#buy hosting for small business | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

zooophagous · 1 year

Note

So why do you hate the advertising industry?

Hokay so.

Let me preface this with some personal history. It's not relevant to the sins of the advertising industry perse but it illustrates how I started to grow to hate it.

I wanted to be a veterinarian growing up, but to be a vet you basically have to be good enough to get into medical school. I do not have the math chops or discipline to make it in medical school. I went into art instead, and in a desperate attempt to find some commercial viability that didn't involve moving to California, I went into graphic design.

I've been a graphic designer for about seven or eight years now and I've worn a lot of hats. One of them was working in a print shop. Now, the print shop had a lot of corporate customers who had various ad campaigns. One of them was Gate City Bank, which had a bigass stack of postcards ordered every couple months to mail to their customers.

Now, paper comes from Dakota Paper, and they make their paper the usual way. Somewhere far, far from our treeless plain there is a forest of tall trees. These trees are cut down and put on big fossil fuel burning trucks and hauled to a paper mill that turns them into pulp while spewing the most fowl odors imaginable over the neighboring town and loads the pulp up with bleach to give it a nice white color.

Then the paper is put on yet another big truck and hauled off to the local paper depot, then put on another big truck and delivered to my print shop, where I turned the paper into postcards telling people to go even deeper into debt to buy a boat because it's almost summer. The inks used are a type of nasty heat sensitive plastic that is melted to the surface of the paper with heat. Then the postcards are put on yet ANOTHER truck and sent to the bank, which puts them on ANOTHER truck and finally into the hands of their customers, who open their mail and take one look at the post card and immediately discard it.

Heaps and heaps and literal hundreds of pounds of literal garbage created at the whim of the marketing team several times a year. And thats just one bank in one city.

I came to realize very quickly that graphic design was the delicate art of turning trees into junk mail.

And wouldn't you know it there are a TON of companies that basically only do junk mail. Many of them operate under the guise of a "charity," sending you pictures of suffering children or animals and begging for handouts and when they get those handouts the executives take a nice fat cut, give some small token amount to whatever cause they pay lip service to, and then put the rest of the cash right back into making more mailers. "Direct mail marketing" they call it.

Oh but maybe it's not so bad, you can advertise online after all. Now that there's decent ad blocker out there and better anti-virus ads usually don't destroy your computer anymore just by existing.

Except now when I search for the exact business I want on Google it's buried under three or four different "promoted search items" tricking me into clicking on them only to shoot themselves in the foot because I searched for the specific result I wanted for a reason and couldn't use those other websites even if I felt like it.

And now we have advertising on YouTube and on every streaming service, forcing more and more eyes onto the ad for the brand new Buick Envision that parks itself because you're too stupid to do it on your own.

Oh thats ok maybe I'll get Spotify premium and go ad free and listen to some podcasts- SIKE we have the hosts of your show doing the song and dance now. Are you depressed and paranoid from listening to my true crime podcast about murdered and mutilated teenagers? That's ok, my sponsor Better Help can keep you sane enough to stay alive and spend more money.

It's gotten so terrible that now you have content farms, huge hubs of shell companies that crank out video after video to get more and more precious clicks. Which if the videos were innocuous maybe that wouldn't be so awful except now you have cooking hacks that can actually burn your house down and craft hacks that can electrocute you being flung into your eyes at the speed of mach fuck so some slimy internet clickbait jockey doesn't need to get a real job.

It of course goes without saying that animals are also relentlessly exploited by clickbait companies that will put them in compromising situations on purpose to create a fake fishing hack video or even just straight up killing them for sport by feeding small animals to a pufferfish that rips them apart for the camera.

And all of this, ALL of this doesn't even touch how adveritising is the death of art in general. Queer topics, any kind of interesting art, any kind of sex or substance use topics are scrubbed clean and hidden at the behest of advertisers.

Sex education, a nude statue, topics such as racism or sexism or bigotry in general have tags purged or hidden from search, even life saving information about SDTs or drug use, because if someone saw that and complained then Verizon might sell fewer tablets and we can't fucking have that.

Conservative talking heads often bitch and moan that they're being censored on social media. The stupid part is, they're right! They are being censored! But it's not by a woke mob, it's by ATT and Coca Cola not wanting their adspace sharing screen time with their stupid fucking opinions.

However, they won't ever figure that out, because the talking heads they get their marching orders from like Tucker and Jones ALSO rely on the sweet milk flowing from the sponsorship teat and they aren't about to turn on their meal ticket so they have to come up with even stupider shit to say for the train to continue rolling.

I managed to rant this far without even getting into the ads I see for the beauty industry. The other day a botox ad described wrinkles as "moderate to severe crows feet" as if wrinkles are a symptom of a fucking serious disease! Like having a flaw in your skin is a medical problem that you need thousands of dollars of literal botulism toxin to fix! I was incandescent with anger.

Advertising is a polluting, censoring, anti educational and anti art industry at it's very core. It destroys human connections, suppresses human thought and makes us hate our own bodies. It ads no value, actively detracts from value, and serves no real purpose and I believe it should be almost if not entirely banned.

23K notes · View notes

batshit-auspol · 4 months

Text

With the sudden collapse of the Soviet Union in the early 1990s, many of the former empire's resources were sold off to the highest bidder, and their $14 billion space shuttle program was no exception.

Seeking to recoup some of that eyewatering spend, in 1998, the "Buran" (Russia's answer to the American Space Shuttle) was offered up for sale on eBay for $10 million.

No serious offers were received - with most people assuming the listing to be a joke, until the New York Post confirmed the sale, with Russian authorities stating they "actually have two" if anyone is interested.

(Pictured: A later auction of a smaller scale Buran in 2005)

Sensing an opportunity, a group of Aussie entrepreneurs including Australia's first astronaut and the lawyer for Prime Minister Paul Keating offer to lease the shuttle from Russia, to put it on display in Australia during the Sydney Olympics.

After gaining permission from the Kremlin for the lease, in 1999 the Russian military briefly stops bombing Chechnya in order to dismantle the Buran, and it is placed on a barge to be shipped to Sydney on the (soon to be infamous for other reasons) Tampa shipping vessel at a cost of $5 million.

Once in Sydney, after a disastrous few months on display where crowds failed to flock to the shuttle exhibition featuring such compelling educational offerings as "activities is to assist in the development of issues of nutrition and hygiene at home" (an actual quote from their website) - the leasing company declared bankruptcy and washed their hands of the space shuttle completely.

The Buran Gift shop where you could buy soviet space ship themed football jerseys, in case you needed one of those

One of four people listed on the lease, described as a business partner of the Prime Minister, also claims he never knew he was a director of the company, which went on to cause a lot more problems.

This whole debacle presented a slight issue for the cash strapped Russian authorities, who had now only been paid $100,000 for the 9 year lease of the shuttle instead of the $600,000 they were owed. Eventually the decision was made to abandon the once $1 billion Soviet pride and joy in a Sydney carpark, where it resided for a year under a small tarpaulin.

Failed attempts to be rid of the shuttle included a 12 day auction hosted by an LA radio station, where listeners were offered the chance to buy the shuttle for $6 million, however all bids turned out to be pranks and the shuttle remained.

Multiple attempts were also made to sell the shuttle to Tom Cruise, with the exacerbated movie star's representatives repeatedly telling the insistent traders that he was not interested in owning a Russian spaceship.

Eventually a Singaporean group dismantled the shuttle and shipped it overseas, however Russian authorities soon reported they once again had been failed to be paid for the lease. Singaporean representatives responded that they definitely had paid for the shuttle, and that they simply couldn't remember when or how much was paid.

Representing the Russian government, Lawyer Suhaila Turani told the Wall Street Journal “I feel sorry for the Russians. They’re good in space, but they’re very naive in business.”

For a time the shuttle was abandoned in the storage yard of event company Pico, with the company owner telling the Wall Street Journal "I just want this thing out of my life" after three years of being stuck with it.

A few years later the shuttle was found by German journalists dismantled in a junkyard, and it was then bought and shipped to Germany to be put on display a museum, so all's well that ends well (except they dropped it from a crane while trying to set it up, but it polished up okay).

#auspol #australia #russia #history #fun facts

7K notes · View notes

elliezato · 3 months

Text

𝚅𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝙴𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚎₊˚⊹♡

Pairing: ellie x reader

Summary: You're not a huge fan of valentines day but your girlfriend has other ideas.

Warnings: MDNI!! NSFW!! edging, sex, strap-on, fingering, eating out, cussing

a/n: Sorry this is a little lateeee. I've been so busy today but I just HAD to write a fic for valentines day!! It's a bit rushed but I wanted to get something out before the day ended. I'll probably put out some loser!ellie valentines headcanons later tonight as well<3 I hope you all had a good day and enjoy this little date fic with ellie!!

❤︎❤︎❤︎❤︎❤︎❤︎❤︎❤︎❤︎❤︎❤︎❤︎❤︎❤︎❤︎❤︎❤︎❤︎❤︎❤︎❤︎❤︎❤︎❤︎❤︎

Valentine's Day has never been something you cared about. It's tacky with all the cheap chocolate and stupid cards. You told your girlfriend you didn't want to do anything for Valentine's this year. All you really wanted was to snuggle up with her on the couch after work and maybe have a drink to celebrate.

You open the door to your shared apartment and set your shoes to the side. All the lights are off and everything is quiet. You call for Ellie but there's no answer. As you set your bag down on the counter you see a white envelope closed with a red heart. You pick it up to look at it and slowly open it. Inside is a letter and it reads...

"Meet me at ______ restaurant tonight at 9. There's a little something for you in the bedroom." - Love els ᥫ᭡

You close the letter and place it on the table. As you walk into the bedroom you see a red gift bag. You pick it up and pull out a black lacy dress with a small heart cutout in the chest. You have been eyeing this dress for a while and were surprised that Ellie even remembered. The dress isn't anything super sexy but it's something you've been wanting for a while. Ellie was never the type to buy you lingerie or anything like that but sometimes you'd surprise her with a little something every now and then.

You have about 2 hours until you have to be at the restaurant so you decide to take your time to get ready. Your hair is wet from the shower as you wash your face and throw it up in a towel to do your makeup. The sun is setting and you finish getting ready. Your hair is curled and your makeup is done. You grab the dress from the bed and put it on.

As you walk out the door to meet your girlfriend, you decide to call her to let her know you leaving, but to your surprise, she doesn't answer. You call her again but no answer. At this point, you're just ready to get to the date so you can see her.

You arrive at the restaurant and walk up to the host stand. Before you can even speak you see Ellie walking up to you. She's dressed in a large white button-up and some dress pants. You've never really seen her dressed up like this before. She walks up to you and hands you a rose before taking your hand.

"Hi baby" She smiles at you. "You look very pretty" She pushes a strand of hair behind your ear.

"This is so stupid els" You laugh and squeeze her hand as you walk to your table.

The table is set with candles and roses and there are already two glasses of champagne waiting for you. The restaurant is quiet with other people enjoying their evening. Soft music is playing as you take a seat. Ellie reserved a table in an isolated part of the restaurant, in front of two large windows that look out to a view of the city.

"Ellie, why did you do all this?" You look up at her as you take a sip of your drink.

"Because you deserve a day. You've refused to let me do anything special for you on valentines day every year and this year I wanted to do something nice." She smiles at you from across the table.

As the evening goes on you two laugh and talk while enjoying a nice dinner. The minutes pass fast and the restaurant slowly empties. Eventually, you two get up to head back to your apartment. The air is cold as you step outside waiting for a taxi. You look up at Ellie's face which is now lit up by the city lights.

"I really enjoyed this. thank you Ellie." You give her a sappy smile

She wraps her arm around your waist "Just wait until we get back home" She looks at you with a grin smeared across her face.

The ride home is quiet. It's late and you rest your head on Ellie's shoulder. Her hand on your thigh, waiting to get back to the apartment.

----------------------------------------------------------

Ellie holds your hand as you walk into your apartment, rubbing her thumb on the back of your hand. Walking into your room, you sigh out of tiredness as you fall onto your bed. The cool sheets feel good on your skin.

"Stay here baby, I'll be right back" Ellie grabs something and walks out of the room.

You get undressed as you wait and throw on one of Ellie's oversized tees. The room is dark but the lights of the city gently add a soft lighting to the small room. As you lay down on your back right as Ellie walks into the room with a lighter. She places a candle on each nightstand and lights them, setting the mood. She's dressed in nothing but her boxers and a white tank top.

"Lay on your back" Ellie walks over and places kisses up your neck, leading to your lips.

As she meets your mouth, her hands hold your face and she presses her lips against yours. Fingers crawling up your shirt, reaching your chest. She grabs your breast and draws circles around your nipple.

"Ellie-" You softly moan into the kiss.

"Shhhh, baby I got you." She lets her tongue slip into your mouth as her hands help lift up your shirt.

She adjusts her body so her legs are now straddling your thighs. Her lips move back from yours, down to your neck. Your arms slide under her tank as you pull her closer to your body. She gently sucks on your neck, working her way down to your chest.

Her tongue reaches your nipples, slowly circling around them. Her hands move down your waist, finding your lace underwear. A finger slips past the waistband, pressing against your wet folds as she sucks your boob. You grab Ellie's shirt as you throw your head back. She moves her tongue to your other nipples while she starts to pull off your underwear, throwing it across the room. She kisses down your waist, meeting your clit.

"mmph- els" You squirm at her touch, looking down at her taking you in.

Her eyes meet yours while her tongue slides down your folds. Her fingers slowly slipping into you. Your fingers run through her hair, pulling as she pleasures you. She moans as she begins to suck at your clit. The vibrations against your skin cause a loud whimper to escape your lips. Her fingers slipping deeper into you as she moves faster.

You can feel the knot in your stomach start to unfold. She holds your waist down with her hand as her fingers cause your body to squirm under her body. Suddenly, she releases her mouth from your throbbing clit and removes her fingers from the inside of you.

"Ellie! please, I'm so close, don't stop" You're practically begging at this point, squeezing your thighs together.

"I know" She lifts from your waist and sits up. "Turn over for me"

You listen and lay on your stomach. She grabs your waist pulling it up as she slips a pillow under you. Her fingers are cold against your bare skin, causing shivers to run down your body. She pulls her strap out of her boxers, keeping them on. You feel yourself becoming antsy as your fingers find your clit.

"Be patient for me pretty girl" She grabs your wrist and pulls it away, pinning it above your head.

Her fingers slip between your folds, preparing you for her length. You grasp the pillow above you as she slowly pushes into you. She finds your waist, pulling your body towards her. Her pace fastens, causing your body to slam against her. Your arms shake from holding up your upper body. You fall into the bed as she fucks you.

"mmm- you feel so good, doing so well for me baby" She moans as her strap slams into you.

Your body now taking in the full length. Her fingers find your clit again, rubbing circles around it. The familiar warmth returns to your stomach. A tear falls from your eyes as you whimper her name"

"Fuck Ellie, s'close, I'm gonna cum-" Your voice is muted by the pillow your face is smashed into.

She doesn't stop. You can feel her hitting all the right spots. Your body is trembling beneath her. She grunts and cusses under her breath, you know she's close too. Finally, you feel yourself become undone as she thrusts harder into you.

"Almost there baby" She pants, not slowing down. Her movements are becoming sloppy as she tries to cum.

"Fuck!" She reaches her climax shortly after you, causing her to fall onto the bed next to you.

You turn over and lay on your back. She's trying to catch her breath as her arm falls across her face. She looks over and smiles at you, placing a kiss on your swollen lips. She pulls your body close to you, wrapping her arms around your bare skin. The kiss is sloppy but passionate. Both of you breathing heavily between the kisses trying to catch your breath.

After a few minutes resting in the comfort of each other, she gets up to get a damp cloth. She lifts your waist, cleaning you up before getting up to blow out the candles. She lays back down next to you and pulls the covers over your bodies. You wrap your legs around her as you head rests on her chest.

"Happy valentines day my girl, I love you" She places a soft kiss on your forehead.

"I love you too els" You close your eyes and feel yourself falling asleep in the arms of your girlfriend.

#ellie williams x reader #ellie williams x you #ellie williams #ellie the last of us #ellie tlou #ellie williams tlou #tlou2 #the last of us #tlou #wlw #ellie smut #smut #lesbian #valentines day #ellie x reader

1K notes · View notes

batterygarden · 19 days

Text

can you help me, sensei?

contents: alpha! satoru gojo x omega! gn & afab reader. taboo dynamics (you used to be jujutsu tech student, he was/is a mentor figure), age gap, a/b/o, p in v sex with knotting and heat, manhandling (he’s strong), mult orgasms, gojo is bigger than u, barely there exhibitionism bc his house keepers are home, pet names, 1.8 k words

a/n: my contribution for @lorelune ‘s spring fever collab! ^_^ thanks for hosting <3 <3 <3

18+, minors dni please

Satoru’s sitting in his home office answering emails when you knock on his door, flooding the room with a certain tell-tale sugary fragrance the moment you step inside. Satoru sighs. You’ve only been staying with him two short days. This is what he gets for helping an ex-student in need, ignoring Nanami’s warnings about ‘sharing a space with an omega’.

“Hey bunny,” Satoru speaks slowly, eventually halting his typing when he looks up at you. “Something wrong?” (He knows what’s wrong. He knows that you know he knows. He’s buying himself time to reckon with it.)

“Uhm yes actually—” he feels a prick of guilt for asking. You’ll struggle to say it. “---I, uh, made a mistake.”

You inch your way closer, skittish but needy. Like he’s a stranger with food in his palms. Maybe that’s a generous comparison—Gojo can’t possibly come off that inviting. Maybe it’s as if he’s some murderous beast sleeping in a field of berries, and you’re starving. He needs to work on his analogies.

He scoots his chair away from his desk when you make your way around it, turning to face you with spread legs, inviting you in because he can’t help but want to. Your smell is so strong his mouth is watering.

“You’re in heat,” he says matter-of-factly. You flinch from your halted distance of a yard away.

“I need help.”

“Thought you were on suppressants.”

“I am! I mean—I thought I was! I’m starting to—ngh,” He watches you rub your thighs together. “---think they were expired or something.”

“‘s that so…” Gojo thumbs at the edge of his blindfold, prolonging the inevitable. This is a bother.

You nod frantically, your expression pained. Desperate and pleading like maybe you really are starving.

Gojo is mad, somewhere. He should be, at least. Any logic is forgotten with the clean air he breathed before your dramatic entrance, though.

This is Satoru Gojo’s first time feeling the true pull of his instincts. They rid him of his renowned self control—a lifetime of careful barriers and walls and techniques, wiped away by his cock and your fucking pheromones. It should be laughable.

But the instincts rob him of humor, too.

“Does it hurt?” His voice is soft without trying—he’s genuinely concerned. You’re helpless, his insides are screaming—he needs to do something.

Your eyes turn glassy when you nod, and Satoru has to grapple with the way it feels like the world will end if they spill over. Or worse, maybe he’d get even hornier.

He shushes you, pulling you into his lap carefully, like your limbs are held together with school glue, gently tugging till you straddle him.

“You poor thing. So needy huh?”

Your answering pout makes his cock twitch.

“Need an alpha to fill you up?” He says it so soft, it’s like a lulluby.

He doesn’t expect your quiet temperament to reply, but you do. “Yes, please, alpha—sensei, I really need it.”

That’s all he can take before he’s rubbing his face into your neck, inhaling and licking at the sweetness there before he bites, leaving a permanent mark, relishing in your whines while a warm hand slots between your legs.

And just like that, you’re being mated with Satoru Gojo. A teacher from school that taught the other students in your grade while you were busy healing with shoko. The strongest man alive, your sponsor who agreed to house you briefly between moves, an enigma more than a man (and one you don’t even truly know, at that). Just sitting on his lap like this is far more intimate than the two of you have ever come infinitesimally close to being—exchanging small talk and a few mentor-related words of advice was the prior extent of the relationship. There were pet names, sure—but you’ve come to find those were on par for Gojo Sensei’s personality.

Now he’s got teeth in the skin of your throat while his fingers trace right through the center of you, only a thin layer of shorts in the way. You buck automatically, openly desperate, whining when that isn’t enough.

“you poor baby—“ sensei hums, his lips against your pulse. His tone is patronizing, but it soothes you regardless. “It’ll be okay. Gonna make you feel better.”

He speaks against your jaw now, dotting kisses wherever he moves while the sorry excuse for shorts you wear are pulled to the side, your panties with them, so he can really trace you.

Though they aren’t what you truly need, Gojo’s big fingers sate your ache in a way you couldn’t yourself—your body seems to mellow at the touch of an alpha, like it knows you’ll be taken care of now that he’s here.

Instincts less frantic, your sighed please alpha comes slow and heavy as he pushes two fingers inside of you, almost testingly. It’s slow—bordering agonizing—but you wouldn’t put it past gojo sensei to mess with you, even at a time like this.

Your slick floods his fingers at that small action, a whine and a buck of your hips accompanying, and satoru lets out an amused sigh.

You’re preparing to beg for him, plead to stop the teasing, but then… you’re on his cock before you can take another breath.

The relief is unparalleled. One minute he was dipping fingers into your entrance, slow and deceptively gentle before the next he was spreading your juices over his freed cock, pulling you onto him like he’d done it a million times. You suppose the familiarity is from those very instincts that brought you here—your chest practically sings now that they’re sated.

And so do you—you can’t control the cry you let out when he finally stretches you, feeling every ridge and vein of his heavy cock deep inside your tummy just where you’ve been needing him.

“That’s it, little lovie. You’re okay—hah!”

You’ve never heard sensei gasp the way he does when you roll your hips over his. It’s a strained, weak sound—the kind you’ve never known alphas to make.

He digs wide hands into the squish of your waist. “You’re tight.” His voice speaks directly into your ear as he tucks you into his chest then, scooting back into his trusty (thankfully armless) rolling chair so he can plant his feet and sink you down even closer. He makes light work of guiding your hips, the strength of the strongest shining through as he manhandles you up and down his length like you’re a doll.

And you feel like you’ve got the autonomy of one in his hands—his cock inside your tummy seems to hollow out your thoughts while your legs turn weak beneath you. Your arms remain to cling though, wrapping tight around sensei’s shoulders through your first release on his cock. The warm waves of it shock your system, and you cry out for your alpha when it hits you before he captures your lips in his.

Kissing satoru gojo is different from all your past experiences kissing. This one is so gooey and sweet it’s gross—the spearmint taste of his mouth reminding you just who it is you’re mating with. You flash back to Gojo dropping by to bug your sensei during your apprenticeship—dwelling on the way he’d talk to you like some silly kid. He’d always invade your personal space to tease you for no reason but to see you flustered, not that he needed to—you’d fluster easy just from his handsome alpha proximity, the minty smell of his breath.

It’s gross that such a mature mentor figure’s got you clamping hard on his cock now, tongue deep in your mouth to dull the sound of your whines.

But the disgusting nature of it all has you cumming in buckets—squelching on your sensei’s girth with every pump he guides you through.

You’re barely collecting your senses and drifting back to earth with Satoru pulls you off him, chuckling at the delayed clinging you react with. Of course you’re not strong enough to hold your body to his when he’s rearranging you—as much as you try—you have no choice but to get stripped and molded over Gojo’s fancy mahogany desk how he wants.

You’re still disoriented when he enters you again from behind, shoving himself deep deep deep till you’re so full you feel like choking from the stuffed feeling. It’s almost overstimulating when you just came so intensely, but the feel of your alpha splitting you still pleases your inner omega. More than that, you’re delighted.

“A-ahh! A-alpha—“

You can barely get out a word through his heavy thrusting, merciless and rhythmic.

“What is it, sweetheart? ‘S it feel good?”

Gojo digs thumbs beneath your shirt while he speaks, his anchoring grip around your sides surely leaving bruises. Not that you even notice how tight it’s become—all you have the sense for is his cock.

“Yes alpha! Th-thank you!,”

Gojo fucks you through orgasm after orgasm like that, till every pound against your flesh is wet and sticky.

It’s loud too, and, if you were in your right mind, you might worry about the fact that Gojo’s house keepers haven’t even left for the night yet.

You’ve lost track of your orgasms by the time sensei’s pace begins to show, his massive knot catching in your tight folds till he’s stuck deep inside you, while rope after rope of warm cum pumps you full. You finally feel that fever of yours beginning to fade once you’re flooded like that, coming out of your craze only to be met with exhaustion.

Of course you aren’t really done, sensei’s still connected to you with his knot, you can feel its delicious thickness where your body craved it most when you move your hips to go limp on sensei’s desk. You can feel the flood of his hot cum still streaming into you.

Satoru is panting for the first time in your memory, rubbing the soft skin of your hips while he recuperates before murmuring your name.

Then, “still breathin’, bunny?”

You make a little noise, nodding your head with immense effort, letting your eyes droop.

Only to open again when satoru lifts you with an arm beneath your chest, pulling you back till you’re both seated in his office chair. This way you’re still connected with you on his lap, cum still spurting into your womb.

He fishes your shorts from the ground, then, only to mop up your mess on his table, though truthfully most of it was still on each of your thighs.

At least with his table cleared he can move his desktop closer and finish those mission reports he had left—the solo ones he couldn’t pawn off.

You’re in a half conscious state around Gojo’s cock, breathing somewhat evened out with closed eyes, so gojo leans you carefully against his chest, with an arm on either side so he can type. Sure, the stuff on his computer was technically confidential, but you likely wouldn’t be alert for a while. And even if you were, did the whole classified document rule even apply to you anymore? It’s not like anyone could ask him to keep a secret from you, not now—not when you’re mated.

#gojo x reader #jjk x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo smut #gojo fic #gojo satoru smut #tw.omegaverse #tw.taboo dynamics #tw.age gap #🐞 writes

563 notes · View notes

bugsoda · 5 months

Text

solarpunk club/community group?? fun. im planning on starting one at my school so i thought i would share some ideas :] Club Activities

learning to mend

make patches

zine creation

graffiti stencils (careful.)

stamps! flower pressing! book binding! paper making! screenprinting! really just a ton of craft shit

repurposing household items

LEARNING! (importance of community, native vs invasive plants, walkable and green cities, sustainable fashion, capitalism/rapid consumerism, grass lawns, book talk, solar energy, current climate efforts, local small businesses, public transportation, sustainable living…)

Potential Events

no-buy market

student/local artists craft fair

collab with library

host nature walks

walk around our city to see areas of improvement

community garden/fridge/cabinet project

solar energy speaker / local environmental groups

if any of yall have other ideas i would love to hear them!!

#started brainstorming at like 2am yesterday bc barista forgot to give me decaf 😭#solarpunk #solar punk #ecopunk #eco punk #community #sustainability #environmentalism #theres already an eco club at my school so i gotta do something different

606 notes · View notes

vivwritesfics · 3 months

Text

Set The World On Fire

Chapter Three

Lando Norris had been incredibly angry when they met. Incredibly angry, but sweet enough to help her. Turns out he just needed somebody to talk to, somebody to be there for him.

He was easy to fall for, and that put her in a world of danger

Mafia AU

1.6K

Series Masterlist

She missed her alarm the next morning, but that was the consequences of staying up all night, texting.

When she woke up, she was a mess. Hair all over the place, imprint of her sleeve on her cheek, and very late for work.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" She cried as she climbed out of bed. She raced into the bathroom and worked on fixing her hair as she cleaned her teeth. She attempted to throw her pyjamas into the hamper as she ran back into her bedroom.

It took her five minutes to get dressed, another three get her get jewellery in. She did her makeup as quickly as she could and ran out of the door, heading to her office.

At three minutes past nine, Y/N walked into her office. She could feel the eyes on her as she walked over to her cubicle and sat down.

Her phone vibrated against her desk. She picked it up and checked it. I've got dinner with that asshole and his dad tonight, Lando had texted her. No good morning, he was straight to it. She liked it like that.

Y/N logged into her work computer before she replied. You should put salt in their drinking glasses.

She didn't hear from Lando for the rest of the morning. She worked quietly, slowly, still tired from the night before.

At her lunch break she checked in her bag but, of course, her lunch wasn't there. No, in all of her rushing around, she'd left it at home. "Fuck," she hissed as she pulled her jacket over her shoulders, placed her bag on her back, and ran down to the nearest shop.

She had just twenty minutes to buy and eat her lunch. If it came to it, she could eat at her desk, but those whose cubicles joined to hers wouldn't be happy. She had no time to check her phone as she bought a meal deal from her local corner shop.

As soon as she was back at her desk, she pulled out her phone and checked her messages. A message appeared on her lock screen and she rushed to open it.

Salt is in the drinking glasses Will keep you posted

Both of the messages were from Lando. She smiled fondly as she typed out her response.

***

Lando's day job didn't often allow him a moment to text pretty girls. He was essentially the head of the Norris family, but he was also 'The Enforcer'. It was his job to go around to businesses that paid the family for protection and scare them into paying.

And, if they couldn't pay, it was Lando's job to deal with it. He loved it, loved watching the fear in people's eyes as he cracked his knuckles. There was always a point, usually when he pulled out his gun, where the fear left their eyes and they accepted their fate. It was rare that it had to get that far, but Lando had felt another mans blood on his face far too many times.

He was a monster, and he was proud.

This was where he was on his way to when he began texting Y/N that morning. He was pissed, he'd just found out he'd be hosting the dinner with the Sainz family and he wanted to kill something.

She'd given him a good suggestion, one that would start an all out war, though. Lando couldn't say that to her, not unless he wanted to scare her off.

So Lando took some time to think of his response. He climbed out of his car and walked into the small, family owned bakery. It was time for The Enforcer to do some enforcing.

He didn't come out of the bakery covered in blood. As soon as he had walked in all other customers had left and the Matriarch of the family had run to get Lando the money he was owed. She pleaded with him, said they needed the money to live, but Lando pocketed it and left. Not before leaving a pretty nasty 'warning' on the face of the baker, the father.

Lando climbed back into the car and pulled out his phone. He sent a response to Y/N and sat back in his seat, allowing himself to be driven home. His response was a lie. He wasn't going to attempt to put salt in Sainz's glass, not unless he wanted to die.

Before she could respond, Lando sent one more text. Come to the club tonight - i have a feeling i'm gonna need a drink

She agreed quickly, the text coming through as Lando left the car and walked up to his house. He walked quickly through the house, heading up towards the room where his father was currently laying, currently dying.

"Dad," he said as he sat in the chair beside his bed. Lando fished the money from the bakery from his pocket and presented it to his father. "Dunn's Bakery paid up," he said as his fathers frail hand reached for the money. "They shouldn't be late again."

His father counted through the money and handed it back. His lifted his hand to his mouth and coughed, his entire body moving with the force. "I have one last job for you before you take your sister to Spain," he said.

Lando sucked in his breath. He was dreading taking his sister to Spain, to marry Carlos Sainz Junior. If he was lucky, this job his father was going to give him would take weeks, would let him put off this trip to Spain.

"HC Publishing hasn't paid their rent yet," his father said. Lando nodded his head and stood up. He put the money back into his pocket and walked out of his fathers room.

***

The dinner with the Sainz family came and went. As soon they had left Lando went to his car. He sat there for a moment, looking up at the windows of his impressive house, looking at his sisters window as she closed the curtains and turned out the light.

Lando started the engine and drove away from the house. He headed towards the club, driving much faster than the speed limit. But Lando was a damned good driver, getting there in one piece.

As soon as he was parked out the back of the club, he texted Y/N to come and meet him. He made his way into the club, waving to the girl dancing and heading straight over to the bar. "Hey," he said to the bartender as she immediately poured him a whisky, never with ice. "There's gonna be a girl coming in here. If she looks lost, can you tell her to come to the back office? She knows where to go."

With that, Lando headed to his office. It was a mess, pillows from the couch on the floor and paperwork spread everyway. He put the whisky down and began clearing up the paperwork. Only some of it was meant for him, the rest for the manager to complete.

He tidied his liquor cabinet and put the cushions back into the couch. He sorted through his desk and made the office look more presentable.

Thirty minutes later the door to his office opened. "How did the salt go?"

Y/N strode into the office. She had her bag slung over her shoulder as she walked into the room and sat on the now presentable couch.

Lando stopped tidying and turned towards her. "You got here quick," he said, holding his whisky towards her. But she shook her head, frowning at just the smell. "I had to swap the glasses for clean ones," he said as he pulled open his liquor cabinet and poured her a weak gin and tonic. "My dad would have murdered me if I actually did it."

"Next time," Y/N said as she gratefully took gin from him. "Or you could put vodka in their glass instead of water," she proposed, head tipped towards him.

Lando laughed. "Do all of your plans involve putting something in someone's drink?"

"You're not ready for my other plans, Lan," she said, his tone teasing. Fuck, Lando hadn't been prepared for that. He almost choked on his whisky as she laughed at him. But the laughter stopped as she sipped her gin. "But how was it."

The smile dropped from Lando's face. He finished his whisky and placed the glass down onto his desk. "It was... okay at first. But then we got into business and then I was trying to do everything to keep my sister as protected as possible."

"Protected from what?" She asked as Lando joined her on the couch.

He shook his head. "Doesn't matter. I just want to make sure she's gonna be taken care of when she's married." She offered him her gin and he gratefully took it, having some before passing it back. "My dad is really sick," he said as soon as he swallowed the gin. "We're gonna lose him soon and I wanted to make sure she could come home for his funeral. If they don't let her I'm gonna fly where myself and get her," he said, cracking his knuckles.

Y/N took her gin from him. She stood and walked over to his liquor cabinet, putting a little more gin into her drink and handed it back to Lando. "Come on," she said. "We're getting you drunk."

Permanent Taglist: @biancathecool @rewmuslupin @prettiest-at-the-party @hellowgoodbye @minkyungseokie @formulaal @darleneslane @hiireadstuff @urfavnoirette @goldenharrysworld @andydrysdalerogers @hrts4scarr @llando4norris

Series Taglist (OPEN): @millinorrizz @cinnamongirlontv @sainzluvrr @aquangxl @hollie911 @drunkinthemiddleoftheday @queenofmanydreamss @somepeoplemaybe @shobaes @thatsusbitch @ibanstro @sobersidedly @ririgy @barcelonaloverf1life @hotbuns13 @dinodumbass @bellezaycafe @maddie-naps @yl90 @itscrzy @dontleaveitsmyfault3 @jule239 @noneofyourfbusinessworld @annispamz @mxmtewnz @thehufflepuffavenger1 @eviethetheatrefreak @lovejunz @nervous-bee

740 notes · View notes

the-fiction-witch · 5 months

Text

Breathless

Media The Artful Dodger

Character Jack Dawkins

Couple Jack X Reader

Rating Flirty Af

Warning: Medical emergency / Asthma Attack

I woke, as I typically did with a sharp fast gasp. immediately I heard the wheeze in my chest like a pair of old moth-eaten bellows. I sighed and turned to my bedstand opening the little rosewood box and hearing the gentle tune of the music box inside plaid as soon as I opened it I grabbed one of the prerolled cigarettes shutting the box again and saw the candle on my bedside table still burning so I set the tip in the flame until it began to smoulder so I laid down on my back slowly but surely taking a deep inhale and blowing the resulting smoke across my ceiling. It fixed it as much as it ever did so I finished up and set the end in my little metal box with many others.

"There's my sweet girl!" My father gleamed as he entered my bedroom with a wide smile

"Good Morning Father," I smiled sitting up in my bed

"It is a fantastic morning, A perfect morning for our party!" He cheered going to open my curtains to let in the sunshine

I smiled as much as I could force, I knew this was important to him and I wanted only to be supportive.

"I have a gift for you" He smiled tapping my nose playfully He clicked his fingers towards the door and the maid scurried in with a large box in hand, he took the box from her and set it on the bed opening the box up pulling out from the tissue and ribbon a sweet expensive new dress.

It was beautiful, A long off-the-shoulder dress of a sweet fabric a light pale pink with vertical strips of purple, and white lace at its hem, neckline and lace elbow-length sleeves with a black ribbon at its waist. It was utterly beautiful and would not have been cheap for my father to buy. but I began to panic as I looked at it seeing the ribbon and how small it was.

I knew my father, he meant well but he always did this and always it made me fearful.

But I forced a smile "Thank you Father" I said giving his cheek a kiss

"You're welcome, Now come along guests begin to arrive soon" He said rushing off to make preparations.

I sighed climbing from my bed, I went and had a nice hot bath laying in the warm water for longer than I should just because it seemed to soothe my chest but I soon climbed out and went to my window in my towel looking out to the gardens.

My father was a very wealthy businessman in port with a lot of dealings coming and going in shipping, of course, our house was lustrous and grand second only to the governors only a few miles up the road, but the governor could not hold a candle to my father's gardens, well known in the area and beyond for the grandiose and beauty of the many exotic flowers and plants from all over the world, He took great pride in the garden and this combined with his utter love fort entertaining. Meant we had an awful lot of garden parties.

Today was no exception my father was hosting a garden party and had invited everyone who could be imagined. He adored parties being an utter social butterfly, I however was more of an.... antisocial bookworm not much wanting to go but knowing word would spread if I didn't attend my father's own parties. It didn't much help my looming age knowing at the back of my mind certain men had been invited not due to my father really wanting them at the party but my father realizing they could be a good match for me so invited them in the hope one would catch my interest. But I know I am a very lucky girl, Many fathers would be insisting by now or would have wedded their daughter off for a business deal. But My father was a decent man and had always promised me I could choose my husband, that I could marry for love no matter who it would be. He felt he couldn't deny me what he and my mother had.

I went to my mirror and began to dress, I pulled my white stockings up to my thighs adjusting them so the little lilac bows would sit forward, I pulled my long cotton underdress over my body tugging it down as far as it would go, by then my maid arrived and I gulped as she picked up my cream corset. I simply watched the mirror doing my best to not panic as she wrapped it around me and began to lace the back, I did my best to keep my breaths slow and steady but that wasn't exactly easy until finally she finished with the back, she pinned the ribbons in place and turned me to face her so she could pull the ribbons to the front to lace it again leaving me squeezed as much as possible

"How much more?" I gasped already feeling breathless

"Not much more Miss." she said "Pencil thin is the London style miss" She reassured

"I am not a pencil. I am a lady." I argued half of me was joking the other half was serious.

Finally, she tied the last bow and removed the pin in the back as there was now no give in the ribbon at all, she took my crinoline the large wicker bird cage-looking thing that always made me smile a little tieing it simply around my waist and she helped me to slip on my dress, it was beautiful and I did feel very pretty even if again the lacing began as she all but sewed me into the dress ensuring it would be as close to me as possible. Not being helped by my father's purchase choices.

"Alright miss?" she asked as she finished the last bow

"Yes. Thank you" I lied, finally she helped me into my shoes and left to attend the party. "Women in London must have learnt not to need to breathe" I sighed I sat at my vanity and did what little make-up I bothered with before finally taking my hair from the tight braid I had done last night allowing it to now be in sweet curls. Once done I looked out to the window again seeing people had already gathered for the party so I grabbed my lace fan and my parasol and headed down to the gardens.

"Ahhh My goodness an angel!" My father joked as he saw me "You look beautiful" He smiled

"Thank you Father" I smiled

"Go on then, Mingle I'll check in on you later," He told me ushering me deeper into the party, I did my rounds parasol in hand often batting my fan to try and get some air down my throat doing my best to greet and be pleasant with people.

As I made the rounds I took note of those who were here already spotting a few men my father would have invited purely in the hopes of grabbing my attention but as I walked to a less populated area of the garden I took a seat for a moment on the stone bench I spotted a similar soul.

He stood by one of the statues away from the main business of the party, dressed in his usual way but cleaned up a little better, he seemed awkward unsure why he was here, out of place in this bussle. I felt for him of course and for a moment even I wasn't sure why he was here. But then I recalled seeing Dr Sneed on my walk around the party and I know how my father thinks, my father would have invited Dr Sneed because he is his doctor and thus not inviting his own doctor to his party would be rude, and of course then in my fathers mind he must also invite Dr Dawkins for if he invited Sneed and Not Dawkins that too would have been rude. Honestly, I'm surprised he took up the invitation. For a moment we caught eyes and he offered me a small smile so I did my best to do so back.

“You alright my sweet?’ my father asked as he approached sitting beside me

“Yes, just wanted a moment from all the excitement” I smiled

‘ahh well come along we are to begin the walk” he smiled to me taking my hand and soon enough the walk began, this was typical of every party my father would lead a walk around the gardens explaining almost every flower and plant giving a tour to the guests of course most ate it up but I slowly but surely slinked away until I was at the very back of the walk where I again found Dr Dawkins.

“Good day doctor”

“Good day miss y/l/n, does your father always do this?’

“Yes” I chuckled moving my parasol slightly higher as to protect him too

“AHH thank you” he smiled moving a little closer to be under the protection of the lace from the blistering sun

“Quite alright” I answered “what brings you to the party?”

“Your father invited me. Wasn't going to bother but something to do I suppose’ he chuckled

“I guess. I rather find it all tedious”

“well we agree on some things’ he chuckled “I have to admit though your dress is utterly stunning”

“Thank you doctor’ I blushed a little but had to fan myself quickly as I felt slightly breathless from the walking

“Ohh don't worry pleatenties of the party you can just call me jack” he smiled

“ohh that's very sweet, thank you jack’ I smiled “then y/n I insist”

“Why thank you, My god is he going to take us past every plant?” He whispered

“That he is” I smiled

“Any particular reason?’

‘its his pride. He adores his garden above all else?”

“Even you?’

“I don't know, I should hope not but I wouldn't be surprised’

“Why? Why would be focus so much on his garden and not his daughter?”

“He promised my other that her beloved garden would always bloom, she died only a few days later” I explained

“Ohh forgive me y/n I-”

“It's alright, he can be… overboard at times” I said doing my best to slow and catch my breath

“Are you alright?’ he asked

“Yes forgive me-”

“No no it's alright, are you sure? You seem lost for breath?’ he said carefully taking my arm

“I'm fine” I answered as I gasped trying hard not to wheeze or cry anything that might draw attention to myself he seemed panicked I tried again and gasp but it just wasn't working and I almost went over

“Whoa. I'm taking you inside’ he said quickly putting an arm around me and taking me quickly back to the house I dropped my parasol and fan as soon as I got in the door trying desperately to get my breath in “which way to your room?”

“This way” I gasped now beginning to cough and wheeze loudly taking his hand and leading him to my room as soon as I was inside I leant on my ottoman trying desperately to get some air into my lungs as he shut the door and came over

“Are you short of breath?”

“Yes” I gasped surely that was obvious

“try to breathe slow for me if you can” he asked and I did my best but that only made me wheeze louder

“Take off your dress.” He said

“I beg your pardon Dr Dawkins!’ I argued

“I need to examine you take off your dress” he said

“I cannot” I answered between gasps

“I'm a doctor I won't look y/n but I need to exmaine you” he said

“No I cannot. My maid she-”

“She's sewn you into the dress?” he asked and I nodded “alright” he said slipping off his jacket and grabbing a small knife from his pocket “I'll be as careful as I can” he said slowly using the blade to cut where my dress had been stitched by my maid until finally it released I quickly stepped away and pushed the dress off me as well as my crinoline immediately I felt a little better as I looked forward letting out slow breaths I caught sight of jack in my mirror he lied to me. He was looking. But I felt still so breathless that I tumbled onto my ottoman ‘whoa whoa! I got you. I got you.” He reassured only just catching me making me sit on the ottoman “I need to remove your corset”

“Doctor!”

“I have to remove it” he said coming to face me starting to unlace my corset ties quickly with his nimble fingers “out of curiosity. How'd your mother die?”

“Respiratory failure” I gasped and he looked up to me seeming panicked

“How old was she?”

“Twenty nine”

“Christ - for - god-” he grunted trying to deal with the knots and loops and ties in my corset until finally he unlaced the front and tried to pull it off but of course it didn't move he looked confused so I moved his hand to my back and he moved behind me seeing of course all the lacing on the back ‘oh you gotta be kidding me!’ he complained “they really didn't want you of this dress.’ he said fighting with the ties before “fuck it!’ he complained grabbing his knife again and cutting though the lacing managing to force the whole corset off me and that helped considerably “there we go.” He said a lift proud of himself “nice and slow let me listen” he said for a moment looking around the room clearly for something to use to listen but “I don't have my tools uhhh okay. Guess we have to do this the old fashioned way” he said sitting on the ottoman with me lifting my underdress up to expose my bare back I glanced in the mirror again and saw his cheeks slightly deeper with red his eyes glancing down from my neck all the way to the ottoman before he moved closer resting his head on my back to press his ear to my skin “nice and slow for me. Just breathe with me In. And out. In and back out” he said and I did my best to breath with him even if I ended up coughing and wheezing as he walked me through a few long breaths “how long have you been like this?” He asked as he pulled back moving so I could see his face letting go of my underdress

“Forever”

“I get the feeling you need to tell me something.” He said

“I'm asthmatic. Have been as long as I can remember.” I answered

“That certainly explains a lot” he said “when did a doctor tell you?”

“I was nine.”

“I take it your mother was too?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, how are you managing it? What do you have to take when you get like this?” He asked

“The box on my bedside table” I told him still struggling he got up and went to the box seeming confused

“What are these?”

“Asthma cigarettes. Prof prescribed them” I answered

“You smoke!’ he argued

“On doctors instructions yes.” I answered

“Are you mad!”

“There not tobacco there thorn apple leaves there meant to help” I said

He sighed begrudgingly bringing one over so I took it and lit it on a candle sitting for a few moments slowly inhaling it all

He brushed the smoke away from his face a moment before rather angrily speaking “he's mad.”

“It helps.”

“So would you sitting not moving for the ten minutes it took you to smoke that” he argued “but that dress wasn't helping in the slightest why on earth did they lace you in that corset so much?”

“It's the style apparently. Plus I needed to”

“Why?”

“...father buys all my dresses two sizes smaller then I am. I have to double lace the corset for a hope of even getting in them

“Why would he do that?”

“He means well. He thinks if he buys all my clothes too small it's… encouraging”

“Encouraging? I hate to ask but when did you last eat anything?”

“...four days ago.”

“Okay, that is also not going to be helping.” He said

“Yeah well you try fitting into a dress with a twenty one inch waist” I pouted

“I think he's trying to kill you.” He joked “you feel a bit better now?”

“Yes. Thank you jack”

“You're welcome. How often do you get attacks like that?”

“once a week or so.”

“Does your father know?”

“Somewhat. I don't always tell him the whole truth”

“Would you be against coming to the hospital?”

“What?”

“I am not confident about leaving you alone tonight. If you agree I'll talk to your father take you to the hospital I'll keep you under observation myself.”

“Why?”

“.... I fear this may be worse then just a simple attack y/n”

“I don't want to worry my father. he's fearful enough as it is”

“Then which would you rather? He be a little worried a stressed as you spend the night in hospital in my care or he comes in here and finds you dead in your bed tomorrow morning because I'm pretty sure which one will upset him more.”

“One night?”

“One night. Under observation.”

“Alright jack”

“Thank you y/n” he smiled giving my hand a kiss “just rest i'll go see your father” he said as he got up and headed out of my room.

Eventually he arrived with my father in tow and the two discussed as my maid packed me some items and my father called us a carriage, I changed into my loosest dress doing my best not to show my father my struggles

“Perhaps Dr sneed would be better he is my doctor he's taken such food care of me” he began

“Dr sneed is very busy he won't have time and what she needs is observations now I have the time to do so”

“Keep me posted won't you?”

“I promise.”

“You'll take care of her doctor?”

“Absolutely, I promise she'll be back right as rain”

“Alright, I'll see you soon sweetheart” he smiled kissing my head before he slowly and tenderly let my hand go giving it to jack, he smiled to me squeezing my hand and leading me slowly to the carriage luckily the party never even noticed but as i sat down my father pulled jack close to him. “Anything happens to her. It's your head.”

“Yes sir” he nodded before climbing into the carriage with me.

#tbs smut #thomasbrodiesangster #tbs imagines #thomas sangster imagine #tbs imagine #thomas brodie sangster imagine #thomas brodie sangster #tbs #thomas sangster #thomas brodie sangster smut #jackdawkins #jack dawkins #jack #thearttfuldodger #the artful dodger #theartfuldogger

542 notes · View notes

mostlysignssomeportents · 7 months

Text

Yanis Varoufakis’s “Technofeudalism: What Killed Capitalism?”

Monday (October 2), I'll be in Boise to host an event with VE Schwab. On October 7–8, I'm in Milan to keynote Wired Nextfest.

Socialists have been hotly anticipating the end of capitalism since at least 1848, when Marx and Engels published The Communist Manifesto - but the Manifesto also reminds us that capitalism is only too happy to reinvent itself during its crises, coming back in new forms, over and over again:

https://www.nytimes.com/2022/10/31/books/review/a-spectre-haunting-china-mieville.html

Now, in Technofeudalism: What Killed Capitalism, Yanis Varoufakis - the "libertarian Marxist" former finance minister of Greece - makes an excellent case that capitalism died a decade ago, turning into a new form of feudalism: technofeudalism:

https://www.penguin.co.uk/books/451795/technofeudalism-by-varoufakis-yanis/9781847927279

To understand where Varoufakis is coming from, you need to go beyond the colloquial meanings of "capitalism" and "feudalism." Capitalism isn't just "a system where we buy and sell things." It's a system where capital rules the roost: the richest, most powerful people are those who coerce workers into using their capital (factories, tools, vehicles, etc) to create income in the form of profits.

By contrast, a feudal society is one organized around people who own things, charging others to use them to produce goods and services. In a feudal society, the most important form of income isn't profit, it's rent. To quote Varoufakis: "rent flows from privileged access to things in fixed supply" (land, fossil fuels, etc). Profit comes from "entrepreneurial people who have invested in things that wouldn't have otherwise existed."

This distinction is subtle, but important: "Profit is vulnerable to market competition, rent is not." If you have a coffee shop, then every other coffee shop that opens on your block is a competitive threat that could erode your margins. But if you own the building the coffee shop owner rents, then every other coffee shop that opens on the block raises the property values and the amount of rent you can charge.

The capitalist revolution - extolled and condemned in the Manifesto - was led by people who valorized profits as the heroic returns for making something new in this world, and who condemned rents as a parasitic drain on the true producers whose entrepreneurial spirits would enrich us all. The "free markets" extolled by Adam Smith weren't free from regulation - they were free from rents:

https://locusmag.com/2021/03/cory-doctorow-free-markets/

But rents, Varoufakis writes, "survived only parasitically on, and in the shadows of, profit." That is, rentiers (people whose wealth comes from rents) were a small rump of the economy, slightly suspect and on the periphery of any consideration of how to organize our society. But all that changed in 2008, when the world's central banks addressed the Great Financial Crisis by bailing out not just the banks, but the bankers, funneling trillions to the people whose reckless behavior brought the world to the brink of economic ruin.

Suddenly, these wealthy people, and their banks, experienced enormous wealth-gains without profits. Their businesses lost billions in profits (the cost of offering the business's products and services vastly exceeded the money people spent on those products and services). But the business still had billions more at the end of the year than they'd had at the start: billions in public money, funneled to them by central banks.

This kicked off the "everything rally" in which every kind of asset - real estate, art, stocks, bonds, even monkey JPEGs - ballooned in value. That's exactly what you'd expect from an economy where rents dominate over profits. Feudal rentiers don't need to invest to keep making money - remember, their wealth comes from owning things that other people invest in to make money.

Rents are not vulnerable to competition, so rentiers don't need to plow their rents into new technology to keep the money coming in. The capitalist that leases the oil field needs to invest in new pumps and refining to stay competitive with other oil companies. But the rentier of the oil field doesn't have to do anything: either the capitalist tenant will invest in more capital and make the field more valuable, or they will lose out to another capitalist who'll replace them. Either way, the rentier gets more rent.

So when capitalists get richer, they spend some of that money on new capital, but when rentiers get richer, them spend money on more assets they can rent to capitalists. The "everything rally" made all kinds of capital more valuable, and companies that were transitioning to a feudal footing turned around and handed that money to their investors in stock buybacks and dividends, rather than spending the money on R&D, or new plants, or new technology.

The tech companies, though, were the exception. They invested in "cloud capital" - the servers, lines, and services that everyone else would have to pay rent on in order to practice capitalism.

Think of Amazon: Varoufakis likens shopping on Amazon to visiting a bustling city center filled with shops run by independent capitalists. However, all of those capitalists are subservient to a feudal lord: Jeff Bezos, who takes 51 cents out of every dollar they bring in, and furthermore gets to decide which products they can sell and how those products must be displayed:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/28/enshittification/#relentless-payola

The postcapitalist, technofeudal world isn't a world without capitalism, then. It's a world where capitalists are subservient to feudalists ("cloudalists" in Varoufakis's thesis), as are the rest of us the cloud peons, from the social media users and performers who fill the technofuedalists' siloes with "content" to the regular users whose media diet is dictated by the cloudalists' recommendation systems:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/21/potemkin-ai/#hey-guys

A defining feature of cloudalism is the ability of the rentier lord to destroy any capitalist vassal's business with the click of a mouse. If Google kicks your business out of the search index, or if Facebook blocks your publication, or if Twitter shadowbans mentions of your product, or if Apple pulls your app from the store, you're toast.

Capitalists "still have the power to command labor from the majority who are reliant on wages," but they are still mere vassals to the cloudalists. Even the most energetic capitalist can't escape paying rent, thanks in large part to "IP," which I claim is best understood as "laws that let a company reach beyond its walls to dictate the conduct of competitors, critics and customers":

https://locusmag.com/2020/09/cory-doctorow-ip/

Varoufakis points to ways that the cloudalists can cement their gains: for example, "green" energy doesn't rely on land-leases (like fossil fuels), but it does rely on networked grids and data-protocols that can be loaded up with IP, either or both of which can be turned into chokepoints for feudal rent-extraction. To make things worse, Varoufakis argues that cloudalists won't be able to muster the degree of coordination and patience needed to actually resolve the climate emergency - they'll not only extract rent from every source of renewables, but they'll also silo them in ways that make them incapable of doing the things we need them to do.

Energy is just one of the technofeudal implications that Varoufakis explores in this book: there are also lengthy and fascinating sections on geopolitics, monetary policy, and the New Cold War. Technofeudalism - and the struggle to produce a dominant fiefdom - is a very useful lens for understanding US/Chinese tech wars.

Though Varoufakis is laying out a technical and even esoteric argument here, he takes great pains to make it accessible. The book is structured as a long open letter to his father, a chemical engineer and leftist who was a political prisoner during the fascist takeover of Greece. The framing device works very well, especially if you've read Talking To My Daughter About the Economy, Varoufakis's 2018 radical economics primer in the form of a letter to his young daughter:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9780374538491/talkingtomydaughterabouttheeconomy

At the very end of the book, Varoufakis calls for "a cloud rebellion to overthrow technofeudalism." This section is very short - and short on details. That's not a knock against the book: there are plenty of very good books that consist primarily or entirely of analysis of the problems with a system, without having to lay out a detailed program for solving those problems.

But for what it's worth, I think there is a way to plan and execute a "cloud rebellion" - a way to use laws, technology, reverse-engineering and human rights frameworks to shatter the platforms and seize the means of computation. I lay out that program in The Internet Con: How the Seize the Means of Computation, a book I published with Verso Books a couple weeks ago:

https://www.versobooks.com/products/3035-the-internet-con

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/2023/09/28/cloudalists/#cloud-capital

#pluralistic #yanis varoufakis #socialism #communism #technofeudalism #economics #postcapitalism #political science #rent-seeking #rentiers #books #reviews #gift guide

733 notes · View notes

buckyalpine · 5 months

Note

Could U PLZZZ name the Reader Isabel!! plz some smut, bucky barnes, choking kink, kinda innocent... mainly winter solider look!

PRETTY plz it would mean SO muchhhh

Okay but imagine you have an up and coming mission which requires you to take on a new identity. Isabel Rosa, the young daughter of a business man, looking to buy art in the black market. You're to attend a gala hosted by an investor so you can get some intel on the target but you're nervous because you've never done this before.

To make sure everything goes well, you're given a "bodyguard" to ensure no one messes with you or tries anything when you attend that night.

And the plan works perfectly because no one dares look at you twice when you stroll into the event dressed in your pretty pink dress with the 6ft+ winter soldier attached to your arm. There isn't a soul in the room who doesn't know who that is. Dressed head to toe in an all black suit, his dark chestnut hair framing his face, piercing blue eyes enough to make everyone look away. He wears his mask as he escorts you and you can feel all the weapons he has strapped to him when he puts his arm around your waist.

"Relax bunny" He whispers when you shiver nervously, plucking a flute of champagne for you. "it's gonna be fine. No one can touch you as long as I'm here"

You silently nod, taking a small sip while he scans the room, guiding you to the target so you can get closer. He knows his job is to focus on keeping you out of harms way and he does that with ease but he can't help get a little distracted each time you nuzzle further into his side. He loves the way you tightly cling onto him each time you introduce yourself to someone. Its hard to ignore the way you make his pants feel too tight and his composure starts to falter when you both go to an office room to grab a flash drive.

He locked the door behind him while you crack open a safe, pocketing all the contents inside. You gasped, suddenly feeling him right behind you, his tall form towering over you.

"Isabel" He purrs into your ear while you bite your lip nervously, his gravelly muffled voice making your heart race. "Such a pretty name, bunny, y'know that"

"James, we have to go" You squeak, ignoring the throb between your legs while he shakes his head, grabbing you and plopping you onto a large wooden desk.

"Shhh" The rough, hard material of his mask brushes against your shoulder as he continues to whisper, "Don't think I can't smell you bunny"

He gathers the skirt of you dress up, shamelessly shoving his hand into your panties, letting his fingers gather your slick before playing with your sensitive clit.

"Look at you Isabel" He teases, pushing a finger in without warning making you cry out. As soon as a sound slips out, his metal hand grabs your throat, softly squeezing the sides. "Quiet, before all your little investors hear what a whore you are"

You instantly shut up while he continues his slow torture, loving the way you whine and whimper for more.

"What's wrong love" He cooes at your glassy eyes, pressing his erection against your dripping cunt.

"Please soldier" You quietly beg and who is he to say no to such a perfect doll asking for his cock. He legs go of you for a second to undo his pants and pull his length out, pumping it while you gape at the size.

"Never seen a cock before, bunny?" Bucky smirks, using the head to flick at your button a few times, guiding you to look down at the way his pink tip leaks, making your clit sticky with his arousal. "Gonna fill you right up, doll, don't worry"

He hasn't forgotten the mission, his eyes still glancing at the door, ears still sharp for footsteps but he's not about to let this opportunity go. He slides in, shoving his cock in all at once, grasping your neck again before you could scream. He starts to pound relentlessly while your arms and legs cling onto his body, silently sobbing from pleasure.

He growls feeling your cunt squeeze him making his cock throb, smacking your thigh when he feels you clench. He knows you want to scream so bad, the quiver of your lip driving him insane. He takes his mask off, shoving it in your mouth.

"We're gonna be here a while Isabel, better he quiet"

438 notes · View notes

mitsuyeaah · 11 months

Text

misdemeanour.

— ran haitani x f! reader

cw: nsfw (mdni), thigh riding, light bdsm (handcuffs), roleplaying (police officer!ran), mentions of alcohol use, pet names (princess)

a/n: inspired by that one ran photo that’s circulating right now. he’s so hot istg (*´꒳`*)

the loud bass of the music reverberated throughout the entire house, feeling every beat of it thumping inside your chest. you navigated through the dimly lit living room packed with sweaty intoxicated bodies, some of them moving against the music dressed in varieties of different costumes.

your friend, rindou, had hosted a costume party for his birthday. of course, as innocent as it sounded, the activities within the walls of his house were a complete contrast. It was wild to say the least. beer pong outside their lawn next to a keg stand, people doing shots at the kitchen island, couples making out somewhere private, people dancing in the living room, and more.

you were amongst the people doing some shots in the kitchen. your throat burned at the sensation of the hot liquid going down—tequila—, face scrunching at the bitter taste of the liquid poison. a round the kitchen island, there stood some of your close friends, rindou included.

there was one particular man that caught your eyes. The one standing right across you, dressed in a navy blue police officer uniform, topped with a police hat. his long two-toned hair were secured in two braids that cascaded down his chest. you noticed how the two of you seemed to always accidentally make eye contact amidst the chaos inside the kitchen. hisamethyst eyes lingering on yours a little too long before he looked elsewhere—you swore you could see a slight desperation in them. like he wanted something.

rindou had introduced the man earlier as his older brother, ran. he was indeed a gentleman, going even as far as extending his hand to shake your own.

throughout the entire time you were doing shots in the kitchen, you and ran had about more than 5 wordless exchanges through eye contact. you weren’t complaining though, he was very easy on the eyes but you just wished he approached you. “i’ll be right back! i need to go to the bathroom!” you yelled over the music, leaning over the table to let everyone know. “okay, you better hurry! we’re starting another round soon.” rindou yelled back.

you exchanged one last eye contact with ran, this time mustering up a small smile before leaving for the bathroom. you messily made your way to the bathroom, your head slightly spinning from the tequila shots. you managed to make it safely to the bathroom without tripping over anything or anyone by grabbing the walls for support.

after doing your business and washing your hands, you looked at yourself in the mirror and fixed your appearance—noticing how the strap of your costume had slipped off your shoulder. if you were being honest, this devil costume you had on was half-assed. only because you didn’t bother buying a new one and instead wore the only costume you already had.

you cupped your cheeks and let out a sharp exhale, feeling the burning temperature of your skin due to the amount of alcohol in your system.

you closed the bathroom door behind you but before you could even take a step, you found yourself trapped between the door and the man you’ve been eyeing all night, ran. the back of your head rubbed against the cool surface of the door as you craned your neck to look up at the tall man.

he was indeed more beautiful up close. little specks of dark purple scattered around his lavender irises. his soft pink lips looking a little too tempting. “o-oh! sorry! did you need to use the bathroom?” your breathing became uneven as you held his gaze, waiting for his answer.

he gave you a saccharine smile as he let out a soft hum that only you could hear. ran shook his head ‘no’ and leaned in closer to your ear. his scent engulfed your nose, it was sweet yet musky, just how you liked it. “you’re under arrest for a misdemeanour for being too fucking hot..”

your breath hitched. you could feel blood rushing to your cheeks as his hot breath ghosted over the side of your neck, causing goosebumps. “wha—” “nuh uh.. place your hands in front of you like this.” ran jutted his hands out between you two, both his hands securely intertwined with one another.

doing so, ran skilfully secured your wrists together using the metal cuffs that hung from his belt loop. you slightly shivered at the cool sensation of it against your burning skin. before you could do anything, ran hooked a thumb on the chain that connected the cuffs and tugged your wrists above your head.

your hands were now bound over your head, resting against the door behind you. with one hand securely locking your hands above you, his free hand grabbed the baton, the tip of it resting below your chin to jut your face upwards.

“you think you can just walk around my house looking this delicious?”

you rubbed your thighs against one another, yearning for some kind of friction as you looked into his eyes. the desperation in his amethyst eyes mirrored your own.

ran noticed this and clicked his tongue. he swiftly pushed your feet apart to spread your legs and tucked his knee right at the apex of it, just where you wanted him. your breathing became erratic, your head spun at his strong scent, and you were wet.

how embarrassing, he hasn’t even done anything to you yet.

“sorry..” that was all you could mutter. at this point, your mind was going absolutely crazy, you partially blamed the alcohol for it. ran clicked his tongue once again, “you’re going to have to do better than that.. princess.” his lips ghosted over the side of your neck, tongue casually darting out to give a few kitten licks here and there.

you let out a shaky moan, not caring if the two of you got caught. no one probably even cared, they were all too wasted to do so.

ran chuckled against your soft skin, this time his lips fully making contact with it—brazenly sucking and licking at it, pulling more sounds from you. he absolutely loved how you responded to his mouth. a loud whine escaped your lips as he started grinding his knee against your clothed clit, skilfully moving it to increase your pleasure.

“oh fuck! aah—ran!”

you couldn’t help but move your hips against his leg. you wanted more. ran chucked his baton away and opted for using his hand to hold your chin up—his lips trailing wet, hot kisses toward your own. you almost melted right then and there at the sensation of his soft lips against yours, moaning at how desperately it moved.

ran didn’t shy from shoving his tongue in your mouth and moaning against it. fuck, it was filthy but it was so hot.

your knees buckled at this, a funny feeling running up your legs as ran keenly explored your mouth. good thing his leg was somewhat supporting you, if not, you were sure you would’ve fell to the floor.

everything was a haze. your mind spun, heart racing, ears muffling out the loud music, you were only focused on one person. ran haitani. as if reading your mind, ran finally let go of your wrists, the burning sensation in your arms dissipating as you dropped them back down. although, they were still bound together due to the handcuffs.

you grabbed onto the collar of his costume to keep yourself grounded, gripping the fabric in your hands until your knuckles turned white. ran pulled away to catch his breath, chuckling breathlessly at the way you craned your neck forward, chasing the presence of his lips.

“mmm, be a good girl and keep fucking yourself on my leg, princess.” ran groaned, cupping your warm cheeks to meet your gaze. you looked up at him as your eyes brimmed with tears, brows furrowed in pleasure as your clit rubbed against the fabric of your panties.

you desperately rut your hips, chasing the high that seemed impossible to obtain. “ngh! ran please..” you buried your face on his chest, whining. it was unsatisfying. every time you thought you were close, the pleasure suddenly disappeared and you had to start from the bottom again. it was your first time riding someone’s thigh and it frustrated you that you couldn’t reach your high.

“should i help my princess out?” he raised a brow, placing both his hands on your hips. ran bounced his leg and grounded your hips on his thigh, guiding it back and forth. you moaned against his chest at the sensation. the pleasure you felt from this was much greater, your clothed clit deliciously rubbing against his leg.

your whole body was slumped against ran. limp, helpless and at his very mercy. you weren’t even moving your hips anymore, ran took full control of it’s movement. he rested his chin at the top of your head, hands still carefully guiding your hips against his bouncing leg. “ngh—ah! shit..” tears of pleasure rolled down your cheeks as you shut your eyes closed.

you were so fucking close.

“that’s it, princess. you can do it..” you panted heavily as your sweaty forehead rested on his collarbone. you could feel the familiar bubbling at the pit of your stomach and the way ever single muscle in your body tightened.

ran noticed the change in your breathing, frequent short whines that ended in a small moan escaped your lips. “fuck, look at me when you cum.” with the energy left in your body, you lifted your head from his chest and looked up at him through your lashes—tears obstructing your view.

he cursed under his breath and brought a hand up, cupping your cheek and shoving his thumb in your mouth. you didn’t need to be instructed what to do, you swirled your tongue around his slender digit. moaning against the finger and you desperately sucked on it.

“such a naughty girl.. why don’t you cum for me? hm?”

you absentmindedly nodded at his command, your face contorting in pleasure as the knot inside your stomach finally snapped. ran removed his finger from your mouth and sealed the distance between the two of you, swallowing your moans.

your muscles stiffened and your eyes rolled back as you came, your fingers becoming sore form gripping at ran’s collar. ran didn’t stop moving your hips against his bouncing leg to ride out your orgasm.

fuck, you melted like wax against him. it was too good. ran shamelessly moaned into your mouth, mirroring the way you did to his own. several tears rolled down your cheeks as your cunt quivered in pleasure. you pulled away from the kiss, catching your breath, your panties soaked and uncomfortably stuck to you.

“fuck..” you panted

“mhm, don’t think i’m done with you yet, princess. let’s go take some shots for now.” he kissed your forehead and untucked his leg from underneath you, earning a slight whine from you.

“careful, princess, you might get charged more than a misdemeanour. the punishment is much more severe.” he leaned into your ear and kissed at the sensitive spot just below it before heading over to the kitchen.

#ran haitani #ran smut #ran drabble #ran x reader #ran x you #ran x y/n #tokyo revengers smut #tokyo revengers drabble #tokyo revengers x reader #tokyo revengers x you #tokyo revengers x y/n #tokyo rev x you #tokyo rev smut #tokyo rev x y/n #tokyo rev x reader #tokyo revengers

1K notes · View notes

snailpaste · 17 days

Note

Can i get some McSugarDaddy Crocodile headcannons but reader actually has feelings for croco? ive been thinking about this a little too much lately

Sugar Daddy!Crocodile x GN!Reader

CONTENT: Crocodile x GN! Reader, SFW, kind of mutual pining

AN: This isn't what i wanted but if I didn’t post it now I think it’d just go to the great fic graveyard in my drive (30 and counting) sorry for the wait ;-;

You’d caught crocodile’s eye at one of the many Gala’s he hosted (after all, charity was always a brilliant way for him to further his influence, to make connections and gain power), where he’d struck up conversation with you after asking to share a drink. It had gone well, and by the time the event had drawn to an end he’d given you his den den number and offered to pay for your taxi home.

Crocodile wasn’t one to chase after people, much more content to work on furthering himself or his many business enterprises. He simply didn’t need to – there were enough many men and women willing to fling themselves at him should he ever be in need of company – which is why he found it so strange that, not but two days after meeting you at a Gala, here he was, den-den pulled closer towards him on his desk than usual, eyes flickering to it every so often as he worked through the growing heap of paperwork.

rest under cut ->

If anyone were to ask why, not they would ever question him, he’d simply tell them he was waiting on an important business call, rather than hoping for a stranger, who’s laugh he unfortunately hadn’t been able to stop thinking about, to call.

Your arrangement started as “purely transactional,” in the words of Crocodile.

He didn’t expect sexual favours (at least, to begin with) but simply wanted your company at events, a presence beside him to help gnaw away at the tedious meetings and public appearances he endured in the name of business. You’d wake up with a voice message on your den den, telling you to be ready at 7, with details scarce aside from to check your mailbox, inside which was a new outfit fitting for whatever event he saw fit to bring you to. Over time as he learned more about you, they became more and more tailored to your tastes.

He kept things distant at the start. His touches were modest, an arm around your waist or shoulder, a hand guiding you at the small of your back, but nothing more. You found yourself begging to crave his touch, leaning into the warmth of his palm or wrapping your own around his arm.

His conversations, while interesting, never betrayed any of his true emotions, and he opted to leave you with cash rather than buying anything else for you specifically. Gradually, you began to hope might actually start to open up to you. What did he look like unguarded? How did he look when he was at peace

As the weeks passed, you found yourself growing accustomed to his presence, the initial intimidation and curiosity replaced by a quiet comfort. Crocodile listens to whatever you have to say intently, eyes never leaving your face, always asking the right questions and relishing in the way you blush when he leans closer to you, blowing cigar smoke out the window and brushing your hair out of your face.

While Crocodile isn’t out of touch with his feelings, he does prefer to ignore them. He immediately noticed how you changed towards him, leaning your head into his hand when he cupped your cheek and laughing a little bit more openly, and sneaking looks when you thought he didn’t notice – he’d be lying if he said it didn’t make his heart feel just a little warmer.

Your dates, as you unknowingly began to phrase them much to his amusement, became far more frequent, with him using anything as an excuse to be around you for longer. Crocodile, it seemed, had an uncanny ability to understand your desires. He took you to places and events you’d been wanting to go to without you asking, such as art galleries, cosy bookstores and grand libraries, or bookings at theatres or cinemas.

Crocodile encourages you to pursue any and all of your interests- there’s nothing he admires more than when you go off on a tangent about something you’re passionate about, or your dedication. With him, money isn’t an issue, he’ll happily pay whatever fees you might need to achieve.

Your relationship progressed from you being a pretty thing draped off of his arm, another way for him to flaunt his wealth and power, to something more personal. He surprised you with a visit to something you’d mentioned excitedly to him weeks ago, booked the wing of a restaurant you fancied for just the two of you, and invited you with him to the opening evening of an exclusive art exhibition of his favourite movement.

It was only when he caught himself thinking about you with a smile while smoking his evening cigar, that crocodile decided to address how he felt– whatever it was.

After a long night that left you nodding off and leaning against him, crocodile opted to take you back to his house. He’d carried you up to a guest room with his jacket wrapped around your shoulders, placing you down in the bed and mumbling a soft good-night into your hair. It was then that, in your half-asleep stupor, you accidentally confessed your feelings, clinging sleepily to his shoulders and mumbling for him to stay with you. He didn’t make a big deal of it, but he felt his heart skip a beat, and allowed you to cuddle against his chest until you fell asleep.

The following morning he told you plainly and simply, wanting to cut the tension that ran thick as you drank him out of the corner of your eye (and how could you not, with normally slicked back hair in loose waves, ringed hands sliding you a coffee across the island, his bare chest peeking through his dark brocade dressing gown) that he was interested in you, interested in a relationship more than this.

After this, he begins to open up- lets you run your hands through his hair from behind, and stay at his house as often as you’d like. His laughs become lighter and more genuine, and you find he has a dimple in his left cheek whenever he smiles just so.

He still buys you gifts and treats you, but now they’re far more intimate, and more tailored to your tastes than ever. He takes you with him on his business trips around the globe, letting you soak in the sun or encouraging you to explore the attractions while he attends to business.

He surprises you with gifts delivered directly to your house, a box of your favourite treats, each delicately wrapped in coloured paper, a potted plant he collected from your shared trip to alabasta, or something he saw you looking at or considering buying with his own note attached. Another time, he appeared at your doorstep with an assortment of flowers, (he’s very into “classic courting”) each flower was one he picked carefully to reflect a message to you.

His love languages are quality time and acts of service, but he craves physical touch and, as you find, becomes quite clingy when he’s tired. He loves sharing baths with you, holding you to his chest and relaxing in the warm bubbles, and on his one day of rest per week, lazing around in bed with you during the early morning hours.

The time he realised he was well and truly in love with you was when you were sitting in his lap, his arm looped around your waist and hand smoothing over your cheek, as you had reached up to trace your fingertips over his raised scar. He’d felt his heart jump into his throat at the feeling, realising he’d never allow anyone else to touch him there, and when you smiled at the light dusting to his cheeks, he realised he was well and truly fucked.

#snailpaste: moots #snailpaste: inbox #snailpaste: writing #op:crocodile #crocodile x gn reader #crocodile x gender neutral reader #one piece x gn reader #one piece x gender neutral reader #crocodile x reader #one piece x reader

173 notes · View notes

formulaforza · 10 months

Text

—strawberry wine

and all the times we used to have. (nothing defines a man like love that makes him soft). pairing: daniel ricciardo x female reader warnings: language, angst babyyy love, mackie... 5k ish. this is. definitely something. perhaps it should have stayed in the drafts but dani selected it from a group of it's peers yesterday evening.

It’s been years since you last spent enough time at the vineyard to be considered even a part-time employee. It’s hard to be there, now, in a way it didn’t used to be. Watching it fade away into obscurity and beg someone–anyone–to buy the property to land so your family can get out without generational debt. The fields just hold so many memories, an ancestral kind of history; your first job, the place you had your first drink, where you fell both in, and out of love for the first time. Being there now, watching it die a malignant death is just… sad. There isn’t anything poetic about it.

You long for the days of the peak, of never ending days spent behind the counter in the barn selling wealthy people on the aesthetics of a small, family-run vineyard. Of your father hosting tours and your mother tastings, of you, pink nose and shoulders kissed by the sun, picking grapes by hand. Of the days where help still had to be hired.

For a while there, it seemed like there was a never ending rotation of teenagers and twenty-somethings willing to do manual labor for minimum wage–thirteen an hour–from sunup to sundown. They’d even host the occasional tour on busy Saturday evenings, would be compensated in under the table bottles of wine and cash tips. None of them ever stuck around longer than a couple months, found better jobs indoors, closer to school, better pay. Well, nobody except Daniel.

Daniel worked at the vineyard for… four-ish years, with varying availability depending on seasons and school and racing.

Sometimes, when you lose yourself to sentiments and fantasy, you imagine a world where the Vineyard never faced any competition, where it is still thriving and you take over your mother’s job when she retires. Daniel still works there, maybe in the fields where he was always supposed to be, or maybe front of house guiding tours and helping you with tastings. Life is simple and plain and at the end of every night you lock the barn doors and go home together and eat dinner and grocery shop and do your taxes. Daniel strums the guitar on the porch when it rains. Life is easy and fun and you laugh more than you don’t.

It’s silly, really. But first loves are always silly.

He is one of the many memories that haunt the property, walking the lines of grapevines feeling more like a walk through a fogged out graveyard than anything.

Even now, all these years later, you can still see him sat in the swivel chair in the office doorway, throwing grapes at you while you attempt to run the dusty cash register. It’s a cool July afternoon and he’s got a stupid grin on his face and can’t look anywhere but you.

Daniel is kind of like those people you know you’re given young so that for the rest of your life you know what real feels like. They’re more a lesson than a lover, unfortunately.

—

You move through the place like you own it, which, you suppose technically you do, in some will locked away in an accountant’s filing cabinet, this all belongs to you. Right now, though, you’re seventeen and just returning from school, already setting up your homework on the end of the counter, a spattering of greetings from the local customers and the local hands, the people who know that this is more of a natural habitat than anywhere else on the planet will ever be.

Danny also moves around the place like he owns it, which, if it was up to him he probably would. He hums your name as he moves past, taps the opposite shoulder to the one he leans over, reading your textbook over your shoulder. “It’s seventeen,” he quips.

“It’s a history textbook,” you reply, eyes unmoving from the page.

“Seventeen-seventy, cunt.” There’s a half-empty bowl of fruit sitting on the counter. He leans over you to grab an orange. “Captain Hook and such,” he adds, hosting himself up onto the counter with a thud. You’re sure one day the old wood is going to give out on him and he’ll fall straight onto his ass. Part of you hopes you’re around to see it, the other knows that he’ll find a way to not only make it your fault, but also tease you about it for a minimum of six months.

“Fuck off, Danny,” you punctuate, just loud enough for him to hear.

“It’s Daniel, now.”

You snort. Finally, you give him your attention. “Danny is too unprofessional for a hot-shot Red Bull junior driver like you?”

“See,” he pops his thumb harshly through the peel of the orange, the citrus scent wafting out into the humid air. “You get it.”

You pout. “I’m still going to call you Danny.”

“No you won’t,” he laughs. God, the smell of orange is overwhelming, the kind that lingers long after the fruit is gone. When Danny goes back to work in a few minutes, tosses the peel and into the trash by the office door, he’ll still linger in the room with the smell of citrus.

“I will.”

“You know what,” he hums, biting into a slice. “Let me make you a deal.”

You smile, shake your head. “Shouldn’t I be the one making you a deal?”

He groans against the fruit, “Can you just?”

When you look up again, lean back in your chair and cross your arms, he has orange juice running down the side of his hand, all sweet and sticky and summery. “Fine.”

He smiles goofily, all fucking proud of himself just because you agreed to shut up for thirty seconds. “You can keep calling me Danny, but only if you let me take you out this weekend.”

“Danny,” you protest. This is far from the first time he’s tried to plant the seed of a date with him. It’s had to’ve been a year, by now. You know he’d drop it if you would just give him an answer, but a year later you still haven’t been able to deliver anything definitive.

He shrugs. “‘Dem’s the rules, honey.”

Maybe what you say next is your greatest mistake, or maybe it was what you were always going to say. Maybe you feel like you can say it because he leaves again soon, for longer than ever. You won’t have to live with the consequences of your actions, of your words. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s simply that you think Daniel is far too proper a name for the sticky-handed vineyard tour guide you’ve grown particularly fond of. Danny is much more fitting for him, which is most certainly why you say, okay. When are you picking me up?

—

You drive out from your parents house with your dad in his old Ford Bronco. It’s half rusted out and half chipped blue paint, with worn leather seats and a steering wheel somehow more worn than the rest of it. Seven black tree air fresheners hand from the rearview mirror, new car smell. This relic is well past that–he’s been driving it out to the property literally forever, and this trip won’t be any exception.

You hardly recognize the place, you think as you slam the squeaky door shut with enough force to make sure it really latches.

The fields are overgrown with tall grass and shrubs and mustard flowers. The trunks of the grapevines act as headstones for the sprawling field of dry, sunburnt plants. You don’t think anyone has been out there with a plow in months, if not years.

The barn, the one you grew up in, has been lost with the rest of the place to time. Red paint chips off the wood in massive flakes. The branding that had once run in big wooden letters along the top of the door have all since fallen, leaving a sad outline of your family name in its weathered wake. Two padlocks, one rusted shut, sit on the lock. Every step you take kicks up more dust.

You’re removed from your thoughts, from the hauntings and the sentiment and the memories, by the creaking of the tailgate on your father’s truck. Stuffed in the back of the Bronco are your afternoon tasks; a pair of bulk cutters for the padlocks, a new, state of the art keypad lock given to your Dad by a realtor, a post hole digger, and five for-sale signs haphazardly packed any way they would fit.

You spend most of the next couple hours digging holes along the road, filling them with the wooden posts of the for-sale signs, looking disapprovingly at the thirty-something in a suit that has been tasked with selling the unsellable property.

This is, what… the fifth person you’d hired to sell this fucking place. Soon enough, you’re going to be sticking up For Sale by Owner signs with a hand-written phone number in black sharpie along the fences that were supposed to keep animals out. Realtors were never in the budget to begin with.

—

You’re waiting on the old front porch when he pulls up in his beat-up truck, John Denver playing through the open windows, his hand moving in the wind up the entire dusty driveway. You don’t know what he can see, that your Mom is watching out the kitchen window with a friendly smile.

You’ve got your best sundress on, one that you’d debated wearing for almost thirty-six hours. The first week Danny worked in front of house with you, he spent the entire shift flirting with one of your Dad’s friend’s daughters. He said that sundresses are a crime committed against teenage boys and that when he meets God he’s going to have words with him over pretty girls and their affinity for said sundresses.

You’d laughed then, because you thought it was silly. You remembered it because you thought the new kid was kind of cute, in a you work for my parents and I could never think you’re cute way.

“Fuck,” is the first word out of his mouth, before the car door is even closed behind him, followed quickly by a check of his watch and “am I late?”

“No, no,” you smile, tucking a wind-blown strand of hair behind your ear, standing to your feet on the wooden stairs. “You’re early, actually. I think,” you chuckle. “I’m just,” you can feel your cheeks flushing. “I’m just excited.”

“Yeah,” he moves to you quickly, nervously. In the way only teenage boys on a first date do. “I’m excited too.”

“You look nice,” you say, stepping down the final couple of steps and meeting his waiting hand. “Your hair. I feel like I only ever see you in a hat.”

“Thanks, yeah,” he laughs. You’ve always loved his laugh, even when he’s annoying you and annoying customers and annoying himself. His laugh has always been good. “You look beautiful. I’ve never seen you, I mean. Not that you don’t always look–”

“Danny,” you interject as he opens the passenger side door.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“Yeah,” he offers a smile and closes the door. Just before it latches shut, though, you hear him finish his sentence. “Thank you.”

He takes you to King’s Park, to the botanical garden after a stop for ice cream. He tells you that he’s had a crush on you this entire time and you ask him to tell you something you don’t already know. It’s then, in the botanical garden next to the water garden, that he tells you about his quote-en-quote ‘silly, kind of, like, backup dream, I guess’ where he has his own vineyard, brews his own wine and spends every day half drunk and wholly happy.

He stumbles through the entire telling of it, which is how you know he’s not fucking with you. He never gets nervous when it comes to fucking with you.

Perhaps that is where your silly, kind of like, backup dream started. The one where you and Daniel are working at the vineyard together and life is all death and taxes and grocery bills but somehow, in the midst of all the dull normalcy, you’re both happy as happy can be.

—

“Someone is out there looking at the place today,” your father tells you over the phone. You try to talk every day, a habit you’ve both picked up in the past couple years, in the time and space since you’ve turned thirty.

“You’re kidding,” you say. You’re sitting at the kitchen table, shoveling spoonfuls of some health-conscious cereal into your mouth (another post-thirtieth habit). “Who?”

“I don’t know, kid,” you swear you can hear the frown on his face, the deep smile lines and the frustrated forehead wrinkles from months in the direct southern sun. “Probably some fucking developer.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah, maybe,” he sighs. “If I’m right, I’d bet they break ground on a neighborhood within the year.”

Your sigh matches his. You can’t even imagine it, front yards and vinyl flooring and white walls built on a foundation of your childhood memories. It’s like going back home, to your childhood home that you sold so many years ago, and discovering it’s been bulldozed, wiped clean from the face of the Earth. “That’s so sad.”

“I know, but, well. You know, honey. It’s not like we have much choice.”

You nod. You do understand. You understand more than you wish you did. “I know. I know. Still pretty fuckin’ sad, though.”

There’s a long silence. The kind of silence that can only be shared by a father and a daughter; a silence that speaks more words than the dictionary can hold. “She’d understand it,” he finally speaks. “She wouldn’t fucking like it, but she would understand it.”

“Yeah. Yeah. I know she would.”

—

“Are you going to kill me?” You giggled, stumbling over your feet. Danny is leading you on the property, one hand over your eyes, the other on your waist, guiding you poorly.

“And be the first fucking suspect?” He laughs. “I think not.”

“Okay, then where are you taking me?” You beg. It's been going on like this for some half hour, before he even covered your eyes.

He laughs. You laugh. All the two of you do is laugh. “Can’t you lighten up?”

“Not when I’m being led to my death. No, I can’t!”

He stops, turns you around a hundred and eighty degrees and takes his hand off your eyes, fingers digging into either of your shoulders. “Babe," he says, and you'd think he was about to tell you he killed someone.

You mimic his seriousness, find humor in it. “Babe.”

“You trust me.”

“Do I?” You smile. He cocks his head to one side and rolls his big brown eyes. You would commit crimes for his eyes. “I do.”

“Okay, so then fucking trust me.”

“Okay,” you nod, closing your eyes.

“Okay?”

“Yes. Okay," you reach blindly for his hand, bring it to your eyes to block the light from them once more. "I trust you. Let’s go.”

After a short, terribly blind walk, Danny finally stops. You’ve been able to hear the river that flows out the back of the property for twenty minutes, but it’s close enough now that you can smell it; the sticks and the rocks and the mud and the water. You can practically feel the splashing of the water bouncing off the boulders.

“Okay. Open,” he instructs, removing his hand from your eye, moving his arms to hug you from behind, arms wrapped over the front of your chest.

You open your eyes to find a picnic, carefully set up with a spread of dinner and drinks and dessert, complete with a plaid flannel blanket and candles that smell like citronella masked with lavender and a bouquet of white roses already in a water filled vase. “Danny,” you hum, leaning your head back against his shoulder.

He kisses your temple, whispers against your hair, “Happy Anniversary.”

“Danny,” you drag out the letters of his name, of the nickname he only lets the people he loves call him by. It makes you feel warm and fuzzy and special.

“Honey,” he mocks you, sways behind you.

“This is too much,” You crane your neck to look at him, and then turn your whole body so you’re flush against his chest, close in a way only you get to be. “You’re so sweet.”

He laughs and it vibrates in both of your chests. A feeling you’ll never tire of. “I mean, this is not too much. Arguably, this is too little.”

“No,” you back away, out of his grip and take small steps backwards, towards the picnic and the waiting meal, pulling him along with you by interlocked pinkies. “This is perfect. You’re perfect.”

“Well,” his grin grows. “I can’t argue with that.”

“I love you so much,” you tell him, because you do, because you’re eighteen and everything in this life is so simple and black and white.

“I love you, too, and–”

“Oh my gosh,” you cut him off, wide-eyed and giddy. “Wine with strawberries?”

He nods. “Strawberry wine, if you will. For the winery with no strawberry fields.”

“This is better,” you state, with the utmost confidence, without even a sip or a sniff or any idea of what white wine he’d used as a base for his little cocktail.

“Definitely not, but sure.”

“It is, because you made it for me. That makes it perfect.”

—

You’re completely removed from the actual buying and selling of the property. It isn’t up to you to decline or accept or field offers, that’s all your dad. The place is still his, at least for a couple more weeks while all the paperwork processes.

It was an anonymous buyer, according to your Dad. Cash offer, over asking price. He’s not sure how the real estate agent managed it, and honestly? Neither are you. Objectively, that land isn’t worth the cost of cleaning it up. Everyone in their right mind knows it. You just come from a particular bloodline where the mind never was quite right when it came to the vineyard.

What shocks you most, though, is that the anonymous buyer–supposedly–is interested in restoring the place rather than bulldozing it.

“They asked me about the dirt,” your dad tells you on one of your daily phone calls. “Wanted to know about berries.”

“Berries?”

“Yeah, strawberries or raspberries or something like that.”

You scoff. What kind of fucking idiot is buying this land? It might just be a herd of manufactured houses after all. “Well, it’s too hot here for raspberries. Everyone knows that.”

“I know, that’s what I told them. They could probably grow strawberries in July or August.”

“Are they trying to make strawberry wine or something?” And, as if this is some fucked up kind of movie, and not real life, it all comes back to you. Every memory, every moment, all at the thought of fucking strawberries in wine.

“Good fucking luck to them, if they are.” Your grandparents entertained the idea of it once, all the fruit wines. It’s a fucking shit-show, according to legend. Hell to try and make, Heaven to taste. It just wasn’t worth it for them. But apparently now it’s worth it to someone.

You chew on the inside of your cheek, bite and bite until you’re worried you’ll draw blood, that you’re a single tooth away from popping a hole clear through the skin. There’s no way, there’s genuinely no way, right? “Dad?”

“Shoot.”

“It’s not.” You almost stop yourself, you almost have some common fucking sense and realize just how vast the world is and how completely unlikely it is that– almost. You almost stop yourself. “The anonymous buyer, it isn’t Daniel, is it?”

“Daniel?” He scoffs on the other end. “Better not be that fucking cunt.”

You smile, the kind of smile that you know you should feel guilty for having. “He’s not a cunt, Dad.”

“I never fucking liked that kid.”

You’re right–you think. You’re right, Dad. You didn’t like him. “You loved him.”

“No, I lost all my respect for him when he left you like he did,” his voice is laced with a calm seriousness. He’s always been your blind defender.

“Yeah, Dad,” you pause. Now’s as good a time as any, you suppose. “I’ve been… that’s not exactly how it went down.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Daniel didn’t leave me, and even if he did, Dad, he wouldn’t have done it then.”

—

“What the fuck are you talking about, you’re breaking up with me?” His voice cuts through continents. He’s somewhere in the UK, or maybe Italy, or maybe Asia. You honestly can’t keep track anymore, can barely keep track of the days of the week that you’re living much less the ones he’s in.

“It’s exactly what I said, Daniel,” you say, try to keep your voice as level headed as possible, to juxtapose the way your mind races, the way your heart rate spikes and your palms sweat and everything in you hurts. “Please don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

“No, no. I’m making this fucking hard,” he’s riled up enough for the both of you. “You don’t just. This isn’t how this works, babe. You can’t just break up with me.” He’s raising his voice with you. You can count on one hand and have fingers left over the amount of times Danny has yelled at you, and this is the first time it’s not scary.

“I can, and I am,” your voice comes from your throat, choked out over the lull of your entire body begging you to please, please don’t do this. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say you’re sorry!” He yells, the last letter sound cracking with the realization of his actions. “You’re not sorry. If you were sorry, you wouldn’t be doing it.”

“Okay, sure. Whatever.” He doesn’t make this easy, not that you’d expected it to be easy. You’d hoped for something cleaner, though. Less mess. “I’m having a great time breaking your heart.”

“Just. Why? Why are you doing this? What happened? What did I do?”

“You didn’t do anything, D,” you sigh. You didn’t know that your heart could physically hurt. You thought that was some crap that they made up for movies and songs and poems, some grand metaphor for how sad you get. “I can’t be a girlfriend right now. To anyone.”

“That’s such bullshit.”

You can feel yourself shutting down, closing every part of yourself off, running on pure survival instincts. “I know. I’m a cunt.”

“You aren’t… fuck me. I mean, fuck, dude.” He laughs. There’s not a thing about it that sounds happy. “I know you don’t want this, I know it. Talk to me, please. Tell me what’s going on and I can help you and everything is going to be fine, baby. Just. Please.”

“Daniel.”

“Why are you calling me that?!”

“It’s what you like to be called!” You yell back, feel the burn in your nose and your cheeks and the sting in your chest.

There’s silence for so long you wonder if he’s hung up, if you’re supposed to. It’s minutes before he speaks again. “Not by you, it’s not.”

—

It’s been just past a year since the place got sold, and nobody from your family–nobody–has been there since. You moved out of town years before the sale, and your Dad has joined you, wants to be near you in his ever increasing age and always deepening wrinkles. When the arthritis sets in, someone needs to forge my signature for me, he tells you.

It’s not until her birthday that you’re back in Perth, that you’re struck with the sudden spark, with the idea to drive past the vineyard, to see what idiot is trying to plant raspberries in the Australian heat, to see who's living in your shoes and wearing your clothes and sleeping under your bed like a monster.

“I don’t know that we should do that,” your Dad says. “It’s going to make you sad.”

You shrug in the passenger seat of the old Bronco. “We’re in the parking lot of a cemetery, so,” you offer a near silent chuckle. “I think we’re a bit past sad.”

“Okay,” he nods. “There’s something you should know, then.”

“Don’t tell me it’s a neighborhood.”

“No, no. It’s a vineyard. Strawberries and grapes in the fields.”

“Well, good then,” you nod, glide your hands through the air outside the open window. “What’s wrong with it?”

He shrugs, drums his fingers on the beat up steering wheel. “You remember when you asked me last year if it was Daniel?”

“Dad. Don’t.”

“Well, I didn’t know it then, but–”

“I’m serious. Don’t tell me this, please,” you’re a second away from sticking your fingers in your ears and humming a nursery rhyme to keep the unsaid unspoken.

“Daniel bought the place, hon.”

“My Daniel?” You squeak. You haven’t felt this young in a while. Or this small.

He laughs, turns to face you with a look that begs you not to be so damn daft. “The only Daniel that means anything to anyone in this family.”

“When did you find out?”

“As soon as they put the sign up. I was still living out here.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You have so many questions. You don’t think there’s any you actually want answers to.

“What good was it going to do? I never thought you’d be back here.”

“Well. I’m back.”

He nods. “You’re back.”

You’re back. You never really left, you don’t think. It’s not something you can do around here. Perth is in your blood the same way wine is, some grand, immovable part of your soul. You suppose Daniel is there too, taking up a plot of land in your soul that can never be sold. He lives in you like summertime and sadness and strawberries. Strawberries. Him and his fucking strawberry white wines.

“He’s got strawberries?” You croak. Tears pull on your voice but you won’t give them the satisfaction. You’re grown now, it’s time to fucking act like it.

“Strawberry wine. First batches just came out last month. I heard it’s pretty good.”

“I bet.”

“You still wanna go?”

You nod, cold and stunted. “Yeah.”

You see the cars before you see the barn, they’re overflowing out of the parking lot and stopped on the side of the dirt road that leads to the drive. You’ve never seen it so busy. It looks like the pictures your parents used to show you, the ones where the place was fresh and new and shiny. The barn has a fresh coat of red paint, the parking lot is repaved and half full of ATVs with a logo for DR3 Wines printed on either side.

Above the door, a matching phrase, in simple white wooden letters–like what once was–hangs, announces the place to passers by.

Inside, it smells like wood, like lavender and citronella and alcohol. There are pictures on every wall, carefully framed photos of everyone in the world besides him. The counter is that same old slab of wood, the one that you always hoped he would fall through. On the wall behind is are more 4x6 photos than you can count, all unframed, all messily taken. He’s in some of those, holding a camera or posing with friends or hugging a grapevine. There’s one with you, right in the middle. You and he and your Mom on the back field picking grapes. It’s taken by your dad, you still remember that morning clear as day.

There’s another of you; a selfie taken on a point-and-shoot, the two of you with glasses of white wine and strawberries. Next to it is a picture of Kristen Bell and Dax Shephard leaning against the counter, half-drunk glasses in each of their hands.

Framed, on the edge of the counter, right beside the register, is a photo of the place when he first started working there, of your Mom and your Dad standing proudly in front of it. You took it. You left it in the office when your Dad decided to lock the doors for good. Our Story, the plaque below it reads, with a QR code to scan.

It leads to a linktree, to social media links and tasting menus and a merchandise shop. The last link, though, is stomach curling. It’s her name, your Mom’s. Fighting for her, it reads. When you click it, you’re taken to a website that encourages donations, that spreads awareness and promotes research, that thanks Daniel by name twice in two paragraphs for his consistent and generous donations and support.

Before you can make a bee-line for the exit, to tell your Dad that he was right and this was a mistake, you’re met with a red-faced teenage girl asking you if there’s anything she can help you with. “No, uh,” you swallow hard. “My parents were the previous owners, we just stopped in to see the place.”

“Oh my gosh, would you like a tour?”

“Um…” you pause, because you don’t know if you can handle being here. Seeing the place like this again. “Danny’s not… Daniel isn’t here, is he?” She shakes her head. You nod. “Then yeah, I guess. Let me just grab my dad?”

—

You get an invite to a VIP tasting at his vineyard two weeks after your visit. It’s scheduled during the F1 summer break, so you have no doubt he’ll be there, and if that wasn’t clue enough, his handwriting glaring back at you on the invite is about as obvious as obvious can be.

I hear you’re snooping around the old stomping grounds. I’d love to be there when you do it. Bring your Dad if he’s free. It’ll be a good night, lots of strawberry wine–the real shit this time. All love, (always your) Danny.

read part two, everywhere, everything, here!

905 notes · View notes

ineffablesuffering · 8 months

Text

Pub Quiz (Crowley X Reader)

*not my gif!*

Warnings: use of alcohol, i think that's it? oh and crowley in a turtleneck - thats a major warning.

Pairing: Crowley x gn!reader.

Word Count: 2,355 (i got a bit carried away writing this whoops)

Note: to the lovely anon that sent me a request; i'm working on it! i see you!

Masterlist

_____________________________________

“Oh, c’mon it will be fun, you never want to do anything fun,” you whine.

“I’m plenty fun,” Crowley said, sipping his whisky. You roll your eyes at him. The Drunken Donkey was hosting a music quiz and you were desperate to go. You had grown up around all sorts of music and back when you were a young teenager discovering the world of ‘decent music’ as your dad had put it, he would test you on your knowledge and it was something you had become quite fond of.

“Please,” you beg, “I’ll buy you a new plant, wash the Bentley, and buy you a drink.”

Crowley let out a sigh and looked down as he swirled the whisky in his glass. It’s not as if he had anything better to do with his time and he was rather fond of spending time with you, not that he’d ever admit that. An uncomfortable, but not unwelcome, feeling pulled on his heart when he looked up at you to see you giving your best puppy dog eyes. “Fine! Fine,” he said exasperatedly, “but don’t complain when I beat you.”

“We’ll see about that,” you say with a cheeky grin.

A few hours later, you were waiting for Crowley to make an appearance outside The Drunken Donkey. You had returned home to get changed into something a bit more appropriate for an evening in the pub, and so it seems had Crowley. He rounded the corner and you had to try to stop your jaw from hanging open. He wore all black, which was nothing new but the turtleneck jumper? Yeah, that was new, and he looked downright sinful.

“Well don’t you scrub up nicely,” you say when he approaches you, butterflies erupting in your stomach.

“Not so bad yourself,” he comments with a smirk. Your cheeks flame. “Ready to lose?”

“Oh, you’re so on.”

You both head inside and Crowley heads to find a seat in the busy pub as you approach the bar.

“What can I get for you my lovely,” the woman behind the bar said. You order yourself your favourite drink and a large Talisker for Crowley, before tapping your card and heading off to find him.

“For you,” you say placing down the whisky in front of him. He shoots you a small smile that’s enough to make you clutch your drink a little bit tighter before sitting down opposite him. “So basically, you need to have this app to take part in the quiz, you just put your name in it and then tap the right answer. Simple! Do you need help or are you old enough to do it by yourself?”

“Oh, very funny,” he huffs pulling his phone out and situating himself. “Now remember; no crying when you lose,” he smirks at you. You just look at him as you take a sip from your drink.

“We’ll see about that,” you put your own information into your phone. “Shall we make a bet?”

“A bet with a demon Y/N? That’s a bit risky, even for you.” He gives you a wicked grin and he leans in closer. You can smell his cologne at this proximity, and it makes your palms sweat a little bit. You really do need to sort yourself out.

“Well,” you lean in, not letting the proximity to him make you nervous. “I’m feeling rather confident tonight.”

“Okay then. If I win, you have to buy me a coffee every day for the next two weeks.”

“And if I win, you have to drive me around in the Bentley for two weeks, chauffeur hat and all.” You smile sweetly holding out your hand. He grins and shakes your hand.

“Deal.”

Soon the quiz master is telling you the rules, and you feel a sense of nervousness in your stomach. Maybe this was a bad idea, he did have nearly 6,000 years of experience on you, which is an awful lot of time to listen to music. The quiz master explained that there was to be four rounds; the 1980s, the Naughties, Guess the Next Line and a round specifically dedicated to Queen. Crowley perked up when he heard the last round, he smiled smugly at his phone, thinking he had this in the bag. It would be nice to not have to pay for coffee for two weeks, he thought to himself. He takes a quick glance at you over the top of his sunglasses, seeing you slightly wiggle in your seat. Your nerves, weirdly, gave him a sense of confidence.

“Okay ladies and gents, Round One: The 1980s,” the quiz master starts. The first song plays and within the first second, you’re tapping the answer.

“What?” you say as you look up and see Crowley staring at you slightly open-mouthed.

“How did you know that so quickly? The song barely started!” he points out.

You feel your nerves start to disperse and that sense of confidence washes over you again as you shrug with a smug smile on your face getting ready for the next song. The opening notes to The Look by Roxette play as you tap again within the first few notes of the song. You start to sway along in your seat. You hear Crowley growl as you continue to get the questions right and get them right quickly.

Soon the round comes to an end and the quiz master puts the leaderboard up and you smile smugly at Crowley as you see your name at the top of the board and him close behind in second place.

“What was that about you beating me?” you grin cheekily.

“Shut up,” he grumbles “It’s only round one. Don’t get too cocky.”

You giggle at him; the host announces that they are starting round two. You shoot him a wink before looking back down at your phone getting ready to start. You miss the redness that dusts his cheeks.

After the end of the round, you find yourself at the top of the leaderboard again, but this time Crowley is only a few points behind you and getting closer.

“I’m catching up to you, Y/N,” he says smugly, “You seemed to miss a few songs there, are you slipping?”

“No,” you say confidently. “I just know the 80s better.”

“I see,” he finishes his drink. “Another?” He gestures to your now empty glass. You nod at him before he heads off to the bar. A small smile graces your lips. You rather enjoy spending time with the demon. You love spending time with Aziraphale too, but this was different. Crowley just seemed to get you and your sense of humour. He was kind, although he would never admit it. He once acquired a first edition copy of your favourite book for your birthday one year, but he brushed it off as something that anyone would do. That’s when your feelings towards him started. Something about the gesture was so heartfelt and thoughtful that you couldn’t help but fall just a little bit in love with him. You were so lost in your thoughts that you hadn’t noticed the drink being placed in front of you and Crowley retaking his seat.

“Penny for your thoughts?” he asked, startling you.

“Oh sorry,” your cheeks heat again, a common occurrence around Crowley, “I was just thinking about how I can’t wait to be driven around by you for the next two weeks,” you reply cooly, not letting your thoughts get the best of you. He takes a sip of his drink and leans back in his chair, not quite believing you.

“Hmm, I wouldn’t get too comfortable Y/N,” he smirked at you.

Before you could respond, the quiz master introduced the third round. The round went by smoothly, and you were now tied with Crowley in first place, who had been slowly creeping up behind you as the round went on. You felt yourself becoming more nervous as you went into the Queen round, knowing this is something that Crowley would do well in. It really was anybody's game. The round goes by quickly and before you know it the quiz was over. You look at Crowley and he looks back at you. He seems nervous. The quiz master is soon displaying the final results and you see your name at the top of the leaderboard, one point ahead of Crowley.

“Would you look at that,” you cheer smugly, sticking your tongue out at him.

“Don’t be so juvenile,” he groans at you.

“Don’t be so sour,” you grin at him “Oh I can’t wait to have a personal driver for the next two weeks.”

“You just got lucky.”

You lean over the table, “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said giving your face a once over, ever so slightly lingering on your lips.

You lean back in your seat, feeling quite proud of yourself. “You know, I think I should demand one of those special apology dances you make Aziraphale do for you.”

“Absolutely not.” He said, finishing his drink, “I don’t do the dance.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard,” you bring the last of your drink to your lips with a smirk.

“Shut up,” he huffs, glancing around the still-busy pub, the quiz long forgotten by everyone else in the room. The night was still young and despite him losing to you, he was rather enjoying his evening and didn’t want it to end. His gaze lands back on you as you type out something on your phone. “Do you maybe want to come back to the bookshop for one more?” he asks. He sounded nervous, as if you might reject his offer. “Aziraphale’s in Edinburgh visiting a friend, and I know he’s got some lovely vintage wine hiding somewhere.”

“Yeah, I’d like that a lot,” you smile at him, and he smiles back. He stands up and offers you a hand which you take, and you walk down the street to the bookshop.

A few moments later, you were in Aziraphale’s bookshop lounging on his sofa with Crowley. You sat cross-legged facing him, and he had an arm stretched behind the back of the sofa, sunglasses placed on the table by the door. You suggest to Crowley that you should put some music on, he snaps his fingers, and the sounds of Duran Duran filled the air. You smile at him, of course, he knows how much you loved them. It’s just the kind of demon he was, thoughtful, kind, and caring. One glass turns into two as the music continues to play in the background and you talk about this that and everything in between. He tells you tales of Rome and Athens way back when and you watch him talk. He describes everything in such a way that draws you closer to him. His hands waving around as he talks, little drops of wine occasionally falling from the glass that he never thinks to put down. He truly was a sight to behold.

“You’re staring,” he said finally placing his glass down.

“Am I?” you say blinking, you turn your head to the side.

“Hey, I never said I minded,” he said, your attention suddenly back on him. Was he flirting with you? The butterflies returned to your stomach, and you couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol or the way he spoke to you. He stood suddenly; a hand stretched out towards you. “Care to dance?”

You look at his outstretched hand for a beat before a shy smile appears on your face as you gently place your hand onto his. He helps you stand and is quick to pull you close to him. You look at him and he looks at you with a small smile on his face as he snakes a hand around your waist. The music suddenly changes into the soft melody of Spandau Ballet’s True. You giggle and hide your head in his chest. Was this his doing? You look up and find him gazing at you.

“So…” you begin.

“So…”

“This is different,” you smile.

“A good different or a bad different?” he asks twirling you.

“A good different.” You say before falling into a comfortable silence. You lean your head on his shoulder and he leans his on top of yours. The two of you swayed to the music as if you were the only two people on Earth.

“I’m glad you dragged me along tonight,” he says softly, the vibration of his words running over your body.

“I’m glad I convinced you to come, even if it means I need to buy you a plant and wash the Bentley.” You laugh. He chuckles.

“Don’t bother,” he says chuckling as he lifts his head. You move your own to look at him. He really did have the most beautiful eyes.

“I guess you’re right, I did win after all.” You grin at him, removing the hand that was once in his and placing it on his chest giving him a tap, “I’m just that good.” His now free hand now found its way to the side of your face. You tilt your head, confused at the movement. His face had an unreadable expression on it. “Crowley are yo-“

“Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up,” he said almost breathlessly, as he pulled you close and kissed you. A beat passes before your eyes flutter closed and you kiss him back, the hand that was once on his chest now cupping his face bringing him even closer to you. He pulls away just enough for him to rest his forehead against yours. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time,” he whispers just loud enough for you to hear him.

“Me too,” you whisper back, “Me too.”

He grins at you before kissing you again, his lips warm and soft against yours. He pulls back, a hand still cupping the side of your face, his thumb rubbing up and down against your jaw. “Would you maybe like to go out on a date sometime?” he asks softly. You nod, a smile wide on your face.

“Yeah, I would.”

#good omens #crowley #david tennant #crowley x reader #david tennant x reader #good omens fanfiction #good omens x reader

620 notes · View notes