes Spencer immediately with a big smile.

"Dr. Reid how lovely to see you. Have you come to visit your mother? She'll be ecstatic. It's been far too long." Oh, like mother like son. She must be a psychiatrist. I smile softly at the notion. It will be so interesting to see who and where Spencer came from.

"Thank you, Sheryl, how has she been."

"Well, she has her day, but mostly, she just reads. You know the book club started a new series." Sherly playfully brushes his arm and giggles.

"That's good."

"She should have just gotten out of therapy." Sheryl smiles and rakes her eyes over the young doctor. Finally, she makes eye contact with me.

"Oh well, you're new," she cheers in a vaguely Midwestern accent. You'll need a visitor's pass, hon." She gets one from a drawer and hands it to me. "So, do you work at the FBI, too, or are you coming to meet the in-laws?"

"I'm an agent," I laugh. If I were lucky enough to snag him, that would be an HR nightmare." Playfully, I pat his chest. He guffaws dryly as I slide the plastic lanyard around my neck.

Spencer leads me through the building, mostly there are elderly people playing chess or using oil pastels as nurses and orderlies orbit them. He leads me through a large living room past an Asian woman knitting. We find a woman with blonde hair biting her nails on the couch as she ponders something.

"Hi, Mom," He warbles. There's an extra beat between his greeting and her response. It's like she snaps out of a trance when she sees her son.

"Spencer, honey, what are you doing here?"

"Me and my frie-"

"Oh my goodness, thank whatever deities you deny the existence of; you're finally giving me some grandchildren."

"No, Mom, this is my coworker Agent (L/n). She and I just have some questions for you regarding our case."

"Well, at least sit down." She pats the space next to her, and Spencer obeys, "You too, young lady."

"Yes, ma'am." I take the only spot right next to him, and Spencer begins rattling off questions while his mom sits there with her hand under her nose. She sits and observes Spencer like no one at the BAU does. When he finishes contextualizing the case with her she stews on every word like his voice is her favorite song.

"So our first question for you is, uh (Y/n), you might be better at asking." He makes the wringing motion of cracking his knuckles, but no sound comes out.

"Um, mostly, the bureau is interested in the capabilities of delusion to overlap reality. When you are having an episode, do you recognize the difference between your actions and your perceptions?" I retrieve a legal pad and a fountain pen and click it theatrically. Diana keeps her hand over her mouth and inhales longingly through her nose. She points at me but doesn't look at me.

"You're a very smart young woman," She locks her eyes on me, "I'll answer your questions if you answer mine."

"Of course, wagers are the drug of choice in Vegas, well that and alcohol and mostly any other drug you can think of." I correct myself

"God, you're so much like him." She looks to her son."Why aren't you dating my Spencer?"

"Uh," is all that dumbly spills from my mouth.

"You two seem perfectly suitable for each other. Is it because he's so skinny?"

"No,"

"Well, he's incredibly handsome and talented; even a pigeon could see he's intelligent beyond a lexicon." She rambles

"Mom, I think that's enough."

"Spencer, you haven't visited me in over a year, and how do you believe that's any way to speak to your mother." She reprimands me. Had the information not shocked me, I would have giggled.

"Spencer, over a year?!" I swat his arm, "You've had time off. Why wouldn't you come to visit?"

"Oh well, I've still gotten my daily letters," she pouts. But it's been too long, and I'm getting old." She begins to bat her eyelashes, and she holds onto his arm.

"I'm trying, Mom," he whined

"To visit or to get me some grandkids?" she sasses

"Mom," He groaned, and I couldn't help the giggle that escaped my lips.

"What about you, young lady? Do you have any kids??"

"No, ma'am."

"Why not?" I could see where Spencer gets his tunnel thinking.

"My career has made it difficult to go out on dates and fall in love," I admitted it was almost like Diana could extract the truth from me

"Well, then, date my Spencer."

"Mom!" he protested

"Shh! It's a win-win: I get grandbabies, you get dates, and neither of your careers gets in the way." I meant to retaliate, but her infallible logic knocked all the fire out of me.

"Let's finish up this interview and solve this case then we can circle back." I mitigated

Two days later, the case was solved, and we were riding the jet back to Virginia. Everyone had filed off the plane but Spencer and I.

"So, do you have any plans tonight?" It threw me further off guard than Diana.

"I was just gonna turn on Real Housewives reruns and cuddle cannoli." It was how I spent most nights.

"Would you object to a date?"

"Tonight?"

"We could watch the Real Housewives and hang out with your cat??"

"You want to do that?"

"It sounds much better than sweating in an overpriced Italian restaurant." He laughs and rings his knuckles

"it does, I think I have NBC, we could watch Star Trek after." I offer as we walk from the landing strip to the BAU. We made a sojourn at his home so he could shower and put on comfortable clothes. Two years later it would be cannoli to ring bear your wedding. Spencer would have to credit his mother who walked you both down the aisle simultaneously for your relationship and the whole team would have to agree.

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #fluff #coworkers to lovers #diana reid

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dayluxe · 3 months ago

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Creep - Dwayne Hoover

¡ request are open !

pairing: Dwayne Hoover x fem!reader

summary: upon returning from his chaotic journey, Dwayne has something to say to you

warnings: use of the translator, and nothing else (I think)

w/c: 3.882

request here

your friendship with Dwayne got off to a very, strange beginning.

The family wanted a change of scenery. wanting to be in a quieter and different place, according to your mother's words.

what better place than boring and faraway Albuquerque.

After a little more than a day and a half of travel, you felt like your butt was crushed against the seat. You were only about 8 years old at the time, and radio music was starting to bore you too much. your voice was heard throughout the trip, and your older brother was already fed up.

When you got home you got out of the car with excitement, wanting to see everything.

When the house was tidied up, his doorbell rang. Your eyes flashed with joy and before anyone else could go to open it, you rushed to the door quickly.

When you opened it, you could see a blonde woman next to a brown-haired boy next to her. She was holding a box, which you could tell from its smell that it was some dessert. You gave both of them a little smile when your mother came through the door "Oh, sorry, this girl is very elusive. I'm Gia, we just moved into the neighborhood today." Your mom gave a kind smile to the woman at the door. "Hi, I'm Sheryl, and this one here is my son, Dwayne. We saw that there were new neighbors and we wanted to get to know them a little. oh! and this is a small gift from our family."

The conversation went on smoothly, but your mind focused on the boy in front of you. His bored eyes caught your eye, he looked like he didn't want to be there. her brown hair fell over her forehead, covering her eyes a little.

He looked completely disinterested, and you liked that.

Your family said that you had the ability to talk to even a leaf from a tree. You were oblivious to any disinterest, as long as it was a living being and listened to you, you would talk until your throat hurt. For you, in front of you was your next best friend.

To Dwayne, you looked completely ridiculous.

For the next few months you talked to the child every day. without fault or pauses.

His parents thought it would be good for both of them to go to school together, so every morning your brother and Dwayne had to listen to your morning talks until school.

At first he hated that. To him you were just a silly girl who always talked about nonsense. All I wanted was to shut you up or cut your tongue out (even if I thought that wouldn't stop you from talking).

but in time he got used to it, much to his bad luck.

both grew up together. Her little sister named Olive was born. both were in the same classroom. and the two became best friends.

The rapid and growing adaptation they had with each other was very beautiful.

He was there when the theater caught your eye and you auditioned for a role. You were with him when the philosopher with a name that is difficult to pronounce caught his attention. He was there when you appeared in your first play. And you supported him when he decided that his dream would be to be a pilot in the air force.

The afternoons under the tree in the park were the most awaited when the weekend arrived. Your heads were burning with heat, but you were happy like that.

Adolescence gave them both a growth spurt. Dwayne grew up, and he was no longer the silly brown-haired kid. Now he was the goofy teenager with fake black hair.

Despite the quiet and unfriendly attitude that Dwayne managed to get, you did not separate from him.

This did not affect their friendship so much since he had always been the quiet one of the duo. You spoke and he listened, as simple as that. That's how they had always worked and it didn't bother either of them.

His activities went from being in the park sweaty, to being in Dwayne's room or yours doing nothing.

They loved doing that. just lie on your bed and listen to music. Sometimes they would start putting together puzzles, and they could go on and on for hours doing that without getting tired.

Dwayne loved being like that with you. Even though he didn't admit it, he loved you very much and at the end of the day you were his best friend.

Sometimes he was afraid that you would leave his side. Since having friends wasn't his forte, he only had you. and although you have shown him that this is impossible for it to happen, the thought reappears when he is alone.

There were days when he woke up distressed. afraid that you would no longer talk to him that day, or accompany him home back to school.

Because even though Dwayne always had that stoic expression, his heart was as sensitive as that of a small puppy.

At school you had several suitors, boys who continually approached him to make fun of him, or to tell him how hot his friend was. You didn't like those tasteless jokes at all and each time you sent them all down a tube. But in your Dwayne mind those thoughts kept repeating, what would happen if one day she decided to go with one of those idiots?

The unexpected journey to Olive's pageant was fun for him, even if he never says it out loud.

This crazy trip opened Dwayne's eyes, a little.

The absence of your voice, your jokes, and your warmth hurt him. Realizing that your emptiness felt so much scared him more than he thought, and that was interesting to him.

He had never taken the time to think about what it would feel like to one day without you. You practically spent most of the day together, either in your homes or hanging out elsewhere. Your presence was always there, with your laughter and your bad jokes. Even though Dwayne's vow of silence stage had already started more than 3 months ago, you were still talking to him as always.

you didn't judge him or anything, you just stayed by his side.

During his journey he thought of you, wondering what you might be doing now, who you would spend your day with, who you would tell your jokes to, who would hear your laughter.

He felt envious of that person, knowing that he could be that person.

What Dwayne didn't know is that you were in a pretty similar situation. thinking about him, and missing him.

You knew that Dwayne wasn't so excited to go on that trip. In general, he did not like to travel anywhere, least of all with his family. to everyone it was as evident as it was ever in his bubble, which consisted of his room.

his room was so him. Simple but at the same time Dwayne screamed everywhere, exactly like him. A perfect combination of clutter and order, dark colors contrasting with the warmth of its walls, and multiple drawings pasted on the wall. every corner of his room represented him.

To you, Dwayne was the best friend you could ever have. You loved how he was, so sincere when it came to giving your opinion, so comforting when it came to venting to him, and he laughed at all your jokes, even if they weren't good. His vow of silence didn't surprise you, he talked a lot about that old man before that, and even if you didn't know who that man was, you loved him when he started talking about him. It was so interesting to see how his voice got excited, his eyes shone under his hair and when he started talking too much he would always ask you the same thing "I've bored you, right?" to which your response was always "of course not Dwayne, it's tender to see how you talk about that old man".

Their relationship felt like an evolution for both of them. A kind of nice adjustment that they both didn't even notice. They had a dynamic that few understood, that was so natural and beyond what was spoken. They didn't need to talk to know what was happening with the other, just a couple of sincere glances were enough for the other to feel comforted.

Your thoughts of him were quickly passing through your mind. questioning what things your friend was going through at that moment, hoping it was something interesting or fun.

During the hours Dwayne spent in that hot van, he questioned a lot.

You've always been the opposite of him. Being more outgoing but shy at the same time, having that great passion for acting, watching you perform for him was a delight for his eyes. your laughter, always occupying the space that the two of you shared. With you I didn't have a moment when he felt different or weird, he didn't feel like the quiet guy in the class with whom no one wanted to make a group.

By your side Dwayne felt like a chosen one. like a four-leaf clover among the others.

There were certain times when he felt like someone different from you. moments that felt like selfish, envying your skills and personality. feeling like a companion by your side, something that doesn't have skills that stand out.

For Dwayne you were the definition of passion, each of the things you did you did with a result, and even if you didn't have any reward for such a thing, your aptitude always overflowed with passion. It was something he admired about you, you were so natural in what you did and every activity you did made it special. It didn't matter if it was just kicking rocks in the street, or dancing in her room listening to the radio. every everyday thing you made surprising to him.

out the window he saw many trees and carts, imagining in all the peculiar things you would say to him if you were by his side, turning something as mundane as the carts passing over the bridge, into a beautiful reflection.

Thoughts about you soon became stressful for him, why was he thinking about you so much all of a sudden? Dwayne wondered in his mind. mentally scolding himself about his thoughts and feeling stupid for doing so. He had never had that sequence of questions before with any girl or person, or at least that his mind had been so interested in asking the dumbest questions about the other person.

That trip for Dwayne was like the blink of an eye. Somehow the moments he spent inside that truck will be forever marked in him, even the small "talk" he shared with his grandfather. At that moment Dwayne wanted to give himself a mental slap for thinking of you that way, he felt that he was disrespecting your body even though he didn't even do something to you.

All these things came to light the moment they arrived at the long-awaited contest.

the moment he and his uncle exchanged a few words at a nearby pier. Dwayne found himself thinking about you, how you would have run down the pier to see the sea, make fun of how his hair moved, and say something stupid about the contest.

To everyone else, Dwayne's different behavior hadn't been something to announce, because well, it was Dwayne and he was quiet and thoughtful by nature. This behavior went unnoticed by everyone, except for his uncle Frank who, having a moment alone with him, did not miss the opportunity to ask him why he had looked so thoughtful all trip.

Frank didn't see Dwayne often, but it was clear that he'd been eating his head all day. So he went direct, trying to understand his nephew's situation a little more.

"What's his name?" Frank asked Dwayne, looking out to sea. "What?" replied Dwayne. "What's his name? I imagine that what you've been thinking about all day has a name, or am I wrong?" his uncle asked again.

Dwayne had gone blank. He didn't think it had looked so obvious and just imagining that his whole family knew he had been thinking about someone the whole trip made him feel anxious. It wasn't like he was ashamed of you, quite the opposite. But for a person so close to him to realize something like that made him feel like a typical idiot in love that appears in romantic movies.

"She's my friend, my best friend really," he said to his uncle, looking down at the ground in embarrassment to look him in the face. "Oh, that's it, difficult," Frank replied, "you love her, don't you? You can tell in the way your eyes shine, I'm not very good at love, because, well, you know. but if you want to talk to me about that person, no problem," his uncle told him in a calm tone, trying to make him feel comfortable.

"I don't know what I'm feeling right now. We've always been friends, and she's always been by my side to support me and make me feel safe with her, that I feel like no one else can make me feel that way, you know?. She's so dazzling, like a shooting star that I had the opportunity to catch, and all this makes me feel stupid next to her, as if I wasn't special enough to deserve her friendship, let alone something else," Dwayne spoke, letting everything out suddenly. He didn't wait for answers, he just wanted to vent to someone for once.

His uncle, who had been listening to him all that time, spoke, after meditating on the words.

"There are times when we think we don't deserve love from people we love, and we make ourselves feel less special to them, but something I learned in my life is that you don't have to feel less than any other son of a bitch. Don't spend your teenage moments thinking that you're not special, because I assure you, you're more special than half as special as all those kids in your town, and I'm sure she thinks that too" Frank said looking at him. The strong breeze crashing in his hair made everything more dramatic for Dwayne.

Thoughts kept swirling around the teenager's head. One part of him said 'do you really think she thinks that way about you?' while the other part said 'obviously she thinks that way about you, you fool, how have you not noticed?'. In Dwayne's mind you could be friends with anyone, but you were his friend, you were by his side.

after having an equally chaotic return home, they were finally in Albuquerque, again.

He had missed you, too much to say out loud. And by the time you heard his voice again, you couldn't have been happier.

You felt a little sad about the news she had been given, but you couldn't help but feel happy to hear her beautiful voice again. That day they had a great talk about everything that had happened on their trip, you consoled him for his grandfather, who although you did not like him at all was a very charismatic old man. Each anecdote was funnier than the last, and your stomach ached after he finished telling everything.

They felt like they had spent an eternity apart, even though it had only been about three days.

When the anecdotes were over, a silence enveloped them both, something unspoken was felt in the air. something that made them feel like they wanted to say something, like they'd realized something.

They both looked at each other, their eyes uncertain and in a fight over who was making the first move. Dwayne opened his mouth, searching for the words stuck in his throat. While your mind was a whirlwind of words and questions, you wanted to say so much in such a short time but were unable to formulate a sentence.

Dwayne felt brave for once in his life, he wanted to take the first step with you wanting not to feel useless in this.

"I love you," he whispered. Your eyes opened, and the word left you surprised. He had never told you that. "Like something else," he whispered again after a short silence.

You could feel the storm in your head calm down, you suddenly felt silly, like you didn't know what to say. A shy smile was drawn on your face, and your eyes shone with happiness. For Dwayne this was a great sign, although the silence continued to eat away at him inside. "I love you too," you said with a smile, which he could swear was the most beautiful smile he's ever seen.

Your hands were eager to move, and you could feel them sweating you. His arms brushed for a second and you swore you felt a spark inside you.

You slid your hand shyly toward his, gently brushing Dwayne's fingers. He felt the touch and turned his hand over, and in an unexpected movement he joined his hands.

Both could feel their faces slowly heating up. Little shy smiles landed on their faces, as if they were getting into some mischief together.

his thumbs gently caressed his hands, a gesture so silly for the others but so intimate for both.

Dwayne suggested going home, the sun was already setting and during the hike he couldn't help but appreciate you. As your hair moved gently through the afternoon breeze, your eyes as beautiful as ever were illuminated by the sun. In his eyes you seemed sent by the very same sky, so ethereal and angelic.

Their houses appeared in his field of vision, and as he entered Dwayne's house music could be heard coming from Olive's room. His uncle was in the living room watching television, and he greeted them both with a brief 'hello', you could notice the look he gave to his hands, seeing how a tender smile was drawn on one face. None of his parents had arrived, although you already knew that. They both walked towards his room, still with their hands folded.

you still felt nervous, and your palm felt hot against his. As we entered his room he led you to the bed, and they sat shoulder to shoulder. You saw his hands together resting in the space between his legs, you thought about whether this was real. You turned to see her face, red and bright as a tomato and you couldn't hold back the giggle that came out.

"You look very cute," you say while giving him a small smile. Your hand reaches for a strand that falls over his eyes, and a smile appears on Dwayne's face. "You too," he replied, while giving you a loving look. His eyes scanned your face, going from the curve of your eyebrows to the way your hair contours your face. You noticed how he looked at you, and you could feel how your face got hot "what's wrong? Why are you looking at me like this?" you told him, as you ran your hands over your cheeks in shame. "You look very beautiful, that's all," he told you.

The silence appeared again, but this time it was not an uncomfortable one, it was quite the opposite. They felt comfortable next to each other, and an idea that you had in your head for a long time passed through your head.

you turned to look at him, admiring his profile; the little bridge on her nose, how her hair fell over her eyes covering her forehead, and how her lips looked so pink and soft to kiss.

and the next second you were doing it, you felt his lips; as soft as you had imagined them.

It was brief, but tender. He barely had time to react when you had already separated from him "Forgive me, I didn't mean to do it, I just let myself go. You looked so cute and just... forget it" you began to ramble between words.

You didn't have time to say more when Dwayne put his lips on yours again, this time digging deeper. Your hands went to her hair, tangling your fingers in it. His hands landed on your waist, barely touching you. You could feel how his face warmed up little by little, and how his hands were getting more confident, gently caressing your waist.

When they separated, they could see their faces, red and shy. His loving gaze examined you, admiring how your eyelashes fluttered after separating, and how a shy smile formed on your face.

Dwayne knew this wasn't the right way to do it, but he couldn't resist saying it anymore "Do you want to be my girlfriend?" Dwayne said in a whisper you could barely hear. Your heart raced, and your breath was cut off for a second. His eyes examined your face, trying to find any signs of denial or acceptance in it, nervous about your response.

"Oh God, I've been waiting for that for a long time, of course I do" and with that you sealed her lips in a kiss again.

demonstrating all their emotions through it. His movements were more confident, his hands gently wrapped around your waist, your hands on his cheeks, bringing him closer to you. Dwayne's back touched the soft bed, as you positioned yourself on top of him. The kiss was over but they could still feel their hearts beating rapidly, their tangled legs and smiles in love were the result of this.

You ran your hands over her features, admiring each one of them and smiling as she felt how her cheeks were still warm. "I'll never get tired of saying it, you're so beautiful" you told him, while running a hand over his cheekbones. "Oh, shut up" he told you, as he gently pushed you and you fell next to him on the bed. You rest your elbow on the bed, watching with amusement the "what? It's totally true what I'm saying, you're so beautiful, and handsome, and mysterious," you say, as you run your fingers over his nose.

He looked at you, while an embarrassed smile appeared on his face "Is being mysterious a good thing or a bad thing?" he asks, looking at you with a confused look. his hands on your waist kept making imaginary figures on your skin "well, for me yes. that black hair looks very mysterious," you reply with a chuckle. "If so, for me you also look very mysterious. Surely that hair has many secrets to tell" he told you, while giving you one of the most tender smiles you had ever seen.

The rest of the afternoon was spent together. with their legs tangled and their hands looking for affection.

They were another pair of teenagers in love, giving each other silly looks and nervous smiles, and anyone who walked through the door would swear they were a couple.

The best thing about it is that Dwayne had the honor of saying that was true.

I should start making shorter fics, but I can't. I hope the person who asked for it likes it haha

#dwayne hoover x reader #dwayne hoover #little miss sunshine #fluff #dwayne hoover fluff #dwayne hoover x you #dwayne hoover imagine #paul dano #paul dano x reader

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justforbooks · 1 month ago

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Careless People: A Story of Where I Used to Work by Sarah Wynn-Williams

This account of working life at Mark Zuckerberg’s tech giant organisation describes a ‘diabolical cult’ able to swing elections and profit at the expense of the world’s vulnerable

Shortly after her waters broke, Sarah Wynn-Williams was lying in hospital with her feet in stirrups, typing a work memo on her laptop between contractions. Facebook’s director of global public policy needed to send talking points from her recent trip to oversee the tech giant’s bid to launch operations in Myanmar to her boss Sheryl Sandberg. Then she would give birth to her first child.

Wynn-Williams’s husband, a journalist called Tom, was livid but, as men tend to be in labour rooms, impotent. The doctor gently closed her laptop. “Please let me push send,” whimpered Sarah. “You should be pushing,” retorted the doctor with improbable timing. “But not ‘send’.”

This incident typifies how, in this 400-page memoir of her seven years at Facebook from 2011 – as it mutated from niche social network to global power able to swing elections, target body-shamed teens with beauty products and monetise millions of humans’ hitherto private data – Wynn-Williams had become part of what reads like a diabolical cult run by emotionally stunted men babies, institutionally enabled sexual harassers and hypocritical virtue-signalling narcissists.

The cult vibe of this birthing story is made stronger by Wynn-Williams channelling Sandberg’s 2013 book Lean In: Women, Work, and the Will to Lead. She quotes Sandberg’s injunction to pregnant working women – “Don’t leave before you leave” – taking its implication to be that she should work right up to the point that the baby’s head emerges into this fallen world. It doesn’t occur to her that Lean In feminism might serve as a fig leaf covering self-exploitation and soul-depleting workaholism.

A couple of pages earlier, Wynn-Williams writes like a wide-eyed convert: “It still feels exciting and important to spread this tool around the world and improve people’s lives.” An evidently clever former New Zealand diplomat, she was ideal fodder to help spread Facebook’s secular gospel, as her backstory reveals. After surviving a shark attack as a teenager, she resolved to spend her working life helping humanity. Upon witnessing how the nascent Facebook kept Kiwis connected in the aftermath of the 2011 Christchurch earthquake, she believed that Mark Zuckerberg’s company could make a difference – but in a good way – to social bonds, and that she could be part of that utopian project.

Her naive faith reminds me of what Jon Ronson wrote about in So You’ve Been Publicly Shamed: at their inception both the internet and social media seemed, to some, unalloyed good things. It’s instructive for someone like me – who disdains social media and sees in tech giants the lucrative weaponising of hate masquerading as free speech, and the asphyxiation of democracy by the enabling of post-truth populists – to encounter such cockeyed optimism.

The “tool” Wynn-Williams talks about is not Facebook per se, but Zuckerberg’s cherished internet.org app (which has operated under the name Free Basics since 2015), devised to deliver the internet to connectivity-deprived countries, such as Myanmar, as part of what sounds like a system upgrade of Britain’s oxymoronic imperial mission to civilise black and brown persons.

What internet.org involves for countries that adopt it is a Facebook-controlled monopoly of access to the internet, whereby to get online at all you have to log in to a Facebook account. When the scales fall from Wynn-Williams’s eyes she realises there is nothing morally worthwhile in Zuckerberg’s initiative, nothing empowering to the most deprived of global citizens, but rather his tool involves “delivering a crap version of the internet to two-thirds of the world”.

But Facebook’s impact in the developing world proves worse than crap. In Myanmar, as Wynn-Williams recounts at the end of the book, Facebook facilitated the military junta to post hate speech, thereby fomenting sexual violence and attempted genocide of the country’s Muslim minority. “Myanmar,” she writes with a lapsed believer’s rue, “would have been a better place if Facebook had not arrived.” And what is true of Myanmar, you can’t help but reflect, applies globally.

Before she was disabused, Wynn-Williams fawningly adored Sandberg, as the pair crisscrossed the globe in private jets, bringing the good news of Facebook to foreign leaders. At one point [p40-41], for instance. Wynn-Williams recalls witnessing what happened when Sandberg meets New Zealand prime minister John Key at Facebook’s California headquarters, writing: “Until this moment, it had never occurred to me to see Sheryl as a celebrity or be awestruck by her... But now I can see how she’s sprinkling some of her stardust, whatever that magical quality is that she has that makes you forget to focus on the substance of the meeting at hand and instead wonder what it is she’s doing differently that makes her better than you.”

She approvingly quotes another Lean In message, that you should “bring your authentic self to work”. But what that means in Facebook reality becomes clear when, in her first performance review after giving birth, Wynn-Williams is told that co-workers are uneasy that her baby can be heard on business calls. The poor poppets. “Be smart and hire a Filipina nanny,” counsels Sandberg. Wynn-Williams does just that, but then something shocking happens. One day, Tom is checking the home camera when he notices a firefighter in their living room: the nanny has locked herself out and the baby inside the flat. But when Wynn-Williams later relates this disturbing event to colleagues, she feels as though she has made a faux pas – distracting them from their noble mission with personal guff. “The expectation of Facebook is that mothering is invisible,” she writes. Facebook cannot tolerate too much authenticity.

The book’s title comes from F Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby: “They were careless people, Tom and Daisy – they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness.” For Wynn-Williams, Zuckerberg’s “move fast and break things” philosophy is just such entitled carelessness, leaving Facebook staff and their customers to sweep up the wreckage. But the Facebook she describes is not run by careless people, not really, but rather by wittingly amoral ones who use technical genius and business acumen to profit from human vulnerability. For instance, she claims Facebook – now Meta, which owns Instagram and WhatsApp – identified teenage girls who had deleted selfies on its platforms, and then supplied the data to companies to target them with ads for putatively tummy-flattening teas or beauty products.

Wynn-Williams’s shtick, often presenting herself as the only conscience in the room, does wear thin. I tired of reading of how shocked she was at some Facebook policy, while continuing to spread its values worldwide. “I’m astounded at the role money plays in elections in the US,” she writes at one point, as the 2016 Trump campaign gears up with political ads and targeted misinformation from which Facebook massively profited. Are you really so naive? I wrote in the margin. “I’m also against exporting this value system. But Facebook is effectively bringing this in globally by stealth.” And you’re part of it! I wrote in the margin. If only she’d taken to heart the critical messages of, say, David Fincher’s movie The Social Network or Dave Eggers’s novel The Circle, she might have leaned out earlier.

And yet her memoir is valuable, not just as indictment of the Facebook cult but of bosses’ entitled behaviour that will resonate for many. She depicts Zuckerberg as a tech-bro Henry VIII, a thin-skinned angry child whose courtiers let win at the board game Settlers of Catan during flights on his private jet. She charges him with lying to Congress about the extent of Facebook’s compromises to woo China and allow it to operate there, suggesting that his company was developing technology and tools to meet Chinese requirements that would allow it to censor users’ content and access their data. He was, she claims, much more in cahoots with Xi Jinping’s authoritarian regime than he let on to US senators.

On another private jet, relates Wynn-Williams, Sandberg imperiously invited her to sleep in the same bed. Wynn-Williams declined, but thereafter worried that she had upset her boss by not yielding to a presumably sexual demand, which she depicts in the book as the ex-Facebook COO’s entitled modus operandi with several women subordinates.

And then there’s what Joel Kaplan, currently Meta’s chief global affairs officer, allegedly did to Wynn-Williams at a boozy corporate shindig in 2017. She claimed that he called her “sultry” and rubbed his body against hers on the dancefloor. This wasn’t a one-off incident, she claims: indeed, there was a group at Facebook called Feminist Fight Club, whose members compared notes on such reportedly prevalent cases of sexual harassment by execs. An internal investigation cleared Kaplan of impropriety and soon after Wynn-Williams was fired for making misleading harassment allegations.

Last week, Meta responded to this book, calling it “a mix of out-of-date and previously reported claims about the company and false accusations about our executives”. The company has denounced its former employee, claiming that she was not a whistleblower but a disgruntled activist trying to sell books. Most likely she is both.

Wynn-Williams notes that Facebook changed its name to Meta in 2021. “But leopards don’t change their spots. The DNA of the company remains the same. And the more power they grab, the less responsible they become.” That culture of irresponsibility and carelessness should worry us more than ever, she suggests at the end of the book, as Zuckerberg’s Meta is at the forefront of artificial intelligence, a technology even more potentially calamitous than the one he dreamed up in his Harvard dorm a couple of decades ago.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

#just for books #Sarah Wynn-Williams #Careless People #book review

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greetingfromthedead · 4 months ago

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Gingerbread (Vash x GN!Reader)

Plot: You join Vash in a visit to Karsted City. To keep you being there a secret, Lina and Grandma Sheryl mingle with the townsfolk, leaving you and Vash to bake cookies to be decorated later together with Lina. Rating: E (for this part) Tags: No use of "Y/N", Established Relationship, Fluff, Festive Cheer, Holiday Traditions, Christmas Cookies, Gingerbread Making, Banter, Playfulness, Physical Tenderness, Shenanigans, Spending Time Together, Kissing, Licking Vash's Prosthetic Like a Whisk, Cuddling, Cookie Eating Word count: 2.4k

"It sure is nice to be here, but are you sure it is safe?" You ask as you wrap your arms around Vash's waist, knotting your fingers on his stomach and hugging him from behind. You feel the shifts and movements of his muscles as he continues to knead the dark brown dough that already starts to make the room smell heavenly and sweet.

"Yeah, Grandma Sheryl and Lina went to the church; they said they would mingle in town so nobody would get the idea to come here for a surprise visit. As long as we don't turn on the big lights, it's doubtful anyone would get suspicious of us being here. It's okay, love." Vash explains calmly. He has learned that it helps to settle your nerves, so he tries to do it more and not just shrug and go with the flow.

"I feel bad for them having to leave just for us. I was also looking forward to spending time with them, not to mention you've missed them both so much. Will they at least be back to have dinner?" You continue to question him, burying your face into the soft knitted sweater Sheryl made for him.

"Of course they will! They wouldn't miss a festive dinner together! They might just be here a little late. More time for us to make these gingerbreads!" he replies, the soft smile you love so much dripping from his voice.

"You're right! It was hard enough to get the ingredients! We can't let them go to waste!" New determination energizes you to loosen your hug and step out from behind Vash. You roll up your sleeves again and kiss his cheek. Vash tilts his whole body towards you to make sure you can reach his face and even turns his head afterward with his lips puckered. His hands are still busy kneading the dough in front of him, so you give in and put another light kiss on his lips. His front is covered in flour; his nice jumper is only protected thanks to the frilly apron he wears. The flour even dusts his face, a more prominent line on his forehead where he swiped over with his forearm. It's endearing, and you can't help but smile at his messy appearance.

You leave him to his task and start to look for the supplies necessary for the next steps. Preparing the baking trays takes some time; you need to smear the metal with butter and some flour to make sure nothing will stick to them once baked. You also check that the oven is preheating to the correct temperature, and you lay out the few cookie cutters you have so that they are easily accessible. A heart, a star, a little man, a bell, and a cat.

"I think the dough is done. You've kneaded it for long enough," you say as you fight the drawer filled with utensils to get the rolling pin out. Somehow the drawer has gotten stuck and won't budge no matter how hard you pull.

"Yeah, it feels all smooth and ready!" Vash answers and forms a ball with the dough. "Ohhh… Mayfly?"

"What's up, love?"

You finally manage to wiggle the utensils enough to pry open the drawer, the culprit being the rolling pin itself that had gotten lodged in the worst position.

"It's my hand…" He trails off, and you turn towards him, resting the pin on your shoulder like a bat. "I think I need your help."

Vash looks like a puppy that has gotten into trouble. He lifts his skeletal prosthetic that has gingerbread dough stuck in every nook and cranny.

"Well, good thing we gave it a good scrub with that toothbrush before we got started!" You laugh gently and go to him, leaving the roller on the counter and taking his right hand, scraping it clean with a butter knife first and wiping everything mostly off, leaving only a little bit of oily residue behind.

The other hand is in worse shape, and you carefully start removing the bulk, using a small spoon and the knife to get large chunks off and smushing them together with the rest of the dough. Vash looks a little ashamed for being in this situation, but he enjoys watching you work away. He starts to wonder if you will use the toothbrush again to get the smaller details clean, but then you lift his hand up to your face and put two of his metal fingers in your mouth to suck them clean, your tongue swirling around them. Vash suddenly feels flustered as you look up at him, his fingers still lingering on your tongue. The sweet taste of sugar blends with the spices, and you're happy with how the dough turned out. You suck on his fingers as you pull them out with a pop, shifting his hand to lick and kiss the next parts clean, from the other fingers to the knuckles and his palm. You treat his hand like a whisk. Vash's face and ears turn a deeper shade of crimson as he watches you with a mixture of endearment and embarrassment. His heart beats so loud in his ears, especially when you smile at his expression. You are so precious to him.

"Alrightly, it's toothbrush time!" you announce after getting him mostly clean and having indulged in raw cookie dough. You hold on to his hand as you drag him to the sink and lather the prosthesis in soap before scrubbing it completely clean. Vash tries to interject and offers to do it himself, but you ignore him, just giving a small bump with your hip as acknowledgment that you heard him at all.

After getting him squeaky clean again, you return to your dough; you take over the business of dividing the large ball into smaller portions and rolling it out evenly on the well-floured surface. You finally get to the part where you can start to cut out shapes. Vash stands right beside you, his arm often brushing against yours as he reaches for a cookie cutter or when he presses it into the dough. You start filling the prepared tray with cookies, carefully spacing them out so they don't merge together while baking. Vash eventually even leaves all the cutters to you and takes a knife, carefully starting to cut out his own shapes. Among them is a fairly large cross. It is a bit uneven, but Vash doesn't mind; he looks very proud of his work.

"What's that?" you ask, suspecting the answer but making sure.

"It's the Punisher!" he says with a very pleased expression as he carefully transfers it onto the tray.

"Thought so!" you respond with a smile, glad to see him so happy.

With the tray filled, Vash puts it in the oven and makes a note of the time. You already start work on the next set, rolling out more dough, and Vash joins you in making even more cookies, filling a second tray in the time it takes for the first one to bake. The kitchen is filled with your soft voices and the warm scent of gingerbread. It is easy to forget that your life is rarely this peaceful.

Vash is busy carving out the shape of a flower when it comes time to check on the first batch in the oven. You take the mitts and open the oven door. The hot puff of air hits your face, carrying the scent of cinnamon and sugar throughout the kitchen. You take the tray out to inspect it closer, not wanting to leave the cookies raw.

"Oh no," you chuckle as you look at the tray of freshly baked gingerbread.

"What's wrong?" Vash looks up with concern.

"It's the Punisher," you reply, trying your hardest to stifle a laugh.

"Did it break?" Vash still doesn't understand and steps closer to look for himself.

The cross is now misshapen; the dough has risen and expanded in the oven. The long straight remains vaguely the same, but it seems longer and wider; the sharp corners are all rounded. The shorter offshoots to both sides have also lost all of their shape, becoming blobs that melt into the top part.

"It has become the Penisher!" you exclaim, no longer able to keep yourself in check and letting out a loud cackle.

"You're right!" Vash looks over your shoulder, tracing the shape of the gingerbread in the air, "There's the shaft, and there are the balls!"

Vash joins your laughter, and somewhere, far, far away, Wolfwood suddenly feels very irritated for no apparent reason.

Like a well-oiled machine, you churn out more and more cookies, leaving them on the counter to cool while filling the tray with new, uncooked ones. Rarely is there a second of just waiting around, but when there is such a moment, Vash uses it to leave kisses on your cheeks and lips. You cherish these sweet gestures, feeling grateful for the love and joy that fills your heart. By the time all the gingerbread are done cooking, you have cleaned up the kitchen together. No sign remains of the mess you caused, except for the cooling cookies. You even clean off Vash's face and sweater.

"I'm sure Lina will love to help decorate all of these tomorrow! Or knowing her, perhaps even today after dinner," Vash comments as he looks at your creations as if he's in a fine art gallery.

"I'm sure she will. Guess it is a good thing she's not here. She would have a hard time being patient and waiting for them all to cool down," you chuckle a bit.

"We made quite a lot. We can't make enough glaze for all of them," he continues in a thoughtful manner, and you quickly pick up where he is steering the conversation.

"Hmm, yes, of course," you nod along. "We should definitely prioritize which ones get to be decorated. No point in putting effort into the broken and bloated ones! Nobody will know what they are supposed to be anyway!"

"Yes. To avoid any confusion, do you think we should separate the substandard ones from the rest?" He tries to sound as pretentious as possible.

"That's a good idea! We should pick them out and put them on plates so we can move them away from the rest more easily!" you keep nodding and taking out a large plate, shifting closer to the cooling gingerbread.

"I'm suspecting that separation won't be enough! What if someone wastes precious glaze on them? Or if their ugliness infects our perfect creations?!" Vash sounds outraged as he takes a long step to your side, leaning over the cookies.

"Fair point. We should dispose of the ugliest ones! It is for the best! We are doing everybody a favor!" you agree with him, hand already reaching out to pick up a bell that looks like it has melted in the desert heat.

"Indeed. For the greater good!" He hums in agreement, picks up some broken gingerbread to put on your plate, and then turns away with a fake serious face. "I will get the necessary tools for the job."

"Do you happen to mean milk?" you look after him.

"Of course I do!" he responds with a mischievous grin.

You continue to fill your plate with broken and misshapen cookies. The dim light remaining in the room makes it hard to see which ones are broken, but you manage to compile a small heap, and Vash returns to your side with a big glass of milk. His free hand lands softly on your lower back; his touch feels tender and sweet, and he keeps his arm around you as you walk over to the couch.

The living room has also gone almost completely dark, making the little lights decorating the room shine all the brighter. The smell of freshly baked cookies fills the air, creating a warm and comforting atmosphere. You leave the plate with the gingerbread on the side table for easy access. Vash puts the milk next to the cookies and sits down first, sinking into the plush cushions of the couch. He shifts a bit and then some more until he is all but lying on the couch. Vash looks at you and spreads his arms with a smile. You take his silent invitation and make your way into his embrace, snuggling up against his chest and feeling the warmth of his body envelop you.

He pulls down the blanket that was laid out on the backrest of the couch, covering you both with it, creating a cozy cocoon.

"Hey, Mayfly?" He speaks softly, and you feel the vibrations of his low voice through his chest.

"Yeah?"

"I love you," Vash whispers, his warm breath tickling your ear.

You lift your eyes to look into his. They shine back like gems, the tiny string lights reflecting back as tiny dots. He looks happy and at peace, something you wish to offer him every day for the rest of your days.

"I love you too," you reply and shift closer to kiss his lips. His arms tighten around you in a hug as he kisses you back, a familiar dance of your love for each other. His mouth tastes like sugar and spice, truly festive and full of warmth.

"You started without me!" you say in a low, almost threatening voice as you look at him. His eyes widen in surprise as if you had pointed a gun at him.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't resist!" He responds sheepishly. "You ate the dough first, though!"

One of his hands reaches out into the abyss, feeling for the edge of the side table and nearly knocking over the glass of milk to reach the gingerbread. He picks one and offers it to you with an apologetic smile. You were never mad at him, so you can't keep a straight face and burst out laughing again before taking a big bite of the cookie he still holds. The cookie tastes warm and spicy, just like the holiday season.

All is good. Everything is perfect. Together you lay on the couch wrapped in a blanket with cookies and milk. The holiday lights twinkle in the background, and festive smells linger in the air. There is no place you would rather be than in Vash's arms at this moment, and Vash feels like all his wishes have been answered with one perfect gift—you. As you both snuggle closer together, you feel loved and cherished.

Optional smutty Part 2 »

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