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mostlysignssomeportents · 2 months

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Leveraged buyouts are not like mortgages

I'm coming to DEFCON! On FRIDAY (Aug 9), I'm emceeing the EFF POKER TOURNAMENT (noon at the Horseshoe Poker Room), and appearing on the BRICKED AND ABANDONED panel (5PM, LVCC - L1 - HW1–11–01). On SATURDAY (Aug 10), I'm giving a keynote called "DISENSHITTIFY OR DIE! How hackers can seize the means of computation and build a new, good internet that is hardened against our asshole bosses' insatiable horniness for enshittification" (noon, LVCC - L1 - HW1–11–01).

Here's an open secret: the confusing jargon of finance is not the product of some inherent complexity that requires a whole new vocabulary. Rather, finance-talk is all obfuscation, because if we called finance tactics by their plain-language names, it would be obvious that the sector exists to defraud the public and loot the real economy.

Take "leveraged buyout," a polite name for stealing a whole goddamned company:

Identify a company that owns valuable assets that are required for its continued operation, such as the real-estate occupied by its outlets, or even its lines of credit with suppliers;

Approach lenders (usually banks) and ask for money to buy the company, offering the company itself (which you don't own!) as collateral on the loan;

Offer some of those loaned funds to shareholders of the company and convince a key block of those shareholders (for example, executives with large stock grants, or speculators who've acquired large positions in the company, or people who've inherited shares from early investors but are disengaged from the operation of the firm) to demand that the company be sold to the looters;

Call a vote on selling the company at the promised price, counting on the fact that many investors will not participate in that vote (for example, the big index funds like Vanguard almost never vote on motions like this), which means that a minority of shareholders can force the sale;

Once you own the company, start to strip-mine its assets: sell its real-estate, start stiffing suppliers, fire masses of workers, all in the name of "repaying the debts" that you took on to buy the company.

This process has its own euphemistic jargon, for example, "rightsizing" for layoffs, or "introducing efficiencies" for stiffing suppliers or selling key assets and leasing them back. The looters – usually organized as private equity funds or hedge funds – will extract all the liquid capital – and give it to themselves as a "special dividend." Increasingly, there's also a "divi recap," which is a euphemism for borrowing even more money backed by the company's assets and then handing it to the private equity fund:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/09/17/divi-recaps/#graebers-ghost

If you're a Sopranos fan, this will all sound familiar, because when the (comparatively honest) mafia does this to a business, it's called a "bust-out":

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bust_Out

The mafia destroys businesses on a onesy-twosey, retail scale; but private equity and hedge funds do their plunder wholesale.

It's how they killed Red Lobster:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/23/spineless/#invertebrates

And it's what they did to hospitals:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/28/5000-bats/#charnel-house

It's what happened to nursing homes, Armark, private prisons, funeral homes, pet groomers, nursing homes, Toys R Us, The Olive Garden and Pet Smart:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/06/02/plunderers/#farben

It's what happened to the housing co-ops of Cooper Village, Texas energy giant TXU, Old Country Buffet, Harrah's and Caesar's:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/05/14/billionaire-class-solidarity/#club-deals

And it's what's slated to happen to 2.9m Boomer-owned US businesses employing 32m people, whose owners are nearing retirement:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/12/16/schumpeterian-terrorism/#deliberately-broken

Now, you can't demolish that much of the US productive economy without attracting some negative attention, so the looter spin-machine has perfected some talking points to hand-wave away the criticism that borrowing money using something you don't own as collateral in order to buy it and wreck it is obviously a dishonest (and potentially criminal) destructive practice.

The most common one is that borrowing money against an asset you don't own is just like getting a mortgage. This is such a badly flawed analogy that it is really a testament to the efficacy of the baffle-em-with-bullshit gambit to convince us all that we're too stupid to understand how finance works.

Sure: if I put an offer on your house, I will go to my credit union and ask the for a mortgage that uses your house as collateral. But the difference here is that you own your house, and the only way I can buy it – the only way I can actually get that mortgage – is if you agree to sell it to me.

Owner-occupied homes typically have uncomplicated ownership structures. Typically, they're owned by an individual or a couple. Sometimes they're the property of an estate that's divided up among multiple heirs, whose relationship is mediated by a will and a probate court. Title can be contested through a divorce, where disputes are settled by a divorce court. At the outer edge of complexity, you get things like polycules or lifelong roommates who've formed an LLC s they can own a house among several parties, but the LLC will have bylaws, and typically all those co-owners will be fully engaged in any sale process.

Leveraged buyouts don't target companies with simple ownership structures. They depend on firms whose equity is split among many parties, some of whom will be utterly disengaged from the firm's daily operations – say, the kids of an early employee who got a big stock grant but left before the company grew up. The looter needs to convince a few of these "owners" to force a vote on the acquisition, and then rely on the idea that many of the other shareholders will simply abstain from a vote. Asset managers are ubiquitous absentee owners who own large stakes in literally every major firm in the economy. The big funds – Vanguard, Blackrock, State Street – "buy the whole market" (a big share in every top-capitalized firm on a given stock exchange) and then seek to deliver returns equal to the overall performance of the market. If the market goes up by 5%, the index funds need to grow by 5%. If the market goes down by 5%, then so do those funds. The managers of those funds are trying to match the performance of the market, not improve on it (by voting on corporate governance decisions, say), or to beat it (by only buying stocks of companies they judge to be good bets):

https://pluralistic.net/2022/03/17/shareholder-socialism/#asset-manager-capitalism

Your family home is nothing like one of these companies. It doesn't have a bunch of minority shareholders who can force a vote, or a large block of disengaged "owners" who won't show up when that vote is called. There isn't a class of senior managers – Chief Kitchen Officer! – who have been granted large blocks of options that let them have a say in whether you will become homeless.

Now, there are homes that fit this description, and they're a fucking disaster. These are the "heirs property" homes, generally owned by the Black descendants of enslaved people who were given the proverbial 40 acres and a mule. Many prosperous majority Black settlements in the American South are composed of these kinds of lots.

Given the historical context – illiterate ex-slaves getting property as reparations or as reward for fighting with the Union Army – the titles for these lands are often muddy, with informal transfers from parents to kids sorted out with handshakes and not memorialized by hiring lawyers to update the deeds. This has created an irresistible opportunity for a certain kind of scammer, who will pull the deeds, hire genealogists to map the family trees of the original owners, and locate distant descendants with homeopathically small claims on the property. These descendants don't even know they own these claims, don't even know about these ancestors, and when they're offered a few thousand bucks for their claim, they naturally take it.

Now, armed with a claim on the property, the heirs property scammers force an auction of it, keeping the process under wraps until the last instant. If they're really lucky, they're the only bidder and they can buy the entire property for pennies on the dollar and then evict the family that has lived on it since Reconstruction. Sometimes, the family will get wind of the scam and show up to bid against the scammer, but the scammer has deep capital reserves and can easily win the auction, with the same result:

https://www.propublica.org/series/dispossessed

A similar outrage has been playing out for years in Hawai'i, where indigenous familial claims on ancestral lands have been diffused through descendants who don't even know they're co-owner of a place where their distant cousins have lived since pre-colonial times. These descendants are offered small sums to part with their stakes, which allows the speculator to force a sale and kick the indigenous Hawai'ians off their family lands so they can be turned into condos or hotels. Mark Zuckerberg used this "quiet title and partition" scam to dispossess hundreds of Hawai'ian families:

https://archive.is/g1YZ4

Heirs property and quiet title and partition are a much better analogy to a leveraged buyout than a mortgage is, because they're ways of stealing something valuable from people who depend on it and maintain it, and smashing it and selling it off.

Strip away all the jargon, and private equity is just another scam, albeit one with pretensions to respectability. Its practitioners are ripoff artists. You know the notorious "carried interest loophole" that politicians periodically discover and decry? "Carried interest" has nothing to do with the interest on a loan. The "carried interest" rule dates back to 16th century sea-captains, and it refers to the "interest" they had in the cargo they "carried":

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/29/writers-must-be-paid/#carried-interest

Private equity managers are like sea captains in exactly the same way that leveraged buyouts are like mortgages: not at all.

And it's not like private equity is good to its investors: scams like "continuation funds" allow PE looters to steal all the money they made from strip mining valuable companies, so they show no profits on paper when it comes time to pay their investors:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/20/continuation-fraud/#buyout-groups

Those investors are just as bamboozled as we are, which is why they keep giving more money to PE funds. Today, the "dry powder" (uninvested money) that PE holds has reached an all-time record high of $2.62 trillion – money from pension funds and rich people and sovereign wealth funds, stockpiled in anticipation of buying and destroying even more profitable, productive, useful businesses:

https://www.institutionalinvestor.com/article/2di1vzgjcmzovkcea8f0g/portfolio/private-equitys-dry-powder-mountain-reaches-record-height

The practices of PE are crooked as hell, and it's only the fact that they use euphemisms and deceptive analogies to home mortgages that keeps them from being shut down. The more we strip away the bullshit, the faster we'll be able to kill this cancer, and the more of the real economy we'll be able to preserve.

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/2024/08/05/rugged-individuals/#misleading-by-analogy

#pluralistic #leveraged buyouts #lbos #divi recaps #mortgages #weaponized shelter #debt #finance #private equity #pe #mego #bust outs #plunder #looting

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eupheme · 5 months

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— clean slate [into the fire, part v]

part i | part ii | part iii | part iv | masterlist

cooper howard / the ghoul x f!reader

rated e - 4k

tags: dubcon, power dynamics, vault dweller!reader, bounty hunting, sex for favors, sub/dom elements, canon-typical descriptive violence and death, references to blood/gore, anti-ghoul sentiments, physical violence against reader, hurt/comfort, kissing

a/n: please mind the tags! this chapter got twice as long as the others (maybe I didn't want it to end, haha!) and there was a good break, so to keep things consistent, I am splitting it in half! both are being posted today though, so you don't have to wait 💖

Always said he did this shit for the love of the game. But this time - he thinks - it might just be personal.

(or - they took something from the Ghoul, and he’s here to collect)

The afternoon edges into night, and he tells himself each hour is the last one he'll think about you.

The Ghoul had waited for you to look back. Stock-still in the swirling dust that bit at his skin. A white-knuckled grip around the thick coil of rope.

You hadn’t.

His hand still reaches to scrubs at his neck, his jaw. To wipe you away or rub you in, he’s not sure.

It doesn't fucking matter.

He's stuck around a long time. Enough to see generations of families grow old and then die. The last few weeks are no more than a blip, in his far too-long life.

Hell - he's spent more time underground, than with you.

But something prickles at him. Lingering like a bad trip, leaving his teeth clenching and jaw aching as he finishes out the bounty.

It's messy.

It shouldn't have been. Should have been easy - but he's aching for a fight, something to take his mind off things. He's antagonistic.

Could've finished everything up from afar, but he ends up in close range. Another scar marring his chest, new splatters streaked across his dark coat.

It aches, a deep bruise as it heals.

Still only slightly dulling the itch of irritation.

I haven't lied about anything.

Didn’t last night mean anything to you?

It's sometime the next morning, after a night of a starless sky closing in around him, that he gives in.

Heading the way you went without thought, and when he does notice, he tells himself it's only because he needs more chems. That it’d be a shame to lose a supplier as good as you.

That it's easier, for both of you to stick together.

Maybe that's why he was careless. Knowing deep down, it would be easier to find a corpse later than to haul around a bounty, kicking and screaming.

The small sliver left of another man, from another life, knows he was cruel. That anger had turned him into a viper. Had always been good at striking first. Self-preservation beaten into him after two-hundred years - an old, festering wound.

He doesn’t know how to apologize anymore, but he can already think of a few ways to distract you.

Maybe you’ll forget completely, if he's thorough.

The Ghoul is faster than you are. Needs less rest, less food. Has already plotted just how far you can get in a day. Your footprints faded as packed earth leads to woods, but you’re not the type to wander, and there's only a few settlements in the miles ahead.

Halfway to his destination, when his eyes snag on a patch of rocks. A broken bits of branches on the trees just before it. There's something smeared across the stone - tasting like iron, when the tip of a finger brings it to his tongue.

Something ancient twists in his stomach, awakening from a slumber.

Backing up, he's able to piece together the struggle. Seeing the flattened grass, the heavy boot prints, melding with the smaller ones.

Finding a body, fallen off to the side - angling off the rock with the stain. Something familiar about the look of him.

A boot sinks into their side, rolling them over. A curl of a lip - he recognizes them. One of the two bounty hunters they’d fun into.

He had hated their eyes on you when they blew through that town.

Something had prickled at him then, but he had ignored it. A grit of his jaw - should’ve dealt with both of them.

There’s a hole in their head - red spilling down their neck, still tacky to the touch. A clean, close shot. His finger sinks in the wound, the same size as your 10mm.

"Good girl." The Ghoul murmurs.

The slightest ease of the knot in his chest.

A crunch of glass beneath his feet, the glint of the sun catching the needle. Another shape he knows well - a syringe. Probably a tranquilizer.

Three meeting one, with three leaving. The dead weight of you weighing down their steps, the footprints pressing heavily into the earth.

Easy enough for him to follow, as he slings his gun free.

Always said he did this shit for the love of the game.

But this time - he thinks - it might just be personal.

Despite being back among faces you knew, fear had been your only companion since the meeting in the forest.

Hazy memories flicker through your mind. Being dragged, snippets of light and the heat of a fire. The bright sear of dawn, and the dry embrace of the desert again.

Waking to the feeling of your arms being wrenched above your head. Coming to, hissing and spitting. Nails catching the face of one of them - Baine, you think - his fist cracking down hard against your cheek in retaliation.

Leaving you dazed, as your wrists were caught again - bound in place. A cruel curl of a lip, as they examined you like a brahmin.

“You look like a Wastelander”. It’s spit out, a wet mark against the floor, “We’ll get you back where you belong soon enough.”

You’re not sure how much time has passed. A day, maybe. Hunger gnaws at you - only a small sliver of comfort in the dried meat and fruit tossed your way.

Axton, the head of the Reclaimers - those who were tasked with bringing people back - had grown up with you. At one time, was perhaps even more than that. A distant relation of the current Overseers, his blood too thinned out to be of use - but even he won’t look you in the eye.

You both know how this will go, when you get back home.

Hope drains from you, with each hour. Eating away at the little flicker of hope in your chest, wrapped tightly around your heart.

Maybe he’d show.

But despair clouded your thoughts, soon after.

“You get hurt doing some stupid shit, and I’m leavin’ you behind.”

“You're a goddamn fool if you think I hadn’t been planning on turnin' you in the first chance I get."

Maybe he’d been truthful all along, and you hadn’t listened. Read into all those small moments, weaving them together until they had made something tangible.

The looks, stolen breaths and almost-careful touches. All fleeting, but you had caught them. Holding them close to your heart.

But life isn’t like the holotapes you grew up, back when everything felt safe.

There aren’t cowboys anymore. No heroes on horses - with their silver spurs and a shining, golden badge.

No one was coming for you.

The footprints die out, as the bleached trees grow thin.

Tall grass to packed dirt, dried by the sun. Rolling hills and then mountains, scraping against the horizon. The dipping sun casts him in a red light that bleeds to black at his ankles, his shadow stretching back long and lean behind him.

But these roads aren't wholly unknown to him.

Spent time blowing through Junktown and The Hub, a couple dozen miles away. The memory hazy, but there weren't too many places folk could stay, once the sun went down and everything wild and unruly came crawling out.

A feeling in his gut has him stopping two miles down the road. A half-dug quarry, long abandoned even before the world went to hell. Threadbare railings and platforms held together with spit and a prayer, framing the rusted building that cuts into the stone walls.

The tip of his boot taps a loose rock, sending it off the edge. Head cocked as he thinks, until he hears the faintest clatter a hundred feet below.

Two-hundred years ago, he had stood on a ledge much like this. Valley of the Gun. The final shootout had his guns lost in the dust. Fist-fighting with the leader of the gang, until they both near tumbled off the edge together.

Honorable, in the way he had caught the man's hand. Tried to haul him up, but had to let go when a knife was pulled - keeping him the hero. A satisfying death that wasn't his fault, a way to keep his conscience.

All movie tricks. Angles and the implication of falling, as the camera focused on his face that swam with regret.

Comin' after a girl then, too.

Thinks that's why the old memory has loosened in his mind.

Funny how things can change, but the bones remain. How he's still drawn back to life he's left far behind. Even if his conscience was buried, a long time ago.

Some things linger. He could go down. Take one of those ladders, work his way through the tunnels that are sure to wind through the limestone, and up through the back.

But he's never much liked being underground.

Another second of considering, before he's heading for the front door.

He used to like a script, but that was back in the day when the worst thing that could happen was a box-office bomb, not the hell he's been dragged through.

A half-cocked plan already forming. Twisting that connection between them, his own abandoned contract. Get him through the front door and to the man in charge at least, and that might be all he needs. Let years of instinct take over, after that.

Had already gotten a good look at a couple of them, when he first picked up the bounty. It had made him curious - why there was so much fuss, over so small a thing. Easy caps, he decided, when he had gotten a look at you.

Picking up that their brutality had been learned from sharpening their teeth against a silver spoon. Hardy - compared to some Wastelanders - with their filling meals and their pristine weapons.

But they sure as hell don't have the same grit as one.

Not much of anything, really, when compared to him.

The door opens with the push of his shoulder. Hand beneath the swirl of his coat, finger already fixed on the trigger. Not far in until he’s running into one of them - another Vaultie.

The man startles, wide-eyed when he sees him. Green, in his shades of blue and yellow.

“Here ‘bout a job.” The Ghoul keeps his voice light, in spite of everything.

Knows they’re keeping you alive for someone else, as much as that makes his jaw clench. No need to go rushing in just yet.

A flicker of recognition, as the man frowns, “How’d you find us?”

His head tilts, that smooth drawl slipping in, “Wouldn’t be much of a Bounty Hunter if I couldn’t, now, would I?”

The Vault Dweller’s eyes are fixed on his face, that familiar look of fear and disgust - dipping down to the pocket of his nose, the curling smile of yellowed teeth.

It’s strange how foreign it feels, after the hours spent with you looking at him so differently.

Maybe he’d been a fool, after all.

Maybe it’s more than your tight cunt that he wants to bury himself in, to claim. Something soft, bitten back behind his teeth. Something he doesn’t even know if he has a name for, anymore.

Something he didn’t know he needed , until he had chased both it and you away.

“We’ve already got her.” The man manages, after thinking it over, “Don’t think we need your services anymore.”

There’s another flash of teeth at the confirmation.

“Agreement was to find her. And who do you think rustled her up?” His brow lifts, “Would’ve been half-way to New Reno by now, if I hadn’t herded her your way.”

That sharp edge creeping in, “Think my time’s worth a little somethin ’. Don’t you?”

It’s easy for the guard to leave that decision to someone else. Standing aside, to let him pass.

“Thank you kindly.” The Ghoul tips his hat, a swirl of his coat as he passes.

Taking just enough steps past them, waiting until the man’s back turns. Spinning on his heel, after.

The knife glints between his fingers as he twirls it. A hand pressing over the Vault Dweller’s mouth, before the blade sinks into their neck.

Muffling the dying gurgle. A grunt as the Ghoul yanks the blade free - leaving the body crumpled in the shadows, as he winds deeper.

One down.

Hold on, he thinks.

I’m coming.

His whistle echoes in the chamber.

Half old-world - a long-forgotten leitmotif that fuses with new notes of his own. A part to play until he doesn't, letting the Ghoul guide him.

Down the half-lit hallway, the lights flickering overhead from the ancient generator. Everything picked clean like he figured it would be - every last piece of scrap ferreted away, leaving only dusty crates behind.

Still playing the part, as the low murmur of voices grows louder. Ears pricking up, listening for hers. Picking out at least three or four others from the layered hum.

A sneer, at the number. He’s faced worse odds. It’s in his favor really - take out as many fuckers as he can. Send bits and pieces of them back.

His intentions masked, an old habit, by the time he enters the warehouse. A wide steel grate floor, opening up to a second level below, scattered with old machinery.

There’s a table. Cards littering the top - a luxury brought from the Vault, as they bet using caps. Couple Vault Dwellers and that Wasteland son of a bitch from the town. Four total, one lounging on a sleeping pack as if it’s just another night, and they weren’t bringing you to your death.

It rankles him, teeth set on edge.

A scrape of chair legs on the floor, at the drawling condescension of his voice.

“Ain’t y’all a little old for a sleepover?”

Hands rest on holsters, but they don’t draw. The Ghoul focuses on one - a face he recognizes, the one who had sought him out.

The man’s legs spread, as if he’s got something worthwhile between them. The leader of this whole operation. Axton , or some shit like that - it hadn’t been worth his time to remember.

“Believe you fellas got somethin’ of mine.” The Ghoul drawls, “I’m here to collect.”

There’s a pause at that.

One of them, a right-hand man by the look of their padded leather armor - not a scratch on it - scowls. A face that tells another story. Pink marks start at their cheek, jagged lines that end at a thick neck.

His eyes narrow at that, lip curling. A flicker of unease in his belly - fingers clenching where they rest against his hips, close enough to draw.

“You’re too late for payment, ghoul. Heard you were dragging your feet.” His head tilts, towards the Wastelander who had gone still, “We went and got her ourselves.”

The Ghoul grins - a fierce thing, with a flash of teeth. A lilt, in his voice.

“Now, what makes you think I’m here for caps?”

It gives them pause. His question - the prospect of a ghoul showing up, unannounced.

“What else you here for?” Another grunts - eyes already back on his cards, a comfort in their numbers.

“Think you know.”

“The girl?” Atmos laughs, and the sound is cruel, “Heard she split from you. Caught her after.”

A tilt of his head towards the armored man and the Wastelander. Taunting then, “Must not be that good, if you let her slip away. What, she get tired of looking at your ugly mug?”

If they only knew the kind of things he’d done to you. What you had done to him, right back.

The Ghoul is only half-paying attention. Sticks and stones, all their insults falling on deaf ears. Too busy with eyes that flick over the top floor. Then down to the ground below.

Something flipping inside his guts, when he sees it. Cast in shadow near the base of the stairs, but his eyesight is keener than it’s ever been.

Arms bound, the knot looped around the hook of an overturned crane. A raw, split mark - swollen and bruised flesh - on the curve of a smooth cheek. Just above where your teeth cut into a piece of cloth, tied tightly around to gag you.

A tilt of your head, and then your eyes are meeting his. Round and blank with fear. Widening, when you see him.

His girl.

Muscles string tight, eyes narrowed as his teeth clench. You’d paid for what you did, and he’d be there to return the favor.

His gaze snaps back, and focuses. Whatever plan he had been working up burns, turning to ash.

“Always heard that beauty was in the eye of the beholder.” The Ghoul’s tone is conversational - although his blood boils, scalding hot, “But if you wanna see an ugly fucker , well… you best look right there.”

There’s a nod of his head, towards the man in charge. As if on cue, their heads twist to look - just as he draws, and then fires.

The Vault Dweller’s head caves in. Gore splattering against the blue of his suit. Barely a breath before his finger is tugging again, a bullet going through the chest of a second.

Always too goddamn slow.

Hesitant to take a life, even with their bravado.

Something that molted from his skin with the rest of him, over a century ago. He’s already reaching for the gun holstered at his shoulder before return shots are fired.

He can feel the flicker of something miss him, before he’s charging. Ducking under the swing of a knife, the muzzle pressed against ribs.

A hoarse shout that is drawn out by the ringing blast. The knife caught and sent spinning into the back of the Wastelander, heading towards the door.

Flinching, as something slams into his shoulder, just shy of his collarbone, and out the other side. The turn of a head - an eye fixed on the last man standing.

Padded armor won’t do much to stop him.

“That your handiwork?” The Ghoul growls, as his head tips towards you.

The man's finger twitches but he’s faster - a shot going into the meat of their thigh. Downing them as they scream, as the Ghoul saunters over to tug the hilt from where he’s buried it in the Wastlander’s back.

It glints a gleaming red in the light, as he adjusts his grip. Eyeing the scripted tattoos that cross over the man’s knuckles - as they grip at their thigh, near-tenderized from the blast.

Ones that had struck you. Could send them back, spelling out something obscene. A rough laugh at the thought.

He’s got someone waiting for him. But, he knows from experience…

That this won’t take too long.

In the hours since you parted, it’s only now that you can breathe.

For a long moment, you hadn’t dared believe. Eyes drawn to the noise above - the loud pitch of voices.

One of them - rough and low - draws your attention. Everything dark from your angle, an ache as you had tried to see.

Knowing that shadow. The brim of his hat.

The burn of his eyes, when they fixed on you. You could feel the fury in them, even from here. A muted sound of desperation from behind your gag, as you watched.

The Ghoul shoots first - the second his eyes pull away, and it’s all over in a matter of moments.

Your eyes closing at the sound of gunfire, of screaming - until it finally cuts short. Leaving the warehouse eerily silent, except for the clicking of spurs against metal.

He crouches in front of you, now - and you can’t help the whine. So much trapped behind the thick binding of cloth. All you could do is tug at your bound wrists - neck craning as you tried to watch from below.

A force of nature. Bared teeth a quick draw. Again you’re forced to admit to yourself how lucky you were to still be standing, after your first meeting.

He had blown through them like it was nothing.

“Hold on a minute, honey.” That low tone is familiar, calming you as his fingers hook around the cloth. Leaving a smear of red against your jaw as he tugs the gag free - shucking his gloves after.

“Are you hurt?” It comes out ragged. Tongue heavy in your mouth, throat dry. Eyes scanning the dark leather of his coat - all that red , smeared across it, “Thought you got hit.”

He barks out a laugh, your chin trapped between thumb and forefinger, “That’s what you’re worried about?”

Something dark swirling across his features, as he tilts your head towards the light. His thumb pressing at the edge of your bruise, denting skin.

“They got you good, didn’t they?” He murmurs, and you smile through a wince, at the dull ache of pain.

“You got them.”

“Sure did,” It’s distracted, as he cuts at the binds, next. The rope fraying and then splitting, an ache in your shoulders when your arms finally lower.

“Fuckin’ amateurs.” He mutters again, watching as you wince at the rubbed-raw skin at your wrists. The corners of his lips tipped down, lost in thought.

“Thought you would’ve liked seeing me all tied up.” It’s a weak thing. An attempt at humor, the ache in your heart at seeing him cut by the acidity of your last meeting.

He blinks. Comes back to himself, a hoarse hum of amusement.

“Only when I’m doing it, sweetheart.” The Ghoul’s eyes meet yours then, a hint of a smirk with the tilt of his head.

“Can think of a much better way of gagging you, too.”

There’s almost a softness to his tone. Just barely there, tinting the rough edges. Something like hope flutters - delicate, behind your ribs.

“You… you came, for me.” You need the clarification. To hear him say it. That this isn’t some ruse, a way to take you directly to the source, “You’re not-”

There’s a sigh, as he fixes you with a long look. His head tipping towards the platform above, a lazy flick of his finger towards an arm that dangles from the ledge.

“Well that there man’s the one I got your contract from,” The Ghoul drawls, “Said I was to return what belonged to somebody else.”

Those eyes fixing on you again, “Seein’ as you’re not , and seein’ as that man is now indisposed…”

His words trail off - and you can’t help the small smile, as he finishes.

“I’m thinkin we’re square.”

The look you give him is soft. Admiring. You don’t know how he tracked you down, but he did.

“You saved me.” It’s hushed, and at your tone his eyes pull from you.

Fixing somewhere low, off to the side, as he crouches. Uncomfortable with the way you look at him. How you see him. Not used to it, not after so many years.

You’re not able to resist.

Muscles stringing stiff when you lean forward. Lips pressed against the leather of his cheek, fingers ghosting against his jaw.

A huff then, teeth biting into his tongue with the shake of a head. His eyes dark, as you pull back, hovering.

“Darlin’ if you’re going to be stealin’ a kiss, you best be doin’ it properly.” The Ghoul rasps, eyes flicking down to your mouth.

His head tips towards yours, but it’s your that meets his first. A little sound in your throat as your lips slot against his. Warm and insistent as his knees drop to press into the cement floor.

Tugging at you, as your fingers grasp at his collar. A hungry lick of his tongue against the seam of your lips as you whine, crushing your chest to his.

His fingers at your neck, your jaw. Angling your head, a rough groan as you part for him. Turning ravenous - wandering hands as your tongue slips against his. Panting breaths and a grinding of hips when he yanks you closer.

“How many were there?” He hums, as you try to sneak a ragged breath.

The curve of a smile when you try to ignore him, a click of his tongue.

“I dunno,” Your mind is too foggy. Too focused on the hands that trace against your waist, “Four? No… maybe five?”

“You don’t seem too sure, sweetheart.” He does smile then, at the little mark between your eyebrows. Untangling himself - a hand reaching down to adjust himself, as he stands.

“As much as I’d like to take you right here,” He husks, eyes dragging over you, “The last thing I need is a bullet in the ass.”

A tilt of his head, towards the open floor.

“Come on, cowpoke. Let’s do a sweep.”

the last (final, for real this time) part will be up in just a little bit! 💖 thank you so much for reading - this series has become so much to me, and every ask or comment or tag or reblog has absolutely meant the world 💕

#please mind the tags!#cooper howard x reader #cooper howard x you #the ghoul x reader #the ghoul x you #fallout smut #fallout tv series #fallout #cooper howard

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probablyasocialecologist · 5 months

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TikTok was where I learned about SHEIN. For a while my For You page, which had accurately identified my interest in fashion’s more material impacts, served me videos of sustainable fashion influencers decrying SHEIN’s wretched labor and environmental practices. The textile industry is the second-largest polluter in the world, they said, and of all the fast-fashion producers, SHEIN is by far the worst offender. SHEIN uses toxic chemicals in their clothing production; SHEIN mass-produces fabrics like spandex that never decompose (at this point an image would flash across the screen: an overflowing clothing landfill, or a mountain of discarded clothes in the Chilean desert so large it is visible from space); SHEIN exploits and endangers its factory workers. Employees earn $556 a month to make five hundred pieces of clothing every day, work eighteen-hour days, and use their lunch breaks to wash their hair — a schedule they repeat seven days per week with only one day off per month. A more nuanced TikToker might point out, briefly, that conditions in SHEIN factories are not necessarily unique, or that focusing on suppliers — rather than the larger systems of Western consumption and capitalism that create these conditions — is a fool’s errand, but the platform isn’t built for that kind of dialogue. I clicked on the comments and invariably read ones with several dozen likes saying, “I’m so willing to die in shein clothes.” Before long I was watching SHEIN hauls. There are millions of them — the tag #sheinhaul has been viewed a collective 14.2 billion times on TikTok. In each haul, a woman rips open a plastic bag filled with smaller plastic bags filled with small plastic clothing. Sometimes the woman holds up each garment and narrates its merits, but often the clothes are disembodied, laid flat on a floor or a bed in an accidental stop-motion animation. A stretchy red skirt on a furry white carpet is replaced by a strapless watercolor bustier with a deep-V neckline. A zebra-print skirt is followed by a matching pink two-piece set, with a short-sleeve cardigan and miniskirt constructed from a fabric that looks like bubble wrap. Sometimes a haul is five pieces, and sometimes it is too many pieces to count. The garments appear and disappear in seconds, edited to the beat of a trending song. Rarely do we see the clothing on a body. Usually brand familiarity accrues in a slow drip, building from obscurity to instant recognizability over the course of months or years as a designer’s work intersects with the zeitgeist and gains traction on social media. SHEIN was different. One day I’d never heard of the retailer and the next it was inescapable: in thousands of outfit videos, on millions of social media feeds. The clothes weren’t distinct or cohesive; what united them wasn’t style but price. All those SHEIN hauls entered my feeds with such ubiquity that they began to feel like they’d always been there. I’d opened a door to a new part of the fashion internet: a place where girls bragged about their ultra-fast-fashion purchases, delighting in the cheapness of the garments. Here, SHEIN was the obvious choice for new clothes. Why not, when you could buy on-trend pieces at lightning speed for less than the price of a cup of coffee? It was uncanny to bounce between videos: here was a girl showing off her new halter, here was another girl giving a litany of reasons why it was unconscionable to buy clothes for so little money. Didn’t these TikTokers hear one another? But then again, how could they? “This is what we keep missing here in the whole conversation about sustainability in the industry,” Nick Anguelov, a professor of public policy from UMass Dartmouth, said to a Slate journalist writing about SHEIN in June. “We keep failing to understand that our customers are kids and they don’t give a fuck.”

#shein #fashion #fast fashion #tiktok

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schistostegapennata · 1 year

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Considering your moss poaching post, do you have any advice on how to source ethical moss? Especially large quantities like for a moss garden? I've always wanted one instead of a lawn but I don't want to wreck an ecosystem for it.

I do!! Also, sorry for the delay on this, I'm moving abroad and the preparations have made the past couple of weeks kind of crazy and I wanted to make sure to give a proper (and hopefully helpful!) answer. It is absolutely possible to get yourself some ethically-sourced live moss (even in larger quantities)! Places that cultivate moss are usually smaller-scale since the process can be a bit tricky, so it might take a bit of coordination for a larger amount.

In terms of live moss, there are dedicated moss nurseries that grow, harvest, and then sell different varieties. Their method is similar to that of mushroom farms, involving logs placed in a damp area in or near wooded land. Moss Acres cultivates their moss this way in a nursery that spans many acres. They also work with a sister company that makes living, ethically-cultivated and harvested moss walls.

Another really great option is Mountain Moss. They mainly rescue moss from land that is slated for development, saving it from being thrown out to make way for buildings. They are also certified to collect native mosses that would otherwise be destroyed and have all the proper permits to distribute them (both things to check on when picking a moss supplier). A lot of their moss ends up going to native restoration projects, which is amazing as well. They do a lot of public outreach too through lectures and workshops on moss gardening, moss terrariums, etc.

Also check with local plant nurseries near you, as lots of them cultivate moss (there's one near me that has a dedicated moss patch).

Main things to keep in mind when choosing a moss supplier:

· Do they cultivate the moss themselves in a nursery?

· If not, is it sourced from private land where it would otherwise be destroyed? Do they have a harvesting permit and an agreement with the landowner?

· Is the moss native to where you want to plant it?

· How do they harvest the moss? (even nursery moss needs to be gathered in smaller quantities from various parts of the nursery to fulfill a larger order)

· Is the type of moss endangered?

· Are they certified to distribute live moss?

Just as a side-note, for anyone who gardens with peat/sphagnum moss, a good sustainable alternative is coco coir! Also, if that doesn't suit your needs and you definitely need a moss-based growing mix, Sun Gro harvests ethically and sustainably, as does Better-Gro.

Hope this helps a bit, happy mossing! If anyone sees this and has other suggestions on where to look for ethical moss, please feel free to add on :)

#ask #asks for me!!!#moss #ethical moss #mosscore #nature #moss poaching #environmental issues #sustainable #sustainability

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cupid-tune · 1 year

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hey uhm could you tell us more about your fantrolls? they all look really cool but i dont know much more about them besides that. :P (also i like jhudas shes very pretty :])

OH ABSOLUTELY!! You have no idea how happy I am to get messages like this! This is gonna be a long post just because I want to get all of my guys in here, apologies in advance!

Not all of my trolls have fully fleshed out backstories yet, but the ones with dancestors are part of a fansession I'm in, they've had the most development by far.

Armane

Armane is probably my most neglected character, but I do really love his design and concept! He's a Burgundy with a lot of fight in him, despite his weak stature. He partakes in a lot of underground fighting rings in lowblood districts, usually to take out his anger or earn a little extra money. He's obviously gotten very hurt from it many times in the past, but that hasn't scared him away from a fight just yet. One of the reasons he gets violent so often is just the fact that he wants to prove himself to be tough and independent, since his lusus is very protective of him and has been ever since he was a wriggler. He's just a little problem child.

Armane is very afraid of death, but he hates mentioning or bringing up any of his fears. In general, he just isn't a very social or talkative troll, preferring actions over words and keeping his distance in any kind of gatherings. You could probably get him to warm up to you easy if you don't pose as a threat, but Armane follows the hemospectrum pretty strictly, and usually won't talk to mid bloods or higher on his own.

Nonemu

Nonemu is the leader of a cult called the Anon Trolls. I haven't done very much with their character in terms of backstory yet, since I really like them as a blank slate for whatever I could use them in. Her cult is meant to serve as an escape from society, living in a commune much more isolated from other trolls. To be apart of the family is to denounce your place in the hemospectrum and completely hide your color, as a way of being treated equally amongst everyone else in the commune. It's unknown what caste Nonemu is, but some say all the possible traits are hidden away, like their eye color for example.

Nonemu is a very kind and patient troll, serving as a sort of parental figure over his commune. He takes great responsibility and pride in his work, and can be quite a mystery to talk to. Nonemu is the type of person to speak in very vague terms, never really being fully truthful or transparent. It's up to interpretation whether or not they can be considered truly kind or malicious with their intentions.

Fennek

Ok Fennek is like. Think of troll Jesse Pinkman and that's what you got. My concepts for Fennek are in general pretty scattered, but his main gig is that he participates in a lot of illegal business as a supplier and seller. Having grown up on internet culture and self study, Fennek has taught himself all kinds of useful skills in advancing his unfortunate position to make the most of life. Chemicals and weapons are his specialty, but his skills and personality are nearly opposite.

Fennek is a very chill and easy-going kind of guy, never really taking any situations seriously. It's a wonder he hasn't died yet with the amount of life threatening risks he puts himself in. The mask really is the only precaution he takes when it comes to working with chemicals or other substances, his hair is probably full of toxic shit. It kind of gives off the idea that Fennek knows he won't live very long anyway, so he doesn't care either way. Live life to the fullest while you can.

Trinet

Admittedly, the dancestor designs are some of my favorites. The first concept for Trinet was that I just wanted a troll who was really into explosives, and oh boy is he into them. Similar to his dancestor, Trinet is an inventor who specializes in bombs. Explosives of any kind! He's very loud, probably due to the fact that his hearing isn't all there. It's probably a Snuzek tradition to just not be properly equipped for the shit you're trying to do, precautions aren't a concern whatsoever.

Trinet is VERY outgoing and active! He talks a lot and fast, you might not catch everything he says. Although his personality kind of gives off the idea that he's dumb or aloof, he's much more impressive when talking about the stuff he actually knows, like how to make this specific bomb or what that compound of elements can make! With how bright and joyful he seems, sometimes the things he talks about can be pretty dark or upsetting. There are lots of themes of death surrounding both Snuzeks, which I'll probably elaborate more on another post.

Zuzu

Zuzu is a whole fucking bundle of fun!! Ok the original concept was supposed to be a DJ troll, but somewhere through the designing process, they ended up turning into a Vocaloid. Centered around a lot of 2010 scene-type themes, Zuzu is an underground music artist and singer trying to make a name for herself. She'll take up any gigs available, hoping to be the party of the life and meet all kinds of trolls. Unfortunately, the music business is tough, and trying to get famous off of it is a lot more work than he initially thought.

Zuzu is the type of troll you'd go to for help or advice, a people pleaser with the full intention of trying to look good in the eyes of everyone. They can be pretty pushy at times, and they're not very good at reading the room. Although Zuzu means well, they fuck up social situations frequently, instead making him seem desperate or clingy. It seems like their emotions are amplified on all sides of the spectrum, one bad day can be a harsh blow for them.

Farrow

Although scary looking at first glance, Farrow is probably one of the most harmless trolls you'll meet. A simple farmer with a goal to live a just as simple life, Farrow is a recluse who lives on the outskirts of the city. They hardly ever interact with other trolls, not after an incident that caused them to lose their vision. A long time ago, Farrow worked as a bounty hunter, usually taking culling jobs as a means of getting trades for other goods. Now Farrow has taken up a more harmless line of work, disposing of the bodies from other troll's dirty work. They'll get rid of anything you might need to hide, using it for their own benefit such as fertilizer or food for their lusus.

In general, Farrow is very close to their lusus, using him as a guide around the farm and other places. Laying low is the next best option, but Farrow really doesn't mind. They are a welcoming troll with a habit of appearing much scarier than they mean to. Whether it be a creepy smile or misjudging you for an intruder, Farrow walks the line of good and bad. They don't really see their actions as immoral, simply understanding that their planet is a cruel place, and they really aren't the worst there is out there.

Fichte

Fichte was my first fan troll ever, originally used as a persona and turned into a dumbass philosopher. He is an absolute stuck up prick and will not apologize for any of his behavior. As cold cut as you can get with someone, Fichte is the type that will upright tell you his intentions and then get upset when you don't follow through with them like he wants. He'll study you, use you for research, and completely discard you after if you aren't of any use to him.

While seemingly emotionally distant, if you spend even a little time with him had he not pissed you off already, you might start to see signs of insecurity or loneliness. Fichte always favors logic over emotions, finding comfort in knowledge rather than the untameable pool of socialization. The subjects he studies varies, but his main interest is philosophy and studying the behavior of other trolls. One thing he especially loves doing is keeping notes of just about everyone he meets, and he has plenty of notebooks filled with just that.

Xarlow

Xarlow is just the guy you'd expect him to be, a silly clown guy with a horrible personality. He likes to consider himself popular and well known, running his own circus with his found siblings and performing to his heart's content. Xarlow specializes in the art of extreme performance, commiting acts of violence against others and himself. His tight corset is in fact one of the self proclaimed "art pieces" of his, using his body as a canvas and thereby destroying it. Speaking of, Xarlow had managed to lose one of his horns by accident during a public show, which ended in him tearing out the other to match. That was not a pretty show.

Xarlow doesn't seek sympathy. He isn't a good person outside of performing and he knows it. The general consensus of his personality is that he's bad, but there are so many personalities to choose from that it becomes confusing at times to pinpoint just one. He's manipulative and cruel, hypocritical at its worse. His history with Fichte is a great example of this cruelty, moirails turned kismesis to what eventually became too toxic to keep. They both hurt each other in their own ways, it's difficult to take sides. One thing is for certain is that their experience has had lasting effects, Xarlow isn't someone you should consider for a quadrant.

Onette

Onette is the definition of a gentle giant. What you see on the outside is entirely what's on the inside, a harmless troll who wants nothing more than to just create and enjoy life. A very soft spoken girl, Onette tries her best to appear harmless and approachable despite her size and caste, dressing in delicate clothing and using a gentle, warm voice to reassure others. Onette has a fascination with creation and art, one of her biggest hobbies being that of making dolls and paintings.

Onette has a certain distain for those in her own caste, often chastising them for their treatment of lowbloods, but doing nothing herself to stop them. She's soft, but perhaps too soft. Onette can be frightened easily, and is extremely nonconfrontational, something that she has a difficult time trying to come to terms with. Ironically, Onette has an interest in purplebloods especially, due to their popularity in being known as clowns. Many of her dolls are inspired by them, which can almost be seen as creepy or obsessive if you stepped into her hive.

Jhudas

Jhudas is very different from her dancestor, nearly opposite in nature. My biggest inspiration for her was the song Brutus, which can be seen in both her design and personality. She is a backstabber, often engaging in violence of all kind just to pave her way to the top. Unlike Onette, Jhudas has a clear hatred for the castes above her, purplebloods especially because she believes they rub their position in her face as being the caste right above. Jhudas deals with anger issues, and will likely explode on you with any minor inconvenience. She works as an assassin, usually taking up jobs from fellow highbloods even if she despises that fact.

Jhudas will be subservient to those she works for, but you can tell there are ulterior motives behind it. Waiting for the right moment to strike, to prove she is above everyone else in order to get what she wants. Despite all this, Jhudas may be one of your best allies, especially in quadrants. She's protective of those she deems worthy, and exerts a lot of tough love if she believes you can do better in handling yourself. It's just advised you should watch your back with her no matter what.

Veictr

Just from looks alone, you can tell what his deal is. Crazy scientist troll with the absolute worst intentions, gleefully using others in his nonsensical experiments all for the name of research. Veictr is just that! Everything about him should tell you that he's dangerous, and he very much is. Having stole the headlight of his dear lusus after a particularly nasty fight, Veictr began his work diving into the world of body modifications and mutation. He managed to find a way to hook the light to his own system, forming a symbiotic relationship with his body and the bacteria just as a symbol of award from his lusus.

Veictr is quite a confusing character in terms of personality, showing absolutely no sympathy for anyone while also being a sweetheart to those who manage to stay alive in his presence. He doesn't mean to intentionally hurt anyone, it just so happens that death and injury occurs when experiments fail. He's quite giggly too, with a hyperactive attitude and a great interest in others, Veictr can make for great conversation. His curiosity knows no bounds, and it really is a wonder how he manages to prove some of his theories correct.

Lucius

Lucius is probably the most unfortunate of my trolls. Having suffered the consequences of their own actions, Lucius managed to find herself trapped at the bottom of the ocean by a certain Fuchsia due to an obsession gone too far. Before this incident, she was considered a dangerous troll, perhaps just as much as her dancestor, but unfortunately, she was shut down far before she could get too bad. Although her entrapment was meant to be her execution, Lucius managed to survive with the help of her lusus, escaping after a sweep of just barely making it out.

Now, Lucius is an entirely different person. After so long of being in isolation, they've become paranoid and weak, suffering the many effects the ocean put them through. What was the most interesting part, however, was the fact that they returned with a strange mutation. It is unknown how exactly it happened, but Lucius now suffers with a bioluminescent stomach, her skin seeming thinner or perhaps even transparent.

Her story breaks off into many directions depending on the context, but one involves the scientific interest her own dancestor took of her after being discovered in this state. I'm currently in the progress of making an animatic based on this particular outcome which I'm very excited about! More lore stuff to be expanded on later.

This is the general information for each of my characters so far! There's a lot more detail I'd like to expand on in separate posts, especially considering I'm trying to cram a bunch into one. I really really appreciate the interest in my characters, and I hope to post more content about them soon! It makes me super happy that people enjoy them as much as I do.

This took a while to make LMAO

#homestuck #homestuck oc #fantroll #oh get ready for these tags #armane cedroc #fennek snuzek #trinet snuzek #zedroi telcho #farrow takshi #fichte nicolo #onette anikin #jhudas anikin #xarlow anowin #veictr loffei #lucius loffei #nonemu #long post

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eridanidreams · 9 months

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Snippet Sunday

Tagging: @bearlytolerant, @silurisanguine, @aro-pancake, @fangbangerghoul, @atonalginger, @aislingdmdt, @fshenkoescape, @ninjaofnaps, @lisa-and-shadow, @a-cosmic-elf, @thatsgoodsquishy0, @hockeydemon42, @fomagranfalloon@violenceandviolets, and @artemis-crimson

from stars through my fingers like grains of sand

Sam was already at the Rock when Cait got there; he was deep in conversation with the dark-haired senior Ranger she'd passed a few times. She didn't interrupt, just headed up the stairs to the Marshal's office. He wasn't one to waste words or time. "Welcome back. Any luck finding out who stole the ship from HopeTech?"

Blake's crisp efficiency cut through any lingering haze from the morning, and Cait could almost feel her spine straighten a bit more in reaction. "With Ranger Pryce's help, we tracked it back to a known ship-jacker name of Grace Early. From what she said, I still think it was an inside job, but I've asked Ranger Kalu for assistance with that aspect. She's better positioned to follow up in HopeTech itself. She had some physical evidence—an encrypted slate—which I've handed over to Ranger Hadid. He's asked me to keep an eye out for more of them."

"Good," he said. "I'm glad to see you know how to work as part of a team. And, it sounds like you're making real progress."

"Not as much as I'd like," she said grimly. "I have a couple names, but shutting down the First won't help unless we can get a tie to whoever hired them." Blake nodded, and she sensed agreement and approval in his tightly-controlled emotions. "Since you have personal knowledge of the First, sir, I was hoping you could give me some intel on these names: Maya Cruz and Marco… something. Marco's a money man. Cruz was the go-between."

Blake grunted. "I served with Maya Cruz. Technical genius and expert hacker. Arrogant. Not a people person. Marco… about the time he got out of jail, we started hearing his name in connection with a smuggling racket. Based on what you've learned, I'd presume he's funneling his ill-gotten gains to the First. Autumn MacMillan's looking into that operation out at the Red Mile, but…" He frowned. "He runs a tight ship, but one of his suppliers isn't quite as careful. Sonny di Falco. He's got a little estate on Maheo I. If you want my advice, I'd follow up there first before jogging Autumn's elbow."

Cait nodded. "As for Cruz, she was suffering from some kind of serious illness; I thought I'd start looking at the Clinic."

"Best medical services money can buy," Blake nodded again. "Good call. With their privacy guarantees, it's ideal for someone trying to keep a low profile. Ranger Ben Armistead is posted there; I'll send him an update on the situation. He'll be expecting you."

"Thank you, sir," she said.

"You're welcome. Just remember, your priority is to gather more intel on the First. What are they planning? Who are they working for? Where are they headquartered?" Blake fired out the questions like bullets.

"Whatever they're planning," she replied, "it's going to be something meant to hurt the Collective. They believe that the Collective betrayed them."

"That's right," he agreed. "Your targets were locked up because they were loyal to their unit and Major Hull. They won't take kindly to you sticking your nose in, so watch your back." He gave her a stiff nod of dismissal. "Good hunting, Deputy."

Cait echoed his nod and made her way back downstairs, thinking hard. All in all, she was inclined to take the Marshal's advice, start with the easiest nut to crack. Sam was sipping a Boom!Pop while chatting with Helga; he gave Cait a casual little wave of acknowledgment when she entered the bar. Despite her best efforts to keep his feelings at bay, she couldn't help but pick up fragments of his good mood. Cora's visit must have gone well, then. She paused a moment at the jobs console, giving Sam time to wrap up his conversation.

He caught up with her just outside the Rock. "Mornin'," he said cheerfully, handing her a Boom!Pop Cherry. "Sleep well?"

The question made her damn near fall on her face—How could he know?!—before she realized how impossible it was that he'd be referring to—that. "Fine," she said hurriedly, trying to fight down the flush she felt creeping up her neck. "Just fine, thanks." She took a deep, determined breath. "Um. You?"

"Oh," he chuckled, "I slept juuuuuuuuust fine." Cait didn't have to see Sam's grin to know it was there, an air of lazy satisfaction that thrummed down that weird little connection she had to him, sent a tingle down her spine and made her insides tighten. With an effort, she shoved it down, but she couldn't help but be hyper-aware of his presence next to her, warm and solid, and all she had to do was turn around and bring her lips to his—

Dammit! What the hell was wrong with her? She shivered, running her hands up and down her arms. Sam—of course—noticed, but fortunately he chalked it up to the cool of the morning. "You know," he said affectionately, "you wouldn't be so cold if you grabbed a jacket. Why don't you take mine until we reach the ship?"

He was already starting to shrug out of it when she blurted, "No—!" That no was the hardest thing she'd ever had to say; she desperately wanted to say yes, to surround herself in his warmth and his scent… and she was terrified of what might happen if she did. Had to remind herself that they were just friends. That he loved someone else. "No," she managed to repeat more normally, even smiling a little to soften it. "I appreciate the offer, but a little cool won't kill me."

"A'right," Sam said, settling it back on his shoulders. "So what's the plan?" He seemed different today—his emotions seemed more—muted—than usual, like he was holding something in. Cait should have been happy about that, given the trouble she'd been having tuning him out—but instead she felt bereft. Again—what the hell was wrong with her? "Cait—?" He sounded concerned, and she shook herself out of her thoughts.

"Sorry." She gave him an apologetic smile. "Um, Maheo I. Marco's got a smuggling contact by the name of Sonny di Falco; he's got an estate there. Marshal thinks we're more likely to be able to squeeze something out of him." Sam's emotions flared cold hatred, and when Cait chanced a look at him, his face was set in stone.

"I know him," he said, and his voice was as flat and hard as his expression. "He's a slimy bastard. Big shot on Neon, 'til he did something to cross Ben Bayu. Couldn't have been too bad—he got out with his skin in one piece—and he's still got his fingers in a lot of pies. If he's working with Marco, that's bad news all around." He looked at her, a strange, almost desperate intensity in his gaze. "You watch yourself with him. He has a lot of charm, he knows how to use it, and he's good at getting his hooks into the innocent and naive and—twisting them all up."

"And which am I?" she asked sarcastically.

He exhaled harshly. "That first one. Cait—" he held up a hand to forestall her protests "—when it comes to dealing with people like him… you are. He likes to think of himself as a collector of people, and you? You're—you're unique. He's gonna take one look at you and—" He shook his head, and something dark and savage surfaced for a moment in his eyes. "Just trust me on this one, okay? Do not agree to anything. Do not take anything he offers. 'Specially not Aurora. He'll get you hooked on that shit faster than a grav jump to nowhere." He was holding in his feelings so hard it had to hurt—all she got was a vague sense of mingled anger, hatred, and fear that burned like acid.

"I trust you," she told him softly. "If you say he's bad news, I will be extra careful." She hesitated. "Are you going to be okay going in there with me?"

"Don't even think of going in with someone else," Sam growled, shifting his rifle a little on his back.

"Okay." Cait didn't hesitate to give him her agreement. "I'll make sure you're carrying a couple extra junk flushes, then. I… don't react well to Aurora, so if he does manage to slip me some, you might need it."

"If he does, he's dead." Sam's voice cracked like a gunshot. Mood he was in, she wasn't going to argue.

#snippet sunday #sam coe #fanfic #eridani writes #starfield #caitlyn lynch #stars through my fingers like grains of sand #coemancer

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