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velvetvisionsaurora · 1 month ago

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Pairing: Hongjoong x reader, Seonghwa x reader, Yunho x reader, Mingi x reader, Wooyoung x reader.

Summary: Five eight-year-old boys aboard the slave ship Crimson Serpent form an unbreakable bond with five-year-old y/n. before she's sold at auction. Despite their failed rescue attempt, they swear a blood oath on her teddy bear to find her.Fifteen years later, now feared pirates leading the ATEEZ

Warnings: Slavery/Human Trafficking, Separation/Loss, Violence, Eventual Smut. SA(not by any main characters) mxm

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Masterlist

Chapter 16

Recovery

Morning sunlight streamed through the large windows of Yeosang's medical suite, casting a warm glow across the polished wooden floors and pristine white linens. Unlike the cramped medical bay aboard the ATEEZ, this space had been designed with both functionality and comfort in mind—high ceilings, ample natural light, and enough room for proper equipment without feeling clinical or sterile.

Y/n paused at the doorway, taking in the scene before her. Mingi was propped up against several pillows on a bed that actually accommodated his tall frame, unlike the narrow treatment table on the ship. His eyes were closed, but his breathing indicated he was merely resting rather than sleeping.

The change in him after just one night in proper accommodations was remarkable. Color had returned to his face, and though bandages still wrapped his torso, the tension of constant pain had eased from his features. Even in repose, he looked more like himself—the quiet strength that defined him evident in his relaxed posture.

"Are you going to stand there all day, or come in?" Mingi asked without opening his eyes, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Y/n smiled, not surprised he'd sensed her presence. "I was wondering if you were asleep."

"Just enjoying the quiet," he replied, opening his eyes to look at her. His gaze was clearer than it had been since the injury, alert and present in a way that relieved her more than she'd expected. "Yeosang doesn't hover as much here. Too many rooms to organize."

She approached the bed, noting the various wooden carvings that had already found their way to his bedside table—likely brought from his workshop by Yunho or one of the others. "You look better."

"Feel better," Mingi agreed with his characteristic economy of words. His eyes followed her as she settled into the chair beside his bed. "You got my ship?"

Y/n reached into her pocket and withdrew the small wooden ATEEZ Yunho had delivered to her the previous day. "It's beautiful. Thank you."

Mingi nodded, satisfaction evident in his expression. "Wanted you to have something. To mark the journey."

"Yunho told me you made it while you were still in the ship's medical bay," she said, running her thumb over the intricate detailing of the tiny vessel. "You shouldn't have been working while injured."

"Needed to." The simple statement contained volumes, his eyes holding hers with quiet intensity.

"I know," Y/n acknowledged, understanding the deeper meaning behind his words. Like Seonghwa with his precise arrangements and Wooyoung with his exuberant cooking, Mingi communicated most authentically through his craft. The wooden ship was more than just a gift—it was a statement, a welcome, a physical manifestation of his feelings that went beyond what words could express.

"Your room," Mingi said after a moment. "Does it suit you?"

The question sounded casual, but Y/n recognized the vulnerability beneath it. Of all the areas in their home, her room had been the one where Mingi's influence was most evident—from the carved animals on every surface to the intricate woodwork on the bed frame and furniture.

"It's perfect," she assured him, reaching out to take his hand. "I've never had a space like that before. Something created just for me, with such thought and care."

"Good," he said, satisfaction evident in his tone. His fingers curled around hers, warm and slightly calloused from years of working with wood and metal. "We built it for you. From the first stone."

The simple statement brought a lump to her throat. "Yunho told me. Five years ago."

Mingi nodded. "Fifteen years searching. Needed somewhere for you to come home to. Even if we never found you."

"But you did find me," she said softly.

"You found us," he corrected, a hint of humor lighting his usually solemn eyes. "At an auction. Very efficient."

Y/n laughed, the sound echoing pleasantly in the sun-filled room. "I suppose I did. After you all spent fifteen years searching, I just walked right into your path."

"Worth every minute," Mingi said, his voice dropping lower as his eyes held hers. The simple statement contained no flourish, no theatrical presentation like Wooyoung might have delivered, no careful phrasing like Seonghwa would have chosen. Just pure, unvarnished truth.

Y/n felt her heart beat faster at the intensity in his gaze. Unlike their interrupted encounter in the medical bay, there was no urgency here—just quiet certainty and a depth of feeling that transcended their fifteen-year separation.

"How's your injury?" she asked, partly to focus on something tangible amid the emotional current flowing between them.

"Healing," Mingi replied, shifting slightly to a more comfortable position. "Slower than I want. Faster than Yeosang expected."

"He mentioned the facilities here would help," Y/n remarked, glancing around at the well-equipped room.

"Better than swaying on a ship," Mingi agreed. "And I can work from here soon. My workshop is close."

The mention of his workshop sparked her curiosity. "Is that part of the house?"

A small smile touched his lips—a rare expression that transformed his solemn features. "No. Better. Come see when I'm stronger. Built it myself. Into the cliff."

"Into the cliff?" Y/n repeated, intrigued by both the concept and the enthusiasm in his usually measured voice.

"Natural cave," Mingi explained. "Expanded it. Perfect workshop. Water access below for testing mechanisms. Privacy for experimental designs."

The description painted a vivid picture—a space carved from living rock, a sanctuary where Mingi could create without constraints or interruptions. A place as unique as the man himself.

"I look forward to seeing it," she said sincerely.

They fell into comfortable silence, the kind that had always existed between them even aboard The Crimson Serpent. Unlike the others, Mingi simply accepted stillness as its own form of communication. It was one of the things that had drawn Y/n to him as a child—his willingness to just be present without demanding speech or performance.

Mingi's thumb traced idle patterns on the back of her hand, his gaze thoughtful as he studied her. "You and Seonghwa," he said finally, no judgment in his tone. "Wooyoung mentioned."

"Yes," Y/n confirmed, not surprised by the directness of his observation. "Does that bother you?"

He considered this for a moment, his expression contemplative rather than troubled. "No," he decided. "Different connections. All important."

The simple assessment cut through what might have been a complex emotional tangle for others. Unlike conventional expectations where such relationships would be seen as competitive or exclusive, Mingi approached the situation with the same straightforward clarity he applied to his mechanical designs—seeing patterns and connections where others might see conflict or contradiction.

"You and Yunho too?" he asked, again without accusation or jealousy.

Y/n felt her cheeks warm slightly, but she met his gaze directly. "Yes, though not in the same way. We... talked. And other things."

Mingi nodded, acceptance rather than resignation in the gesture. "Makes sense. You're the center."

"The center?" she repeated, not quite understanding.

"Of the compass," he explained, making a five-pointed star gesture with his free hand. "Balance."

The imagery struck her forcefully—the same compass design that had become their symbol, the five points representing the five officers arranged protectively around a central point. Mingi saw their current situation not as a romantic complication but as the natural fulfillment of a pattern established fifteen years earlier.

"Is that how you all see it?" she asked, genuinely curious if this perspective was shared among them.

"Don't know," Mingi admitted. "Don't discuss feelings much. But makes sense to me. How we've always been arranged."

His honesty touched her deeply. There was no manipulation in his assessment, no attempt to claim exclusive connection or establish hierarchical importance. Just a recognition of pattern that felt inherently right to him.

"And if I wanted to be with just one of you?" she asked, not because she did, but because she needed to understand the boundaries of his acceptance.

Mingi's dark eyes studied her face for a moment before he answered. "Your choice. Always. Freedom means deciding. Even if it hurts others."

The unconditional nature of his response created unexpected emotion in her chest. After fifteen years where choice had been systematically denied, this simple acknowledgment of her right to decide—even if her decision might cause pain—represented a form of respect deeper than mere desire or affection.

"And if I want to be with all of you, in different ways?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

"Then we're fortunate," Mingi replied, his own voice dropping to match hers. "And the compass is complete."

He tugged gently on her hand, drawing her closer to the edge of the bed. Unlike their passionate encounter in the medical bay, this gesture held no urgency—just simple invitation, leaving the choice entirely to her.

Y/n moved from the chair to perch on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb his injured side. This close, she could see the flecks of amber in his dark eyes, the tiny scar above his left eyebrow that had been there even as a child, the subtle lines at the corners of his eyes that spoke of years spent in sun and wind aboard ship.

"I missed you," she whispered, the words containing years of separation. Y/n leaned forward, her lips meeting his in a kiss that held none of the desperate urgency of their interrupted encounter aboard the ATEEZ, but something deeper—recognition, connection, homecoming.

Mingi's hand moved to cradle the back of her neck, his touch gentle despite the strength in his fingers. Mingi kissed her with quiet intensity—present and focused in a way that echoed his approach to everything that mattered to him.

When they finally separated, Y/n remained close, her forehead resting against his. "I should let you rest," she said, though reluctance was evident in her tone.

"Stay," Mingi requested, the single word containing more than mere invitation. "Just talk. Want to hear about you. Years to catch up on."

The request touched her deeply. Unlike potential expectation that might have demanded more physical connection despite his injury, Mingi sought the equally intimate exchange of stories and experiences—connection beyond mere physical presence.

"Where would you like me to start?" she asked, settling more comfortably beside him.

"The beginning," he replied simply. "After the auction."

And so, in the warm morning light of a room designed for healing, Y/n began to share the story she had kept tightly guarded for fifteen years. Not all at once—some chapters would require more time, more trust, more healing before she could speak them aloud. But it was a start—opening doors that captivity had kept firmly locked.

As she spoke, Mingi listened with the same focused attention he gave to everything that mattered to him—present, observant, absorbing each word without judgment or interruption. His hand remained clasped with hers, a physical anchor in the sometimes turbulent waters of memory.

Outside the windows, sunlight danced across the sheltered cove where the ATEEZ rested at anchor. Birds called from the gardens, and distant sounds of activity drifted from other parts of the house—Wooyoung's theatrical exclamations from the kitchen, the rhythmic sound of Seonghwa directing the unloading of supplies, San and Jongho's voices raised in friendly argument about the best way to repair the garden wall.

Life continuing, ordinary and extraordinary all at once, as healing began for both body and spirit in this place that had been created for exactly this purpose—a home where the lost could be found, where the wounded could heal, where the scattered could reunite despite cosmic forces aligned against such possibility.

For Y/n and Mingi, recovery had many meanings beyond the physical mending of injured flesh. And in this sunlit room, the process had truly begun.

"Blackwell kept me for seven years after the auction," Y/n continued, her voice steady despite the weight of the memories. "I was too young to be useful in the way he usually... employed girls. So he decided to train me for domestic service for the time being."

Mingi's hand tightened slightly around hers, a silent acknowledgment of what remained unspoken in that simple statement.

"That's where I met Yeosang," she said, a small smile touching her lips at the memory of her childhood friend. "He was apprenticed to Blackwell's physician. Eight years old and already learning to stitch wounds and set bones."

"You were friends," Mingi observed, not a question but a recognition of a connection he'd noticed aboard the ATEEZ.

"Yes, though we had to be careful about it," Y/n explained. "Blackwell deliberately kept his household isolated from each other. Connection meant resistance, and he couldn't have that."

"But you found ways," Mingi said, understanding flowing beneath the simple statement.

Y/n nodded.

Mingi's expression remained calm, but Y/n could see something shift in his eyes—a deep understanding of what she wasn't explicitly saying. Unlike others who might have pressed for details, Mingi seemed to sense what lay beneath her careful words without requiring her to expose every painful memory.

"The worst part wasn't the work," she continued, needing to explain what had truly damaged her during those years. "It was the constant reinforcement that I was property. Not a person with thoughts or feelings, just an object to be used until I broke or became inconvenient."

"You never broke," Mingi stated with absolute certainty.

"I came close," she admitted, vulnerability flowing without calculation. "Especially after Blackwell sold Yeosang when we were fifteen. He discovered our friendship and decided it was too dangerous to keep us together."

"Seven years you were together," Mingi calculated quickly. "Then separated."

"Yes," Y/n confirmed. "Neither of us knew what happened to the other after that. I was eventually sold to one of his associates and Yeosang..." She hesitated, not wanting to tell Yeosang's story for him. "Well, he had his own journey before joining the ATEEZ."

"He never mentioned knowing you," Mingi said thoughtfully. "Even after two years with us."

"We both learned to keep our histories private," Y/n explained. "Sharing your past makes you vulnerable. And neither of us knew you were looking for me specifically."

Mingi nodded, understanding flowing beneath the simple gesture. "Must have been shock. Recognizing each other aboard the ATEEZ."

"It was," she agreed with a soft laugh. "Though Yeosang hid it better than I did. He always had more control."

"When did you tell each other?" Mingi asked, genuine curiosity in his voice.

"When Yunho took me to the medical bay for the first time. We recognized each other immediately, but kept it hidden until we could speak privately." She admitted.

"Explains some things," Mingi mused. "His extra attention to you. Different from how he treats other rescues."

"We protected each other for seven years," Y/n said simply. "That kind of bond doesn't disappear, even with years of separation."

"Like us," Mingi observed, his dark eyes finding hers. "Different people now. But connection remains."

The parallel struck her forcefully. Despite the different circumstances of their separations, both relationships had survived against impossible odds—bonds formed in childhood proving strong enough to withstand time and distance.

"Yes," she agreed softly. "Like us."

A comfortable silence settled between them, filled with the gentle sounds of morning and the distant activity of the household. Mingi's thumb traced idle patterns on the back of her hand, his expression contemplative as he processed everything she'd shared.

"Not saying everything," he observed after a while, his tone free of accusation or pressure. "Some wounds still private. Understand."

His perception—that he recognized she was holding parts of her story back without demanding she expose them—created a surge of gratitude in her chest. Unlike an approach that might have pressed for complete disclosure or offered false reassurance, Mingi simply acknowledged what he saw without judgment or expectation.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "For understanding that some stories take time to tell."

Mingi nodded, his dark eyes holding hers with quiet intensity. "When ready. If ever. Your choice."

The simple acknowledgment of her freedom, touched Y/n deeply. After being denied any choices, this recognition of her right to decide what she shared and when represented connection and respect.

"Build something for you," he said after a moment, his tone shifting to something lighter. "When I can work again. Something special. For your room."

"You've already made me so many beautiful things," Y/n protested gently, gesturing to the wooden ship in her hand and thinking of the countless carved animals that decorated her new bedroom.

"Different," Mingi insisted. "Something new. To mark new beginning."

His determination brought a smile to her face. "What did you have in mind?"

A rare, full smile transformed his usually solemn features. "Surprise," he declared, an uncharacteristic playfulness in his eyes. "Need to design first. Test ideas."

"Now I'm intrigued," Y/n admitted, charmed by his enthusiasm.

"Good," Mingi replied with obvious satisfaction. "Like when you watched me carve as children. Same curiosity. Same eyes."

The observation—that he recognized something of the child she had been in the woman before him—created a warmth that spread throughout her chest. Unlike potential focus solely on how she had changed, Mingi saw continuity beneath transformation—essential aspects that had survived despite fifteen years of systematic attempts at erasure.

Before she could respond, the medical suite door opened to admit Yeosang, carrying a tray of supplies for changing Mingi's bandages.

"I see my patient is awake and talking," he observed with professional satisfaction. "A significant improvement from yesterday."

"Good company helps," Mingi replied, his gaze remaining on Y/n.

"I can imagine," Yeosang said, his typically composed expression softening as he looked between them. His eyes met Y/n’s with the silent understanding that had characterized their connection since childhood—recognition flowing without requiring words.

"Did he behave himself?" Yeosang asked her, a hint of warmth breaking through his professional demeanor.

"Perfectly," Y/n assured him with a smile. "Though he's making mysterious promises about building me something once he's recovered."

"As long as 'building' doesn't involve getting out of bed before I approve it," Yeosang replied, giving Mingi a pointed look that held equal parts warning and affection.

"Reasonable condition," Mingi conceded with the barest hint of a smile.

Yeosang set his tray on the bedside table, their familiar interaction speaking of the bond they'd formed over the two years Yeosang had served aboard the ATEEZ. Despite their different temperaments—Yeosang's precise formality and Mingi's quiet intensity—there was genuine respect flowing between them.

"I need to change his dressings," Yeosang explained to Y/n, his voice gentler than his typical professional tone. "You're welcome to stay if you'd like, but it might be more comfortable for everyone if you return later."

Where others might have simply ordered her out or made her feel unwelcome, Yeosang created space for her choice while acknowledging practical reality.

"I should let you work," she agreed, rising from her seat. "And I promised Wooyoung I'd visit him in the kitchen once I'd checked on you."

When she leaned down to place a gentle kiss on Mingi's forehead, Yeosang turned away slightly, busying himself with arranging his supplies—a small gesture that offered them privacy without making an obvious show of it. The subtle consideration brought a smile to her lips.

"Come back later?" Mingi asked, his dark eyes holding hers.

"Of course," she promised, giving his hand one final squeeze before releasing it.

As she reached the door, she paused to look back. Yeosang had moved to Mingi's side, his hands already unwrapping the old bandages with practiced efficiency. Despite his professional focus, he glanced up and caught her watching, a small smile softening his features.

"He'll be here when you return," Yeosang assured her, understanding without being told what she needed to hear. "And in slightly better condition, if I have anything to say about it."

"I'm counting on it, Angel," she replied, using the childhood nickname that had once been their secret in Blackwell's household.

Something flashed in Yeosang's eyes—recognition, warmth, shared memory—before he dipped his head in acknowledgment. "I've never let you down before, have I?"

"Not once," she confirmed, the simple truth encompassing seven years of childhood protection and their recent reunion aboard the ATEEZ.

With a final nod that contained promise rather than merely acknowledgment, Y/n slipped through the door, leaving Mingi to Yeosang's capable care.

One conversation, one connection, one day at a time.

Y/n followed the sound of clattering pots and theatrical exclamations to the kitchen. Unlike the cramped galley aboard the ATEEZ, this space was expansive and sun-filled, with large windows overlooking the gardens and multiple workstations designed to accommodate several people cooking at once. Copper pots hung from a rack overhead, and open shelves displayed an impressive collection of herbs and spices arranged in rainbow order rather than alphabetically—Wooyoung's doing, no doubt.

The cook himself stood at the center island, dramatically waving a whisk in one hand while tasting something from a wooden spoon with his other. Three different pots simmered on the massive stove behind him, and the air was filled with the mingled aromas of cinnamon, cardamom, and something citrusy Y/n couldn't immediately identify.

"This," Wooyoung declared to no one in particular, "is an absolute TRAVESTY! How can I be expected to create culinary masterpieces without proper saffron? That shipment from the eastern markets was clearly mislabeled!"

He hadn't noticed her arrival, too caught up in his passionate soliloquy to the spices. Y/n leaned against the doorframe, enjoying the opportunity to watch him unobserved. There was something endearingly authentic about Wooyoung's theatrical nature—unlike the calculated performances she'd witnessed during her years in captivity, his expressiveness flowed naturally, without manipulation or hidden agenda.

"Cinnamon, my faithful friend," he continued, addressing a jar of spice with earnest intensity, "you must bear more of the aromatic burden today. Can I count on you to rise to this momentous occasion?"

Y/n couldn't contain her laughter any longer. "Does the cinnamon usually answer back?" she asked, pushing away from the doorframe and entering the kitchen.

Wooyoung whirled around, surprise quickly giving way to delight. "Little bird! My savior! My muse! The only person in this house who truly appreciates the ARTISTRY required in my domain!" He swept into an elaborate bow, narrowly avoiding knocking over a bowl of what appeared to be cake batter. "And yes, the cinnamon frequently consults on important culinary decisions. Unlike SOME people, it never suggests I'm using too much spice."

"High praise from a jar of bark," Y/n observed, walking closer to inspect the bubbling pots. "What are you making that requires such intense negotiations with your spice collection?"

"Only the most magnificent welcome feast in the history of piracy!" Wooyoung declared, spinning back to his workstation with fluid grace. "Fifteen years of missed celebrations, condensed into one glorious evening of culinary ecstasy!”

His enthusiasm was contagious, bringing a smile to Y/n’s face. "You've been planning a meal for me?"

"Meals are memories made manifest," Wooyoung said, his theatrical delivery not diminishing the genuine sentiment behind his words. "Each dish tells a story—where we've been, what we've seen, how far we've come. And YOUR story, my dear, deserves nothing less than my absolute best."

He handed her a spoon dipped in something golden and fragrant. "Taste. It's honey from the islands where we first started tracking rumors of a girl sold at auction in Halazia."

Y/n accepted the spoon, the sweet flavor blooming on her tongue with unexpected complexity. "It's wonderful," she said, genuine appreciation in her voice. "I've never tasted honey like this."

"The bees feed on flowers that only grow on volcanic soil," Wooyoung explained, a rare moment of straightforward information without theatrical embellishment. Then, just as quickly, his dramatic persona returned. "Now! Since you've graciously offered your assistance, I shall put you to work! These spices need grinding, and I trust no one else with proper measurement."

"I don't recall actually offering—" Y/n began, amusement warming her voice.

"Details, details!" Wooyoung waved dismissively. "You're here, I'm here, CLEARLY the universe has aligned to place you at my culinary disposal!"

As he arranged various spices and a mortar and pestle before her, Y/n noticed something she might have missed in the past—beneath his exuberant exterior, Wooyoung was watching her carefully, gauging her reactions, adjusting his energy to match her comfort level. Unlike the overbearing personalities she'd encountered during captivity, his theatrical nature contained genuine awareness of others—performance with perception rather than merely seeking attention.

They worked side by side for several comfortable minutes, Wooyoung chattering about his garden and the new varieties of herbs he'd planted during their absence, Y/n grinding spices with the careful precision that years of domestic service had ingrained in her. The familiar motions were oddly comforting—similar actions but in an entirely different context, freely chosen rather than compelled.

"You're good at that," Wooyoung observed, momentarily setting aside his dramatic persona as he watched her hands work the pestle. "Your wrist motion is perfect."

"Years of practice," Y/n replied without elaboration. She didn't need to explain; they both understood what those years had entailed.

Wooyoung's expression softened, his usual animation giving way to something more genuine. "I used to imagine finding you in kitchens wherever we went," he admitted. "I'd walk into taverns and merchant houses when we were gathering intelligence, and my eyes would always go to the kitchen staff first. Looking for a girl, then a young woman, with your particular way of moving."

The simple confession—delivered without his usual theatrics—touched something deep within Y/n. Unlike elaborate declarations, this quiet admission revealed the reality of their fifteen-year search—the constant looking, the persistent hope despite repeated disappointment.

"Did you ever come close?" she asked.

"Once," he said, stirring one of his pots with uncharacteristic stillness. "Four years ago, in a northern port. There was a girl with your coloring working in a merchant's kitchen. I watched her for hours, trying to decide if it was you. She had a similar way of breaking bread—always in half before eating."

"What happened?" Y/n asked softly, recognizing the weight of the memory in his unusually subdued tone.

"I finally approached her," Wooyoung continued. "Asked about her past. She'd been born in that port, never traveled south. Had a whole family there—parents, siblings. It wasn't you." He looked up, meeting her eyes with rare seriousness. "I think that was the closest Seonghwa came to giving up. He'd been so sure from my description... the disappointment hit him hardest."

The glimpse into their years of searching—the hope, the disappointment, the persistence despite repeated failure—created an unexpected knot in Y/n’s throat. These men hadn't just made a childhood promise; they had actively pursued it through years of increasing difficulty, refusing to abandon their oath despite every reason to believe it was futile.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly.

"For what?" Wooyoung asked, genuine surprise breaking through his momentary solemnity.

"For all those years of searching. For all those disappointments."

His expression transformed, seriousness giving way to something warmer as he stepped closer. "Don't you understand yet?" he asked, his voice gentler than his usual theatrical delivery. "Finding you now makes every disappointment worth it. Every false lead, every setback, every moment of doubt—they were just parts of the journey that brought us here."

Before she could respond, Wooyoung moved with surprising swiftness, stepping behind her and wrapping his arms around her waist. Unlike his usual exaggerated movements, this gesture held a different quality—deliberate rather than impulsive, intentional rather than merely theatrical.

"Besides," he continued, his breath warm against her ear as he rested his chin on her shoulder, "the best stories always have complications before the happy ending. Makes the finale so much more satisfying."

The casual intimacy of his embrace—comfortable yet undeniably purposeful—created a flutter in Y/n’s chest. Unlike the others, Wooyoung's approach carried a playful warmth that somehow made it easier to accept, less weighted with expectation or significance.

"Is this a happy ending, then?" she asked, leaning back slightly into his embrace. "Finding me after fifteen years?"

"Oh no," he replied, his lips brushing against her neck in a touch so light she might have imagined it. "This isn't an ending at all. It's a beginning."

His mouth found her pulse point, pressing a deliberate kiss against the sensitive skin that sent an unexpected shiver down her spine. Y/n’s breath caught, her hands stilling on the mortar and pestle as Wooyoung continued a trail of feather-light kisses along her neck.

"I should warn you," he murmured against her skin, "that unlike our stoic quartermaster or our solemn gunner, I have absolutely no intention of maintaining dignified restraint or composed distance."

Another kiss, this one at the junction of her neck and shoulder, his teeth grazing the sensitive spot in a way that made heat pool low in her belly. "I've spent fifteen years imagining finding you," he continued, one hand leaving her waist to brush her hair aside, exposing more of her neck to his attention. "And in none of those fantasies did I stand politely across the room engaging in profound conversation."

The declaration—playful yet unmistakably sincere—drew a soft laugh from Y/n. Despite the desire building under his touch, there was something refreshingly straightforward about Wooyoung's approach. Where Seonghwa's careful control and Mingi's quiet intensity could feel weighty with significance, Wooyoung's playful directness offered connection without unnecessary complication.

"No profound conversation at all?" she teased, turning in his arms to face him. "Just straight to this?"

"Well," he conceded with an exaggerated thoughtfulness that didn't quite mask the heat in his eyes, "perhaps SOME conversation. I'm quite talented with words, after all. But they'd be considerably less philosophical and significantly more... descriptive."

His hands settled at her waist, thumbs tracing small circles against her ribs as he leaned closer, their faces now inches apart. "For example," he continued, his voice dropping lower, "I could tell you exactly how I've been dreaming of kissing you since you came to us. How I've imagined the taste of your lips, the sound of your breath catching I—"

Y/n closed the remaining distance between them, cutting off his words with her mouth. Unlike her other encounters aboard the ATEEZ, this time she initiated the contact, choosing rather than responding. The simple act of deciding, of acting on desire rather than calculating advantage, felt like another small reclamation of self after fifteen years of having choices systematically denied.

Wooyoung made a sound of surprise against her lips before immediately responding with enthusiasm, his hands tightening at her waist as he pulled her closer. Where Seonghwa had been precisely controlled and Mingi quietly intense, Wooyoung kissed exactly as one might expect—with theatrical passion that somehow remained genuinely heartfelt, expressive without being overwhelming.

When his tongue traced the seam of her lips, Y/n opened to him without hesitation, her arms winding around his neck as the kiss deepened. He tasted of cinnamon and honey, warmth and spice blending in a combination that seemed perfectly suited to his nature.

Wooyoung backed her slowly toward the massive center island, his hands never leaving her waist as he guided her across the kitchen. When her lower back met the edge of the counter, he lifted her effortlessly to sit on its surface, stepping between her legs without breaking their kiss.

"I should warn you," he murmured against her lips between kisses, "that I have absolutely no intention of stopping unless you tell me to."

His honesty—delivered with characteristic directness despite the playfulness in his tone—gave Y/n a moment of clarity amid building desire. This was her choice, her decision. After fifteen years where such autonomy had been systematically denied, the simple power to say yes or no represented freedom more profound than merely physical pleasure.

"Good," she replied, her fingers threading through his hair as she pulled him back to her. "Because I have absolutely no intention of telling you to stop."

Something flashed in Wooyoung's eyes—heat mingled with something deeper, more significant than mere desire. Then his mouth reclaimed hers with renewed passion, one hand sliding up her back to cradle her head while the other traced the curve of her hip with deliberate appreciation.

Unlike her encounter with Seonghwa, carefully conducted behind closed doors, or her interrupted moment with Mingi in the medical bay, this was happening in the kitchen—the heart of the house, a space anyone might enter at any moment. The thought should have concerned her, yet Y/n found it oddly liberating. After fifteen years of secrecy and calculation, there was something powerful about not hiding, about claiming connection openly rather than in shadows.

Wooyoung seemed to read her thoughts, a smile curving against her lips as he pulled back slightly. "Scandalous, isn't it?" he murmured, eyes dancing with mischief. "The quartermaster would have heart failure at such impropriety."

The mental image of Seonghwa's horrified expression made Y/n laugh despite her quickened breath and flushed cheeks. "Hongjoong would probably just take notes for strategic purposes," she countered, surprising herself with the ease of the teasing.

"And Mingi would watch silently, cataloging every detail for future reference," Wooyoung added, his grin widening. "While Yunho would blush magnificently and try to decide whether to leave or stay."

The shared humor—comfortable despite their intimate position—created another layer of connection beyond physical desire. Unlike calculated seduction meant to achieve specific outcome, this held genuine enjoyment of each other beyond merely physical response.

Wooyoung's expression softened, his theatrical mask slipping to reveal something more vulnerable. "I missed you," he said simply. "Not just these past fifteen years, but these past days when you've been reconnecting with the others. I've been waiting my turn, trying to be patient—not my strongest quality, as you may have noticed."

The admission—delivered without his usual elaborate flourish—touched Y/n deeply. Unlike a manipulative attempt to claim exclusive attention, his honesty acknowledged the complex reality of their situation with straightforward acceptance.

"I'm sorry I kept you waiting," she replied, her hand rising to cup his cheek. "I'm still adjusting to... all of this. To having choices. To being allowed to want."

"Never apologize for taking the time you need," Wooyoung said, turning his head to press a kiss to her palm. "Contrary to my dramatic nature, I can actually be quite patient for things that matter." His smile returned, wicked at the edges. "I just prefer not to be, when there are much more interesting alternatives."

His mouth found hers again, this kiss deeper than the ones before, his hands growing bolder as they explored the curves of her body with appreciative attention. When his fingers found the laces at the front of her bodice, he paused, pulling back just enough to meet her eyes.

"May I?" he asked, theatrical persona giving way to genuine care.

The simple request—acknowledgment of her autonomy in even this small matter—created another surge of warmth in Y/n’s chest. This wasn't the calculated compliance of captivity but authentic choice freely given.

"Yes," she breathed, the single word containing fifteen years of reclaimed agency.

Wooyoung's fingers made quick work of the laces, loosening her bodice with practiced ease that suggested considerable experience. Yet despite his obvious desire, his touch remained attentive rather than demanding, invitation rather than expectation.

As the fabric parted beneath his hands, exposing the thin chemise beneath, Wooyoung drew in a sharp breath. "Even more beautiful than I imagined," he murmured, reverence replacing his usual theatrical delivery. "And believe me, I have a VERY vivid imagination."

His hands moved to her shoulders, thumbs tracing her collarbones with careful appreciation. Unlike potential focus on physical attributes alone, his attention felt like recognition of her entirety—desire for the person rather than merely the body.

"I should tell you," he said, uncharacteristic hesitation entering his voice, "that I've also been imagining this moment for fifteen years. And in my imagination, I was always much smoother and more sophisticated than I'm managing right now."

The confession—vulnerable beneath his typical playfulness—created an unexpected tenderness in Y/n's chest. This wasn't calculated seduction but genuine connection, nerves and all.

"I like you exactly as you are," she assured him, fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "Theatrical and honest all at once."

Something flickered in Wooyoung's eyes—gratitude mixed with deepening desire. Then his mouth found hers again, kissing her with increasing hunger as his hands resumed their exploration of newly exposed skin. When his thumbs brushed the sides of her breasts through the thin fabric of her chemise, Y/n gasped against his lips, her body arching instinctively into his touch.

"Responsive," Wooyoung observed with evident appreciation, his mouth trailing down her neck as his hands grew bolder.

His lips followed the path his fingers had taken, trailing along her collarbone before dipping lower, kisses pressed against the swell of her breasts above her chemise. When his teeth grazed a particularly sensitive spot, Y/n's fingers tightened in his hair, a soft sound escaping her throat that seemed to encourage rather than deter his attentions.

Wooyoung's hand moved to cup her breast through the thin fabric, thumb circling her nipple with deliberate pressure that sent sparks of pleasure through her body. His mouth continued its downward journey, hot kisses trailing along the edge of her chemise until he reached the peak of her breast. Even through fabric, the heat of his breath made her shiver with anticipation.

"Tell me what you want," he murmured against her skin, looking up through his lashes with an intensity that belied his playful nature. "I want to hear you say it."

The request—invitation to express desire rather than merely receive attention—represented another form of freedom after fifteen years where her wants had been systematically disregarded. Choice extended beyond yes or no to include preference, desire, active participation rather than passive receipt.

"I want your mouth," Y/n replied, voice husky with desire as her fingers tightened in his hair. "Here." She guided him to her breast, the word transforming from request to demand as her confidence grew.

A smile of genuine pleasure curved Wooyoung's lips at her directness. "With pleasure," he replied, the theatrical cadence of his usual speech giving way to something more primal as his mouth closed over her nipple through the thin fabric.

The sensation drew a moan from Y/n's throat, louder than she'd intended in the open kitchen. Wooyoung's responding groan vibrated against her sensitive flesh, his hand raising to attend to her other breast as his mouth continued its deliberate attention.

The combination of his clever hands and talented mouth sent waves of heat skittering across Y/n's skin, building a tension that coiled low in her belly and spread outward in pulsing waves. Her back arched, body seeking more contact as her breath came in quickened gasps, every nerve alive with sensation.

When Wooyoung drew back slightly to blow cool air across the damp fabric, her entire body shuddered, a broken sound escaping her lips that held both protest and need. "Already so sensitive," he marveled, voice filled with admiration and something deeper. "I can only imagine when there’s nothing between us."

He raised his head to capture her mouth again, the kiss fierce with shared hunger as his hands slid beneath the loosened bodice to finally touch her skin directly. The absence of barriers heightened every sensation, his touch electric against her bare flesh.

Lost in sensation, neither of them heard the approaching footsteps until a theatrical gasp broke through their absorbed focus.

"Well, WELL, WELL!" San's voice rang through the kitchen, amusement and surprise mingling in his animated tone. "Apparently Jongho owes me twenty gold pieces! I TOLD him you'd claim the kitchen as your domain in EVERY possible way!"

Wooyoung pulled back reluctantly, though his hands remained at Y/n waist in a gesture that managed to be both possessive and supportive. Unlike Seonghwa's mortified reaction to being discovered with Y/n, Wooyoung merely looked over his shoulder with an expression of theatrical annoyance.

"Your timing is ATROCIOUS," he informed San with dignified outrage somewhat undermined by his disheveled appearance and the flush on his cheeks.

San leaned against the doorframe with a grin that matched Wooyoung's usual mischief. "On the contrary," he countered, "my timing is IMPECCABLE. Any later and I'd have been treated to a FAR more comprehensive display of your culinary techniques."

Y/n expected embarrassment to overwhelm her—being discovered in such a compromising position by someone she barely knew should have triggered the protective withdrawal that fifteen years of captivity had ingrained. Instead, she found herself laughing, the absurdity of the situation somehow liberating rather than mortifying.

San's eyebrows rose at her reaction, then he joined in with his own laughter, warm and genuine rather than mocking or judgmental. "I like her," he declared to Wooyoung, approval evident in his tone. "She handles interruptions much better than you do."

"She hasn't had fifteen years of your INFURIATING habit of appearing at precisely the wrong moment," Wooyoung retorted, though there was no real anger in his voice, only fond exasperation.

He turned back to Y/n, helping her retie her bodice with unexpectedly gentle hands. "I apologize for my friend's complete lack of manners," he said loudly enough for San to hear. "He was raised by particularly ill-behaved wolves."

"Wolves with EXCELLENT timing," San corrected cheerfully, making no move to leave despite Wooyoung's pointed glares.

Once Y/n was properly covered again, Wooyoung pressed a kiss to her forehead that managed to be both chaste and deeply intimate. "To be continued," he promised in a whisper meant for her alone. "When we can ensure NO INTERRUPTIONS." This last part was aimed directly at San, who merely grinned wider.

"I look forward to it," Y/n replied, enjoying the flash of heat that returned to Wooyoung's eyes at her directness.

"Now," Wooyoung declared, theatrical persona fully restored as he turned back to his neglected pots, "since you've RUDELY inserted yourself into my kitchen, San, you can make yourself useful. These spices won't grind themselves, and I have a feast to prepare!"

As San pushed away from the doorframe with exaggerated reluctance, Y/n found herself watching the easy camaraderie between the two men with a sense of wonder. This was friendship without calculation, teasing without cruelty, connection without exploitation—the natural flow of relationships built on mutual respect rather than power imbalance.

Another piece of normal life she was gradually reclaiming after fifteen years where such simple human interactions had been systematically denied. Like the private room with its personalized touches, like the freedom to choose intimate connections, like the ability to laugh openly without fear of consequences, these small moments of ordinary happiness accumulated into something extraordinary—a life rebuilt from fragments, a self reclaimed from captivity.

As Wooyoung drew her back into the cooking preparations, his hand occasionally brushing hers in touches that promised more to come, Y/n felt something unfamiliar yet welcome settling in her chest—not merely desire or affection, but genuine belonging. This house, these men, this new reality they were building together—it was becoming home in every sense of the word.

Taglist: @hopeless-lovex0 @frankielou02 @jilxxasu @kur0kki @lezleeferguson-120 @uniquecloudbread @miniverse-zen @symmieangela @monstacheol @ateezswonderland @comicnerd557 @pixie0627 @fumaluvr @princesscallie @green-moon @starryjoong-jeongcheollie @wiccanmetallicrose @atinyapple1117 @sassy-snassy @soulphoenix1618 @wxnderingthoughts @mdurir @awkward-fucking-thing @herpoetryprincess @stickystickyjam @0-beemzy-0 @prettypeachprincesz @thuyting

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theguyinthemathexamples · 1 year ago

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From the Beauty, to the Creation

— to celebrate my beloved Argenti coming home after i first lost to Bronya (⁠*⁠˘⁠︶⁠˘⁠*⁠)⁠.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡

— C/W : trying a new fic format, extremely self indulgent, possibly ooc 😞, spoilers?, my first sahsr/sahsrau fic‼️

Being the vessel of an Aeon that was thought to have long since passed was no easy feat, as it required other Aeons to set their sights on you first.

Some call Them the Aeon of Creation, others the Aeon of Fate; the IPC have yet to decipher their time of arrival, much less their motives. Though, most theorize that they materialized long before the first atom had started moving, only to stay dormant in a state akin to hibernation after setting the universe up for self replication and ever expansion.

(more utc‼️‼️)

Their presence felt like home, a warm embrace, maybe even a light in the dark, or perhaps a form of escapism. Everyone is sure of one thing: once you accept Their calling, and accept the Astral Express's conductor's invitation, there will never be a way to turn back.

To others' eyes, a faint string can be seen reaching the heavens itself, tracing down a vessel, caressing their whole beings like a forced blanket thrown at their face.

An almost addicting bliss could be felt after these possessions, before that moment of ethereal release comes crashing down. Though, those that are used to always moving around — those with more stamina — don't usually feel this drawback as much as the others.

More often than not, the feeling of being watched and dazed dissipates and a feeling of fatigue sets in — intense tiredness, and even a slight chance to feel dizziness, had been reported from these... events.

But most importantly, a voice could be heard. A voice that many described as one which contained a thousand choirs, perhaps millions.

Among those was Argenti, a man of excellent talents that walked on the Path of Erudition, though claims to walk that of Beauty. One of the most recent vessels, per say.

He first felt this presence after accidentally hitting the Astral Express with his own ship, the "One and Only", he called it, the faint strings caressing the being of three out of the six Trailblazers.

To exude such a warm, calming aura around one at all times is truly a magnificent display of beauty, he thought.

The second time, however, it was quite a sudden moment. A strange letter was penned to him, claiming that it could make his goal of spreading the Beauty, if he used the golden ticket provided inside, a dozen steps closer.

The weirdest aspect was that he kept hearing faint whispers around him. Was this how vessels gained an invitation?

Though, feeling hesitant about this strange letter, he chose to send it instead to the Commander of the Silvermane Guards, Lady Bronya Rand, so that someone else could experience such a wonderful event.

The letter warned him that he must accept this invitation, were he to receive such a letter once more.

Third time's the charm, as they say, as not only did Argenti get another letter not too long after, the voices were much louder this time. They were more persuasive, more hoping and, most importantly, more enticing.

The letter beforehand told him of the earlier warning, and this one did not hesitate to emphasize it in the second paragraph.

And, left with no other choice, he had to accept this invitation. He truly didn't expect getting treated with such warmth and excitement seeping through every vein in his body.

He briefly caught sight of the Aeon in all their glory — was this a sign that his fate towards meeting the Beauty was slowly coming into fruition?

Being blessed by two Aeons, even briefly catching their attention, was a feat unlike any other, but being chosen as an active vessel by one? What a truly great achievement.

Along with the Trailblazer that caught him, four others stood behind them. A master swordsman that went by Yanqing, the owner of Neverwinter Workshop, Lady Serval Landau, the Commander of the Silvermane Guards he'd given the invite to earlier, Lady Bronya Rand, and a child that waved at him who called herself Lynx Landau.

Quite an interesting group of people, but a beautiful bond of friendship swirled among them nonetheless.

Slowly, he could feel himself getting stronger, even more so than before. This mysterious Aeon had gifted him so many things already, yet it doesn't seem to be stopping any time soon.

From the creations of the acolytes of the Aeon of Remembrance, Lightcones, to relics which were created from anomalies caused by the Antimatter Legion, and more — all were given to him to make him more powerful.

It was as if meeting and becoming the puppet of this Aeon could make you undeniably better than your former self, even after you thought you were already at your peak.

The world doesn't revolve around you? The creator of the universe lovingly revolves around me 24/7, thank you very much.

In a place unknown, a black haired Stellaron Hunter sneezes, causing two others beside him to sneak a small glance.

He merely huffs, averting his own gaze away.

... Ignorance is often bliss.

This is my first time writing my beloved so I'm sorry in advance if he's ooc 😞😞

I hope you all liked this cuz i def liked making it hehe

Next on the agenda? My thoughts on sahsr/sahsrau :DDD

#sparkling wheat ♪#silver lined strawberries ♪#stellar-borne cookies and cream ♪#self aware honkai star rail #sahsr #sahsrau #honkai sahsrau #yanqing #hsr yanqing #argenti #hsr argenti #serval #serval hsr #lynx hsr #hsr blade #i'm not omw to start chaos in my interpretation of sahsr/sahsrau dw #(probably)

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mostlysignssomeportents · 10 months ago

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FTC vs surveillance pricing

Support me this summer on the Clarion Write-A-Thon and help raise money for the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers' Workshop!

In the mystical cosmology of economics, "prices" are of transcendental significance, the means by which the living market knows and adapts itself, giving rise to "efficient" production and consumption.

At its most basic level, the metaphysics of pricing goes like this: if there is less of something for sale than people want to buy, the seller will raise the price until enough buyers drop out and demand equals supply. If the disappointed would-be buyers are sufficiently vocal about their plight, other sellers will enter the market (bankrolled by investors who sense an opportunity), causing supplies to increase and prices to fall until the system is in "equilibrium" – producing things as cheaply as possible in precisely the right quantities to meet demand. In the parlance of neoclassical economists, prices aren't "set": they are discovered.

In antitrust law, there are many sins, but they often boil down to "price setting." That is, if a company has enough "market power" that they can dictate prices to their customers, they are committing a crime and should be punished. This is such a bedrock of neoclassical economics that it's a tautology "market power" exists where companies can "set prices"; and to "set prices," you need "market power."

Prices are the blood cells of the market, shuttling nutrients (in the form of "information") around the sprawling colony organism composed of all the buyers, sellers, producers, consumers, intermediaries and other actors. Together, the components of this colony organism all act on the information contained in the "price signals" to pursue their own self-interest. Each self-interested action puts more information into the system, triggering more action. Together, price signals and the actions they evince eventually "discover" the price, an abstraction that is yanked out of the immaterial plane of pure ideas and into our grubby, physical world, causing mines to re-open, shipping containers and pipelines to spark to life, factories to retool, trucks to fan out across the nation, retailers to place ads and hoist SALE banners over their premises, and consumers to race to those displays and open their wallets.

When prices are "distorted," all of this comes to naught. During the notorious "socialist calculation debate" of 1920s Austria, right-wing archdukes of religious market fundamentalism, like Von Hayek and Von Mises, trounced their leftist opponents, arguing that the market was the only computational system capable of calculating how much of each thing should be made, where it should be sent, and how much it should be sold for.

Attempts to "plan" the economy – say, by subsidizing industries or limiting prices – may be well-intentioned, but they broke the market's computations and produced haywire swings of both over- and underproduction. Later, the USSR's planned economy did encounter these swings. These were sometimes very grave (famines that killed millions) and sometimes silly (periods when the only goods available in regional shops were forks, say, creating local bubbles in folk art made from forks).

Unplanned markets do this too. Most notoriously, capitalism has produced a vast oversupply of carbon-intensive goods and processes, and a huge undersupply of low-carbon alternatives, bringing the human civilization to the brink of collapse. Not only have capitalism's price signals failed to address this existential crisis to humans, it has also sown the seeds of its own ruin – the market computer's not going to be getting any "price signals" from people as they drown in floods or roast to death on sidewalks that deliver second-degree burns to anyone who touches them:

https://www.fastcompany.com/91151209/extreme-heat-southwest-phoenix-surface-burns-scorching-pavement-sidewalks-pets

For market true believers, these failures are just evidence that regulation is distorting markets, and that the answer is more unregulated markets to infuse the computer with more price signals. When it comes to carbon, the problem is that producers are "producing negative externalities" (that is, polluting and sticking us with the bill). If we can just get them to "internalize" those costs, they will become "economically rational" and switch to low-carbon alternatives.

That's the theory behind the creation and sale of carbon credits. Rather than ordering companies to stop risking civilizational collapse and mass extinction, we can incentivize them to do so by creating markets that reward clean tech and punish dirty practices. The buying and selling of carbon credits is supposed to create price signals reflecting the existential risk to the human race and the only habitable planet known to our species, which the market will then "bring into equilibrium."

Unfortunately, reality has a distinct and unfair leftist bias. Carbon credits are a market for lemons. The carbon credits you buy to "offset" your car or flight are apt to come from a forest that has already burned down, or that had already been put in a perpetual trust as a wildlife preserve and could never be logged:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/03/18/greshams-carbon-law/#papal-indulgences

Carbon credits produce the most perverse outcomes imaginable. For example, much of Tesla's profitability has been derived from the sale of carbon credits to the manufacturers of the dirtiest, most polluting SUVs on Earth; without those Tesla credits, those SUVs would have been too expensive to sell, and would not have existed:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/11/24/no-puedo-pagar-no-pagara/#Rat

What's more, carbon credits aren't part of an "all of the above" strategy that incorporates direct action to prevent our species downfall. These market solutions are incompatible with muscular direct action, and if we do credits, we can't do other stuff that would actually work:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/31/carbon-upsets/#big-tradeoff

Even though price signals have repeatedly proven themselves to be an insufficient mechanism for producing "efficient" or even "survivable," they remain the uppermost spiritual value in the capitalist pantheon. Even through the last 40 years of unrelenting assaults on antitrust and competition law, the one form of corporate power that has remained both formally and practically prohibited is "pricing power."

That's why the DoJ was able to block tech companies and major movie studios from secretly colluding to suppress their employees' wages, and why those employees were able to get huge sums out of their employers:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/High-Tech_Employee_Antitrust_Litigation

It's also why the Big Six (now Big Five) publishers and Apple got into so much trouble for colluding to set a floor on the price of ebooks:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/United_States_v._Apple_(2012)

When it comes to monopoly, even the most Bork-pilled, Manne-poisoned federal judges and agencies have taken a hard line on price-fixing, because "distortions" of prices make the market computer crash.

But despite this horror of price distortions, America's monopolists have found so many ways to manipulate prices. Last month, The American Prospect devoted an entire issue to the many ways that monopolies and cartels have rigged the prices we pay, pushing them higher and higher, even as our wages stagnated and credit became more expensive:

https://prospect.org/pricing

For example, there's the plague of junk fees (AKA "drip pricing," or, if you're competing to be first up against the wall come the revolution, "ancillary revenue"), everything from baggage fees from airlines to resort fees at hotels to the fee your landlord charges if you pay your rent by check, or by card, or in cash:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/07/drip-drip-drip/#drip-off

There's the fake transparency gambit, so beloved of America's hospitals:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/13/a-punch-in-the-guts/#hayek-pilled

The "greedflation" that saw grocery prices skyrocketing, which billionaire grocery plutes blamed on covid stimulus checks, even as they boasted to their shareholders about their pricing power:

https://prospect.org/economy/2024-06-12-war-in-the-aisles/

There's the the tens of billions the banks rake in with usurious interest rates, far in excess of the hikes to the central banks' prime rates (which are, in turn, justified in light of the supposed excesses of covid relief checks):

https://prospect.org/economy/2024-06-11-what-we-owe/

There are the scams that companies like Amazon pull with their user interfaces, tricking you into signing up for subscriptions or upsells, which they grandiosely term "dark patterns," but which are really just open fraud:

https://prospect.org/economy/2024-06-10-one-click-economy/

There are "surge fees," which are supposed to tempt more producers (e.g. Uber drivers) into the market when demand is high, but which are really just an excuse to gouge you – like when Wendy's threatens to surge-price its hamburgers:

https://prospect.org/economy/2024-06-07-urge-to-surge/

And then there's surveillance pricing, the most insidious and profitable way to jack up prices. At its core, surveillance pricing uses nonconsensually harvested private information to inform an algorithm that reprices the things you buy – from lattes to rent – in real-time:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/05/your-price-named/#privacy-first-again

Companies like Plexure – partially owned by McDonald's – boasts that it can use surveillance data to figure out what your payday is and then hike the price of the breakfast sandwich or after-work soda you buy every day.

Like every bad pricing practice, surveillance pricing has its origins in the aviation industry, which invested early on and heavily in spying on fliers to figure out how much they could each afford for their plane tickets and jacking up prices accordingly. Architects of these systems then went on to found companies like Realpage, a data-brokerage that helps landlords illegally collude to rig rent prices.

Algorithmic middlemen like Realpage and ATPCO – which coordinates price-fixing among the airlines – are what Dan Davies calls "accountability sinks." A cartel sends all its data to a separate third party, which then compares those prices and tells everyone how much to jack them up in order to screw us all:

https://profilebooks.com/work/the-unaccountability-machine/

These price-fixing middlemen are everywhere, and they predate the boom in commercial surveillance. For example, Agri-Stats has been helping meatpackers rig the price of meat for 40 years:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/04/dont-let-your-meat-loaf/#meaty-beaty-big-and-bouncy

But when you add commercial surveillance to algorithmic pricing, you get a hybrid more terrifying than any cocaine-sharks (or, indeed, meth-gators):

https://www.nbcnews.com/news/us-news/tennessee-police-warn-locals-not-flush-drugs-fear-meth-gators-n1030291

Apologists for these meth-gators insist that surveillance pricing's true purpose is to let companies offer discounts. A streaming service can't afford to offer $0.99 subscriptions to the poor because then all the rich people would stop paying $19.99. But with surveillance pricing, every customer gets a different price, titrated to their capacity to pay, and everyone wins.

But that's not how it cashes out in the real world. In the real world, rich people who get ripped off have the wherewithal to shop around, complain effectively to a state AG, or punish companies by taking their business elsewhere. Meanwhile, poor people aren't just cash-poor, they're also time-poor and political influence-poor.

When the dollar store duopoly forces all the mom-and-pop grocers in your town out of business with predatory pricing, and creating food deserts that only they serve, no one cares, because state AGs and politicians don't care about people who shop at dollar stores. Then, the dollar stores can collude with manufacturers to get shrunken "cheater sized" products that sell for a dollar, but cost double or triple the grocery store price by weight or quantity:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/27/walmarts-jackals/#cheater-sizes

Yes, fliers who seem to be flying on business (last-minute purchasers who don't have a Saturday stay) get charged more than people whose purchase makes them seem to be someone flying away for a vacation. But that's only because aviation prices haven't yet fully transitioned to surveillance pricing. If an airline can correctly calculate that you are taking a trip because you're a grad student who must attend a conference in order to secure a job, and if they know precisely how much room you have left on your credit card, they can charge you everything you can afford, to the cent.

Your ability to resist pricing power isn't merely a function of a company's market power – it's also a function of your political power. Poor people may have less to steal, but no one cares when they get robbed:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/19/martha-wright-reed/#capitalists-hate-capitalism

So surveillance pricing, supercharged by algorithms, represent a serious threat to "prices," which is the one thing that the econo-religious fundamentalists of the capitalist class value above all else. That makes surveillance pricing low-hanging fruit for regulatory enforcement: a bipartisan crime that has few champions on either side of the aisle.

Cannily, the FTC has just declared war on surveillance pricing, ordering eight key players in the industry (including capitalism's arch-villains, McKinsey and Jpmorgan Chase) to turn over data that can be used to prosecute them for price-fixing within 45 days:

https://www.ftc.gov/news-events/news/press-releases/2024/07/ftc-issues-orders-eight-companies-seeking-information-surveillance-pricing

As American Prospect editor-in-chief David Dayen notes in his article on the order, the FTC is doing what he and his journalistic partners couldn't: forcing these companies to cough up internal data:

https://prospect.org/economy/2024-07-24-ftc-opens-surveillance-pricing-inquiry/

This is important, and not just because of the wriggly critters the FTC will reveal as they use their powers to turn over this rock. Administrative agencies can't just do whatever they want. Long before the agencies were neutered by the Supreme Court, they had strict rules requiring them to gather evidence, solicit comment and counter-comment, and so on, before enacting any rules:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/18/administrative-competence/#i-know-stuff

Doubtless, the Supreme Court's Loper decision (which overturned "Chevron deference" and cut off the agencies' power to take actions that they don't have detailed, specific authorization to take) will embolden the surveillance pricing industry to take the FTC to court on this. It's hard to say whether the courts will find in the FTC's favor. Section 6(b) of the FTC Act clearly lets the FTC compel these disclosures as part of an enforcement action, but they can't start an enforcement action until they have evidence, and through the whole history of the FTC, these kinds of orders have been a common prelude to enforcement.

One thing this has going for it is that it is bipartisan: all five FTC commissioners, including both Republicans (including the Republican who votes against everything) voted in favor of it. Price gouging is the kind of easy-to-grasp corporate crime that everyone hates, irrespective of political tendency.

In the Prospect piece on Ticketmaster's pricing scam, Dayen and Groundwork's Lindsay Owens called this the "Age of Recoupment":

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/03/aoi-aoi-oh/#concentrated-gains-vast-diffused-losses

For 40 years, neoclassical economics' focus on "consumer welfare" meant that companies could cheat and squeeze their workers and suppliers as hard as they wanted, so long as prices didn't go up. But after 40 years, there's nothing more to squeeze out of workers or suppliers, so it's time for the cartels to recoup by turning on us, their customers.

They believe – perhaps correctly – that they have amassed so much market power through mergers and lobbying that they can cross the single bright line in neoliberal economics' theory of antitrust: price-gouging. No matter how sincere the economics profession's worship of prices might be, it still might not trump companies that are too big to fail and thus too big to jail.

The FTC just took an important step in defense of all of our economic wellbeing, and it's a step that even the most right-wing economist should applaud. They're calling the question: "Do you really think that price-distortion is a cardinal sin? If so, you must back our play." Support me this summer on the Clarion Write-A-Thon and help raise money for the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers' Workshop!

https://clarionwriteathon.com/members/profile.php?writerid=293388

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

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/24/gouging-the-all-seeing-eye/#i-spy

#pluralistic #gouging #ftc #surveillance pricing #dynamic pricing #efficient market hypothesis brain worms #administrative procedures act #chevron deference #lina khan #price gouging

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typosandtea · 5 months ago

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The Prydwen would be hell for anyone with auditory processing issues..

the in game prydwen layout we see doesn't make much sense to me; its lacking key areas such as bathrooms, nothing is bolted down, people are just sleeping in the open, Danse and Maxon have comparatively massive rooms, things are spaced out in a way that wouldn't work on a restricted space vessel, and the upper levels seems to have no purpose other than access to the gas tanks.. but barring all of that if we take the design of the prydwen at face value, there are still other issues, one that really stands out to me is how chaotic it would sound inside at all times!

no soundproofing visible anywhere on the exposed interior hull or structure leading to reflections and echoing, as well as increased outside noise infiltration

open plan with the center containing a large workshop where people are presumably welding and hammering among other noisy metalwork tasks,

the lack of living spaces to retreat too

its engines are always running adding to the noise by fuselage vibrations and a constant hum

multiple power armour users stomping about both patrolling the ship and going too / from missions, and non of the gantries appear to be insulated either so each persons stomping would echo quite badly too

multiple turboprop? vertibirds right outside the non soundproofed hull at any time, likely with engine power level above idle to rise to meet / leave the docking mechanism. even at idle a turboprop engine is dangerously loud.

the safe noise threshold is well and truly passed on the flight deck from the engines and the vertibirds, are the scribes wearing hearing protection or are they just all going deaf from continuous noise exposure..

are more senior brotherhood members more deaf? does that also apply to predominately field officers? lots of older tradespeople I've met irl have very poor hearing from a lifetime of small exposures to slightly too loud noise..

the shape of the prydwens hull would make the echoing worse I think

#what im saying is that Murphy with her extra sensitive hearing and difficulty parsing background noises out would have a terrible time until #she figures out that she needs earplugs..#typos! is posting again #fallout 4 #fo4

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toa-archive · 9 months ago

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Not long after the release of Wizards, an art panel was hosted named The Art of Wizards which we're still lucky to have a vod of given copyright strikes nuking things from orbit. It contained a whole bunch of artwork we'd never seen at the time and even at the time of typing still have yet to do so. One of which is the below artwork which many mis-attributed to Alfonso Blaas at the time though personally felt more like Fruiz's artstyle.

Lo and behold with Francisco Ruiz Velasco's recent concept art uploads:

Source is linkedin and you may be asked to log in first

On Sean Murray's artstation account is some "Wizard castles" floating about which seems to track as coming from around the same period. It's very likely they stuck with the Arcane Order ship (Which we do have concept art of! The "eye windows" are a reused asset from Merlin's Workshop!!) for budget reasons. There may be one for Skrael as well though at the moment there's been no sign of anything.

Source

Of course fanfiction and fanart writers are not beholden to silly things like budgets. If you want to go wild with each member of the Order having their own floating fortress to cause problems with, well nothing is really stopping you!

#Tales of Arcadia #ToA Wizards #ToAWizards #Wizards #Shoutout to the person who tagged the poll wanting Wizards #Hope this counts!#Vis dev: Francisco Ruiz Velasco #Vis dev: Sean Murray

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ronqueesha · 1 month ago

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It's Warhammer facts time!

The food most commonly eaten by Imperial citizens is corn. Regular, average sweet corn that we eat IRL, in all its different forms. It's one of the few plants that survived the destruction of Terra's ecology, largely thanks to how it can grow almost anywhere. It's been a staple of offworld human colonies since humanity first colonized the stars tens of thousands of years ago.

Agri-worlds are planets that have had the majority of their landmass flattened into continent-sized agricultural fields. The Imperium uses these endless fields to ship food to all the hungry planets of the galaxy. Of course, this is the Imperium we're talking about. They do not practice sustainable farming on a planetary scale. Every single Agri-world is eventually doomed to have its soil collapse from over-production. Many inhospitable and barren planet that has some tiny shred of human population living on it were once agri-worlds that were farmed to death.

The meat that MOST people eat, if they're lucky, is grox meat. Groxes are large lizards that have been domesticated and bred on agri-worlds in countless number. Like corn, they can live just about anywhere, so are perfect to be shipped to any part of the galaxy.

Corpse Starch is a bit of a meme because it's not REALLY eaten by that many people in the galaxy. Only the truly desperate and downtrodden citizens in the worst hive cities have eaten it. And is often used as an emergency food ration for soldiers when zero other supplies are available. As its name implies, corpse starch is the ground-up remains of dead people, processed into tasteless sludge packed into tin cans. Its whole existence is a meme referencing Soylent Green. In fact, corpse starch is also known as "soylent veridian" in some parts of the galaxy, if the reference wasn't blatant enough.

Games Workshop's official stance is that Warhammer 40k and Warhammer Fantasy/Age of Sigmar are completely separate universes with no real crossovers. This stance was a little different in the past, with lots of little cheeky references in old codexes and magazine articles. Such as the non-canon notion that the entire 40k galaxy is actually contained in a bottle on the shelf of a wizard's tower.

BUUUUUUT - ever since Doom Eternal came out, the stance seems to have followed a path similar to how the Doom franchise treats hell. There is only one warp, only one sea of souls that connects all life, and all life across multiverses. The four chaos gods are constant because they are the same four beings in the warp, although they are viewed by very different lenses depending on where an observer thinks of them. Their greatest daemons likewise can appear in any reality the gods wish them to be, though the daemons themselves are unaware of how they're being used as toys. That's why you can play as Skarbrand/Kairos/Kugath/Nkari in Total War Warhammer 3, and also have those daemons on the tabletop in a 40k game.

Likewise, there is a character with an identical name, design and backstory in both fantasy and 40k. Be'lakor was the first ever champion of chaos. From an ancient unknown land, he was the first to gain their favor, and was forever transformed into an immortal daemon prince with immense power. But the gods quickly realized they gave him too much power, and his ambition and evil proved a threat to their grand design. So Be'lakor has forever been cursed to be toyed with by the gods, his schemes for revenge and domination always thwarted. In Fantasy he was even forced to crown another person the everchosen, and watched that man literally destroy the world.

And if you like Richard Armitage's voice, he did the voice acting for Be'lakor in Total War Warhammer 3. Just saying.

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dronebiscuitbat · 7 months ago

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Oil is Thicker Then Blood (Part 95)

The addition of a second, third and forth pod meant that the frame of the escape shuttle was finally beginning to take place, aluminum and titanium wrapped around in a welded cylinder and thrusters mounted at the back to push it out of Copper-9s atmosphere.

It was mounted on steel scaffolding, facing the sky in all it's patchworked glory as worker drones dotted around it welding peices together and double- triple checking that everything was done to the best of their ability.

There could be no test flights or second chances- this had to work first time.

Along with the framework of the shuttle came month 5 of Uzi's pregnancy, along with N's birthday.

Which was today.

N was now officially twenty years old- an adult by everyone's standards and solidly out of the ‘almost adult’ limbo he'd been stuck in a couple years.

N fought vehemently against any sort of party for his big day, preferring that focus remained on the construction effort, he could celebrate when they were in space… safe.

That… may have had something to do with how possessive he'd been over Uzi lately… he couldn't bare to patrol too far from her, his sweeps getting into tighter and tighter circles.

He'd felt territorial around her since… well, since she'd gotten pregnant. But now it felt like all his sensors were dialed up to eleven at all times, alert to every little sound, movement, change in the air.

Like his entire body was in constant anticipation, waiting for… something.

Knowing J was still out there wasn't helping, every nerve in his body alight as he paced on all fours on the roof of the building that inhabited their nest- which they had both been spending much, much more time in since the baby started moving.

He wasn't the only one exhibiting this pacing, expecting behavior either, Uzi was doing much of the same, though slightly differently- in the form of collecting everything even remotely warm and soft and piling it in the nest and then obsessively rearranging the inside over and over again.

She was still working on the ship, sure. Her blueprints were the ones being used for it's construction, she was in the workshop every single day to either plan the next expedition for another pod, or to work on welding the frame together herself. But the second the work was done it's like they were both taken over by the urge to just… pace.

V was also struggling to contain her baser instincts, though in a different way- she was bringing food up into the nest, most of the time a scavenged limb or head (that did always end up eaten or drunk in it's entirety after everyone else was asleep) and fighting back the desire to pull Uzi into a session of grooming and preening that they would both find embarrassing.

Thad and Lizzy were less affected- Though both took up the habit of escorting Uzi everywhere she went like a pair of especially loyal gaurd dogs. Though now they were sleeping in the nest less and less, N was starting to urge them to sleep at home instead, keeping the nest occupied by three the majority of the time.

Which, finally, brought us to this very moment- V out on patrol/hunting for spare parts while Uzi took a break from adjusting every aspect of the nest to try and get her kit to play.

The incident at the playdate had Tera quiet, silently playing with her bat plushie, only chirping softly every so often instead of the rapid fire happy trilling Uzi was used to.

Considering it had been over a week since- Uzi was starting to get worried.

So she picked Tera up by the scruff of her onesie with her teeth and sat her in her lap, where the toddler just continued quietly playing, head angled to where her mother couldn't see her face.

“Tera.” Uzi called softly, and the solver kitten stopped, shoulders scrunched and bat held close to her chest as she still refused to look directly at her.

Uzi sighed.

“It was an accident baby bat, Daddy and I know you didn't mean to.” at this, Tera finally looked up, wriggling to get into her mother's arm.

“Sad.” Tera mumbled adding distressed warbles along with it, eyeslights knitted in an expression of contemplation that a toddler of her age simply shouldn't be capable of.

“He wa’scared-” She kept going, working the more complex words out of her mouth tentatively, struggling, but not as much as before. “-Of me.”

Uzi felt her core squeeze uncomfortably, threatening to unleash misdirected anger on a toddler she'd only met once.

“Why?” Tera asked, making Uzi blink, for starters, Tera was less then a year old and already asking introspective questions- something that she absolutely should not have the processing power for yet. But;

She really didn't like the direction the conversations was going.

“Oh… Jellybean.” Uzi lent down to hug her daughter, squeezing her tight before pulling away and putting a hand on the toddlers tiny head.

“We're… different from the other workers. We all are, Mommy, Daddy, Auntie V. We have different needs, and sometimes-” She took a deep breath, steadying herself. “-sometimes people won't understand that.”

Tera took a moment to think about it, a loading circle appearing on her visor before she looked back up.

“That's mean.” She said, a very familiar glare written all over her face.

“Yeah. Some people will be, that's how people are. But there will be ones who will put in the effort to understand you. If you let them.” Uzi smiled reassuringly, her tail coming free to rest beside Tera as extra comfort.

Tera's attention went over to it, the tail cocking it's head as Tera cocked her own, she put both hands on it, thinking hard.

She nodded slowly. “Otay.”

“You wanna play with my tail…?” Uzi asked gently, snapping her tail playfully at her daughter; making her squeal in delight.

“Yah!”

Uzi grinned as her kit seemed to slowly regain her usual energy, biting and nipping and pouncing on the semi-indepentant head of her tail, trilling happily; her core whirred in delight.

Thump.

And here came the birthday boy.

N pulled back the sheet covering the entrance and crawled inside, stretching like a cat before flopping near Uzi lazily, grumbling.

“Find anything?” She asked, reaching down to tangle her fingers in his tousled hair, his tail wagged happily and his core began to rumble with the sounds of his contentment.

“No. Just more flesh.” He mumbled, lifting his head up slightly.

“How close?”

He paused for a moment.

“Too close, it's uh- it's moving faster then we predicted. I think the more there is, the faster it spreads.”

Uzi sighed.

“We have less time then we thought then… we still need a couple more thrusters, fuel… we're not even close to done.”

“I know.” N replied.

A tense silence filled the nest.

“I'll tell dad tomorrow… the sun's almost up.”

“What's the plan then…?” N almost smiled, admiring the way she did always seem to have a plan.

“We're just going to have to work on crunch time. I'll start working on the guts of the ship this week, we still need a way to recharge while in space.”

“We also need a place to go…we can't just wander aimlessly.”

“I know. I've been looking at old files from the bunker, there's an old satellite hub that might give us a idea of where to go.”

The air got more tense, heavy as lead and just as toxic for their health.

“Let's… try not to think about it.” Uzi said after a moment of feeling the dread creep up her back.

“I think that's what we're all doing…” N replied softly, tail hanging low.

“Happy Birthday.” Uzi near whispered, placing a kiss in his head that made his tail wiggle all over the place.

“Mm. Kinda not the best time to celebrate huh?” He admits, sitting up curl into her shoulder.

“Well…”

“We could always celebrate privately.” N's visor flushed, his tail kinked up straight before coming to curl around his mate, a playful chuckle leaving his mouth.

“Oh?” He hummed. Watching his kit wear herself out playing with Uzi's tail.

“Once she gets tired we can…” She whispered something in his audial that made him blush harder, but then he laughed before whispering something else into hers, which made her blush a shade of impressive violet, in response, he nibbled up her neck and a giggle bubbled out of her throat.

When he pulled back, they nuzzled each other's faces, sparks fluttering between them as he whispered the the words “I love you.”

“I love you too.” She replied, connecting them in a slow, passionate kiss that N ended up sighing into, stress evaporating off him like it was never there.

Next ->

#murder drones #uzi doorman #oil is thicker then blood #serial designation n #nuzi #biscuitbites #tera doorman #i feel like this is lower quality then usual but I couldn't tell you why #gonna be transparent- this fic is about to fully kick into its final gear #n and uzi

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maria-chwan · 5 days ago

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Something to fight touch-starvation (Sanji + Platonic!Reader drabble)

Contains: Younger!Reader, socially akward reader, Sanji is like a platonic older crewmate for them

Thousand Sunny was a ship that was full of experts. Everybody was a master at some craft that the others couldn't do.

The weird thing was that there was a lack of helping hands on board. There were no assistants. No maids, no cleaning-ladies or -lads, no secretaries. The Straw Hats learned to survive without them. Chopper took notes of anything happening in his medical bay by himself, Nami searched for information out of dozens of books by on her own when she needed to make a map and Franky would sometimes build a make-shift crane to move heavy machinery from one place to another inside his workshop instead of asking for another person to lift it up with him.

Sanji did a lot of work by himself too. And that's how the Straw Hats got their first assistant. An assistant for the kitchen.

Sanji found you from one of the islands they passed on their travels.

He met you in a market place. You were holding a basket of bread. You were considerably younger than Sanji. Sanji offered to help when you had difficulty choosing what tomatoes to buy, he was older and more experienced than you after all.

Sanji told you that he was a chef and you closed your eyes for a moment like you had to suddenly act differently around him.

Your hasty and confused expression settled into a calm and unenthusiastic one. You avoided Sanji's gaze when he looked at you. When you told him that you were a kitchen assistant, it clicked for Sanji. You knew that you were below him in the kitchen hierarchy. You were being careful not to anger or disrespect him. You knew your place. You didn't bother hiding your pessimistic expression though.

Sanji had fallen into thoughtful silence. You turned around, still stone-faced. Sanji didn't say anything, just watched you fiddle with the tomatoes as you tried to pick a few from the stall.

You were so young. Almost a teenager. Devoted to help with kitchen chores. Useful, very useful. And your unenthusiastic behaviour, the way you acted like an uncomfortable cat, was familiar to Sanji. It had been a long time since Sanji had been at Baratie, where there were other young assistants like you, but he had always known that they were a nervous bunch of youngsters. He knew that you were nervous too.

And who could resist such a respectful, yet socially clumsy little helper like you?

"What if you joined our crew?" Sanji asked, like he was talking about the weather.

You turned to look at him. Careful not to react, you stared at him, raising an eyebrow.

Sanji broke into a grin. Your expression was too funny to him. He had never seen anyone raise their eyebrow with so much suspicion.

When Sanji brought you on the ship, the other crewmembers gathered around you curiously. They were surprised to hear that you were there to attend to kitchen chores.

Weeks passed and you didn't do much anything else than help Sanji in the kitchen and rest on your free time.

It was so mundane, the other crewmembers thought. How could you be that devoted to serve someone else and stay in the sidelines?

You were careful around the crew. You stayed out of the way. You were quiet. Sometimes you could feel yourself sweating nervously, unsure how to react all of the nice and excited and unique people around you.

Before joining the Straw Hat crew, you had lived alone. Everyday you had gone to work. Your life had been quiet and peaceful. Eat dinner alone. Go to sleep alone. Read and go on walks. Sometimes you would feel lonely. That's when you would stare at the ceiling. Stretch your limbs and make your bones crack. Listen to the silence. Talk to into it and not hear an answer back.

After joining the Straw Hat crew you spent to first two weeks pretty much doing to same thing as before. Go to work (which had changed to helping Sanji) and spend the rest of the time alone. The other crewmates would greet you with a bright smile when they passed you in the hallway. You appreciated it.

After two weeks you started making an effort to join in when the Straw Hats would play games on the deck. You were nervous, but you made an effort.

Socializing was not effortless to you. But you continued on and days went by, slowly and awkwardly. Feeling weird and peaceful at the same time, you tried to enjoy your life at sea.

One day you arrived at an island that was filled with jungle. The crew entered the forest and started following a path. Within fifteen minutes a giant crocodile attacked the crew, but somebody quickly punched the monster and it was tamed.

You and Sanji climbed on the back of the giant crocodile, treating it like it was a horse. You felt comfortable sitting with Sanji. You shared space with this chef in the kitchen all the time and he was very nice to you. You liked being around him.

Sanji was an experienced chef and you were his young assistant. During these few weeks you had earned his trust.

His instructions were easy to understand and his voice was nice to listen to. You liked getting praise from him when you completed tasks. Sometimes he complimented you out of the blue, like when he said that your devotion made him delighted while you were cutting vegetables. You enjoyed working for him, even though you looked and acted a lot younger than him. Luckily he seemed to embrace his role as your older crewmate easily.

The massive crocodile whined while it followed the Straw Hats through the jungle.

You kept an eye on the surroundings. Your shoulders were a bit stiff. Maybe you should have put on a t-shirt instead of a top. Your exposed shoulders compared with the unfamiliar territory you were traveling through were making you nervous.

Your arms were a bit tired. You started stretching them like you did when you were at home. When you were staring at the wall. When you were listening to silence. When you were feeling alone.

You stretched your arm in front of you and cracked your bones.

Suddenly you heard Sanji talk behind you.

"Woah! That was a loud crack! Are you okay?"

You glanced at Sanji. He had sounded surprised but over all calm, with a slight amount of worry. His hands were hovering in the air, reaching for you in slight worry but not touching you.

You felt slightly shocked. He cared about you.

You felt small warmth blossom in your chest.

"Yeah, it's okay. I do this all the time", you said.

"I guess it is normal if you crack your bones... But I got spooked when you did it. Let me see", Sanji insisted gently.

You leaned back, letting him inspect your arm.

You felt his fingers touch your arm.

You were feeling more shocked than before. Somebody was actually touching you. Being worried about you. Caring about you.

You hadn't felt this good in a long time.

The feeling of fingers against your skin, the duration of them being connected to your arm lasted for a long few seconds.

You enjoyed every bit of it.

Finally Sanji looked up from your arm and noticed your blissful expression.

A moment passed. Sanji was controlling his reaction so well that he looked almost calm. You smiled at him, still in the blissful haze as you tried to appear grateful. Sanji's expression stayed soft. You removed your arm from his hold gracefully. Then you turned to look forward, not saying anything else.

A few seconds passed.

"Normally it is hugs that make people have a powerful reaction. I guess that I should have noticed that you might react to a simple touch strongly", Sanji said, his voice deep and calming.

You made a nonchalant affirmative sound.

"A few seconds. I touched your arm for just a few seconds. Your reaction..." Sanji trailed off, sounding shocked.

"I'm fine", you said, as calmly as you could.

"Just how touch-starved are you, (Y/n)?" Sanji asked.

A moment passed.

"I don't know. How should I answer that?" you asked, but your tone of voice told Sanji that you admitted the problem.

"Can I touch you?" Sanji asked.

"Yes", you answered. It sounded like a soft sigh.

"I just realized that I asked you a sensitive question, (Y/n). I'm sorry, I hope I'm not crossing a line here. Are you okay?" Sanji asked.

"Yeah, just a little surprised", you answered.

"You are my assistant. You are also my younger crewmate and friend. I'm trying to help you as a friend, since you need help from another person when you are feeling touchstarved", Sanji clarified the facts.

"Yeah", you said.

Sanji leaned forward and placed his hand on your shoulder. It was a firm and comforting grip. The power that radiated from his hand soothed you.

"Does that feel good?" Sanji asked.

"Yes", you admitted, feeling embarrassed and wonderful at the same time.

"Can I hug you from behind?" Sanji asked.

"Really?" you asked, you voice rising high.

"Really", Sanji confirmed.

"Yes", you said, sounding like you were nervous and preparing yourself.

Sanji shifted forward until his chest was against your back. He hugged you from behind. Enveloping you in his warmth.

You breathed deep. You felt warm. The feeling of Sanji's presence so close made your brain buzz. You soaked in the closeness, shutting your eyes as you felt blissful once again.

You sighed out loud.

This was crazy. Your older crewmate was hugging in such a deep and meaningful manner. You felt slightly overwhelmed.

"Are you feeling good?" Sanji asked.

"So good", you said happily. "You don't know how this makes me melt. A small part of me is a little bit overwhelmed, but it's okay!"

"Are you sure? I wouldn't want to creep out my favorite helper", Sanji said and pulled back slightly, removing his hands.

"I'm sure! Hug me again, chef Sanji", you pleaded.

"Of course, my assistant", Sanji said, sounding delighted.

You giggled and sighed happily again when you felt Sanji's arms around you.

"I should have done this earlier", Sanji said. "I didn't even think that you could be touch-starved. You help me every day, I should have noticed."

"Thank you for doing it now", you said.

"Of course. Any time", Sanji said and smiled.

#sanji x reader #sanji #reader #sanji feat reader #sanji + reader #platonic #senpai #kouhai #fluff

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anticidic · 2 months ago

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I once created a mechanical butterfly so i could watch it soar through the sky,

the springs clink, a bolt fallen from its wings,

and I blink, heaving a heavy sigh

Creations are but a reflection of my eye, sunken deep beneath a blimps watch works high,

In the darkness of my room, I would cry,

Illuminated by an oil lamp, I soak in the heavy burden of time,

‘ i used to think i was broken like you ’

But perhaps the clocks tick, tick, tick is a reminder that it’s time to start anew.

(Steampunk AU)

“…” The flame Dazai had concentrated on the little wind-up bird was extinguished. Polished brass sparkled under the low light, and upon the bird’s wing he saw all the scuffs, scratches, imperfections it suffered when it crashed to the floor.

It suffered a terrible fracture, almost losing its wing in the fall, but at least it was quick. But then he realized maybe that was a more merciful outcome than him slapping a bandaid on it time and time again just for it to break down again and again. It was the baby bird he was trying to push out of the nest so it could fly, and it could not. He was the parent. The failure to answer for that.

“Are you saying that to me or this thing?” Dazai set the torch down on the table and pushed his googles up past his forehead. Heaving a sigh, he wiped away the sweat forming at his hairline, his fingers coming away oily and smeared black. The little bird sat slumped against the wood with its metal wings stretched out, as if in a deep sleep. Or dead. Yes, it was dead or dying. It was bleeding out.

“You, obviously, why would I be referring to that gadget of yours?” Chuuya leaned against the doorframe and folded his arms, quietly watching Dazai run greasy fingers along the bird’s wingtips. “I figured you were up to something again when I didn’t hear that thing going ‘cuckoo-cuckoo’ every damn second the moment I stepped in the door.”

Dazai scooped the bird into his hands and spun around in his chair, holding it up for Chuuya to see. “It’s an ambitious little thing, isn’t it? It really wants to fly, and it’s been trying its damnedest to do what I programmed it to, but it seems like it still can’t get it right. Last time it crashed into its cage, and this time when I came down the stairs, I found it already on the floor.” He stroked the top of its head with a finger, down its spine. He touched it lovingly. Tenderly. Carefully. Afraid to damage it even more. “What a pitiful sight, but it held onto the letter I wanted sent out with its life. I’ll just have to have an actual carrier bird send it posthaste.”

“When’s the last time you got out and saw the sun, huh?” Chuuya lifted his gaze to Dazai with a raised eyebrow. “Very frankly, you look like shit—I’ve seen the sick look healthier. The last time you had circles that dark under your eyes, it was when you worked yourself practically to the bone on my airship up until the day of the race.”

“That was obviously for a good cause, Chuuya. You made it to the finals without the ship going up in flames, didn’t you? That’s what mattered, and I call it a win.” Dazai spun back around and bundled the bird in a handkerchief, tucking its wings in and pulling its tiny feet up against its chest. It looked ready for a burial. “I get enough sun through the window right there; it wasn’t that long. Time always just…happens to pass me by when I’m busy with my creations.”

“And that’s another one you have to cross off the list, isn’t it?” Chuuya approached where Dazai sat and briefly looked at the ball of cloth containing the bird, shaking his head. He snatched it from Dazai’s hand and set it down on the table. “You’ve been cooped up in this workshop for too long, you’re getting some fresh air.” Without waiting for an answer, he yanked Dazai out of his seat by the wrist and stormed out of the building.

A sudden rush of air blew past him as they stepped outside, the air ruffling his hair and cold against his cheeks. Clouds rolled by. Among them, blimps floated through the space. The mist was clearing, but the sun could still be mistaken for the moon. Dazai held his breath and watched it brighten. Minute by minute. A distant locomotive screeched.

It did look a little less glum being outside than seeing it through his window like some living painting, but he only had a few minutes to spare before he had to return to working on the bird. He couldn’t simply throw it in a box with all his other failed projects hiding under the bed.

“Jeez, Chuuya, you couldn’t have let me clean up a little? I’ve got grease and oil all over me.”

“You always either look like you just rolled out of bed or had something explode in your face. Here.” Chuuya shoved a handkerchief into Dazai’s hands, who reluctantly took it—looking as if he was about to protest or complain—and wiped away the grease staining his face. Cracking a tiny smile, Chuuya averted his gaze to the sky. “I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life once I was on my own. But racing and being in the sky helped me find a purpose, and I didn’t feel like my life was ending before it began anymore. Every time I get behind the wheel and tell everyone over the radio that we’re setting sail, I don’t just feel like the captain. I feel like a leader. I was born to guide. This is who I am.”

Dazai clutched Chuuya’s handkerchief a little closer to his cheek. His breath came out more staggered than he would’ve liked. The sun seemed to shine upon Chuuya and Chuuya alone. The spotlight was on him, Dazai in the dark. But he was that same budding light in the darkness Dazai found himself drawn to. He looked unworried. Lively. Being outside put a greater smile on his face than it ever would Dazai because he did not feel like he would ever belong among others.

There was always something missing.

I used to think I was broken like you—the words repeated in his head. He thought about the little broken bird with its busted wing, bundled up and tucked in by its parent. It was quite literally broken. And Dazai wasn’t. Not physically, at least. The longer he stood there with his arms at his sides and still clutching that handkerchief, he felt…nothing, truthfully. Just that there was always more work needed done. And his reward for work was more work.

“This morning, I woke shivering. There's something I must do; there's always something I must do. I have an unending sense of urgency like time’s running out somewhere. When I put the steambird back together the last time, I felt satisfaction for once, but it was short-lived. I knew it would malfunction again, and I waited for it to happen again as I found other things to work on in the meantime.” Breathing the crisp air into his lungs, he handed the handkerchief over. “You’re like a bird, Chuuya, you know. But there’s nothing stopping you. Home is wherever you want it to be, and nothing can stop you. I’m sick with jealousy.”

“Didn’t you always want to be a conductor of a train? Whatever happened to that?”

“You happened,” Dazai joked with a withering smile. “I’m just some guy with a toolbelt you come to when something goes wrong with your ship. I just happen to invent in my spare time. And that’s it.” He shielded his eyes from the sun’s glare and squinted, warmth tickling his cheeks. “I won’t be a leader; everyone expects that out of a conductor. I’m a follower. If I don’t have something to passionately follow, then I’m lost.”

“…So, you follow me not because you really want to, but because you feel like there’s nothing else?”

Dazai waved a hand. “Of course not. Engineers are hard sought in this city; I’ll never be short of work, and I can make myself too rich for your blood and find some other client.” Chuuya shot him a dirty look and opened his mouth to say something before Dazai continued, “I follow you because I admire how you live. Unburdened, with purpose. I feel too weightless. Too empty. In truth—perhaps I'm nothing?”

Turning to look at Chuuya, he reached into his pocket and extended a metallic object out to him. Chuuya’s attention flickered to it briefly, and Dazai could sense the gears turning in his head, wondering whether to take it, wondering what it was. Even as Chuuya reached for it, he did so hesitantly, shooting Dazai a questioning look. But Dazai smiled with an encouraging nod.

“A compass? Did you make this?”

Another nod. “Keep it. Maybe it’ll help you someday as a pilot.”

Confused, Chuuya lifted the compass’s lid. The arrow bounced back and forth, flickering between where Dazai stood in front of him expectantly, and pointing to a cathedral. Then he shut it and flipped it over, frowning when he discovered some sort of engraving on the back difficult to make out under the sunlight.

His lips moved, mouthing the words, ‘Love is the compass of life’.

#bungou stray dogs #bungo stray dogs #bsd #bsd dazai #bsd chuuya #soukoku #soukoku fanfiction #my writing #anticide writes #steampunk au #i'm pretty sure i had a tag for it but if not i do now #ugh i'm gonna be sick - dazai putting himself into his creations and losing a piece of himself each time they break down #that's his purpose - and a terribly deadly one at that to put all of his worth into one thing that'll never bring him true happiness

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