#labour input

[edsbacktattoo]

i’ve just finished writing the end of OMTS. i’m completely wracked by it. in shambles, even.

there are six unpublished for chapters. for the folks who read it (even if you don’t and just like to press buttons)

thank you for your help. i love you <3

#they still need to be edited but once they’re done i can just dump em and run ya know #this fic has been such a labour of love and it’s absolutely eaten me alive but im so proud of the outcome #would love to know your thoughts on it <3 #thank you in advance for your input #ofmd #omts

[onlyblackcoffeez]

love making up little tables for what college work i'm gonna do weekly only to never get beyond designing it because i do not have the ability to plan things <3

#it's like huh what do i do now #i have input due dates and made tabs for every module #now you expect me to know how to divide my time and labour rather than just feverently work on one thing until it's finished?? #is that how the other half lives?? #me talking into the little hellsite (affectionate)

[not-terezi-pyrope]

Often when I post an AI-neutral or AI-positive take on an anti-AI post I get blocked, so I wanted to make my own post to share my thoughts on "Nightshade", the new adversarial data poisoning attack that the Glaze people have come out with.

I've read the paper and here are my takeaways:

Firstly, this is not necessarily or primarily a tool for artists to "coat" their images like Glaze; in fact, Nightshade works best when applied to sort of carefully selected "archetypal" images, ideally ones that were already generated using generative AI using a prompt for the generic concept to be attacked (which is what the authors did in their paper). Also, the image has to be explicitly paired with a specific text caption optimized to have the most impact, which would make it pretty annoying for individual artists to deploy.

While the intent of Nightshade is to have maximum impact with minimal data poisoning, in order to attack a large model there would have to be many thousands of samples in the training data. Obviously if you have a webpage that you created specifically to host a massive gallery poisoned images, that can be fairly easily blacklisted, so you'd have to have a lot of patience and resources in order to hide these enough so they proliferate into the training datasets of major models.

The main use case for this as suggested by the authors is to protect specific copyrights. The example they use is that of Disney specifically releasing a lot of poisoned images of Mickey Mouse to prevent people generating art of him. As a large company like Disney would be more likely to have the resources to seed Nightshade images at scale, this sounds like the most plausible large scale use case for me, even if web artists could crowdsource some sort of similar generic campaign.

Either way, the optimal use case of "large organization repeatedly using generative AI models to create images, then running through another resource heavy AI model to corrupt them, then hiding them on the open web, to protect specific concepts and copyrights" doesn't sound like the big win for freedom of expression that people are going to pretend it is. This is the case for a lot of discussion around AI and I wish people would stop flagwaving for corporate copyright protections, but whatever.

The panic about AI resource use in terms of power/water is mostly bunk (AI training is done once per large model, and in terms of industrial production processes, using a single airliner flight's worth of carbon output for an industrial model that can then be used indefinitely to do useful work seems like a small fry in comparison to all the other nonsense that humanity wastes power on). However, given that deploying this at scale would be a huge compute sink, it's ironic to see anti-AI activists for that is a talking point hyping this up so much.

In terms of actual attack effectiveness; like Glaze, this once again relies on analysis of the feature space of current public models such as Stable Diffusion. This means that effectiveness is reduced on other models with differing architectures and training sets. However, also like Glaze, it looks like the overall "world feature space" that generative models fit to is generalisable enough that this attack will work across models.

That means that if this does get deployed at scale, it could definitely fuck with a lot of current systems. That said, once again, it'd likely have a bigger effect on indie and open source generation projects than the massive corporate monoliths who are probably working to secure proprietary data sets, like I believe Adobe Firefly did. I don't like how these attacks concentrate the power up.

The generalisation of the attack doesn't mean that this can't be defended against, but it does mean that you'd likely need to invest in bespoke measures; e.g. specifically training a detector on a large dataset of Nightshade poison in order to filter them out, spending more time and labour curating your input dataset, or designing radically different architectures that don't produce a comparably similar virtual feature space. I.e. the effect of this being used at scale wouldn't eliminate "AI art", but it could potentially cause a headache for people all around and limit accessibility for hobbyists (although presumably curated datasets would trickle down eventually).

All in all a bit of a dick move that will make things harder for people in general, but I suppose that's the point, and what people who want to deploy this at scale are aiming for. I suppose with public data scraping that sort of thing is fair game I guess.

Additionally, since making my first reply I've had a look at their website:

Used responsibly, Nightshade can help deter model trainers who disregard copyrights, opt-out lists, and do-not-scrape/robots.txt directives. It does not rely on the kindness of model trainers, but instead associates a small incremental price on each piece of data scraped and trained without authorization. Nightshade's goal is not to break models, but to increase the cost of training on unlicensed data, such that licensing images from their creators becomes a viable alternative.

Once again we see that the intended impact of Nightshade is not to eliminate generative AI but to make it infeasible for models to be created and trained by without a corporate money-bag to pay licensing fees for guaranteed clean data. I generally feel that this focuses power upwards and is overall a bad move. If anything, this sort of model, where only large corporations can create and control AI tools, will do nothing to help counter the economic displacement without worker protection that is the real issue with AI systems deployment, but will exacerbate the problem of the benefits of those systems being more constrained to said large corporations.

Kinda sucks how that gets pushed through by lying to small artists about the importance of copyright law for their own small-scale works (ignoring the fact that processing derived metadata from web images is pretty damn clearly a fair use application).

#not-terezi-speaks #ai #nightshade

[txttletale]

sorry, a bit confused on your AI art take. Are you pro-AI art on the simple basis that humans have to input a prompt first? What of the artists whose work was stolen for that data set? Do they just not matter or have you just not considered them?

i'm not 'pro-AI' -- i don't really care about the technology itself as more than a novelty. i think there's some really talented people doing cool things with it but as a new artform the vast majority of the stuff being made with it fucking sucks. it enables a lot of really shitty business practices (that, mind you, were already standard -- it just makes them easier). much like any advancent in productive technology its implementation under capitalism will inevitably be immiserating. i just think that 1. generative art is indisputably art and almost every argument i've seen that it isn't is openly reactionary and 2. many of the arguments against it are equally reactionary petty-bourgeois nonense that drown out the actual labour concerns of how employers' use of it affects the proletariat.

that said i simply don't believe that anyone's work is being 'stolen' when datasets are created and AI is trained on them. they're not being deprived of anything! i definitionally think something cannot be a 'theft' if nothing is lost or taken, and i furthermore think that the ability to freely scrape words and images off the internet is actually incredibly vital to a lot of very important research and the idea that it represents 'theft' when those words and images are not even being reproduced is absolute nonsense.

like when people say that images have been used "without compensation", what do they imagine "compensation" looks like? like, the CLIP dataet that DALL-E 2 was trained on has 400 million images in it. DALL-E 2 charges (after a free trial period) $0.02 per image. so should each of the owners (not creators, mind you, because IP law does not protect creators and in fact demonstrably does the opposite) of the images in CLIP then get $0.000000005 whenever DALL-E 2 generates an image? be serious! barbie playset of the bulgarian presidential palace

#ask #ai art

[cameronspecial]

I Will Love It, Rafe

Pairing: Frat!Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings:  N/A

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 0.7K

Summary: Rafe wants to make their house a home for Y/N.

Masterlist

Being married to Rafe is the most amazing stage of Y/N’s life. She didn’t think he could’ve gotten more loving and attentive, but he did. When they moved into their house in the Outer Banks, he did the whole carrying her across the threshold thing and his husbandly duties didn’t stop there. He helped in every possible way to bring their house together and create their home. He gave his input on the paint colour, couch swatches, what style of furniture he wanted and anything else she would ask him. Even going as far as buying a few decorations he sees in the store and thinks she would like. Every time he would meet her with the same adorable nervousness of her not liking it, which she would always reassure him she does like it. This house is really starting to feel like theirs. 

Rafe knows Y/N has been dreaming of a built-in bookshelf in the room that is going to be their office and Rafe is dying to make that happen for her. Sarah took Y/N out for the day under the pretense of showing his wife the island that is now her home. This allows him to work on his project for her. He enlisted the help of Sarah’s pogue friends because he knew he wasn’t the most masterful with his building. He isn’t their biggest fan, but he can put their differences aside for the sake of Y/N. 

“We just have to nail the last top face frame rail and then we are ready to paint,” Rafe confirms with the others. Pope nods, “Yeah. Although, she won’t be able to put anything on it until after twenty-four hours, so I don’t know if you want to wait to show her.” “I think I’m too anxious to wait. I need to know what she thinks right away. What if she doesn’t like it?” Rafe frets, not seeing that he is holding the wood up crooked. JJ hits the back of his head, “Snap out of it. You aren’t holding it straight.” Rafe fixes his hold on the wood so that JJ can nail it into place. John B is the one to reassure his, hopefully, far-future brother-in-law. “Don’t worry, Dude. You said that she’s been showing you pictures of these bookshelves, so you know what she wants. Plus, she’ll just be touched by the gesture even if it isn’t exactly what she wants,” John B promises, slapping the husband’s back. “Thanks,” Rafe whispers. 

———

The big reveal is quickly approaching and Rafe feels the sweat on his palms. He wipes it off on the towel in his hand. The front door opens and he swears as he realizes he won’t have enough time to get cleaned up. He runs to greet the girls and is met by a questioning look from his wife. She sets the bags in her hand down, “What’s with the paint?” “Uhh, I’ve been working on a project for you, but I’m not sure I want you to see it,” he confesses, walking over to pick up the bags and kiss her. She returns the kiss, “Why don’t you want me to see it?” “Because I don’t think you will like it. So I’m going to have to take it down and pay a professional to make a better one,” he explains. He pulls out his phone to call the pogues back to take down what they had built not even twenty minutes ago. 

Y/N takes his phone out of his hand and makes him look at her. “You don’t have to do that. Just show me what you did. I’m sure I will love it, Rafe,” she comforts him, placing her hand in his. He lets out a breath and takes her upstairs to their office. He opens the door to reveal the labour of his day. Her eyes set on the bookshelves and she lets out a squeal. Her arms wrap around his neck. She kisses him on the cheek, “Rafe, I love it. This is incredible. Thank you so much. You are really making this place our home.” He gives her a kiss of his own with a massive grin. “You’re welcome, Angel. I would do anything to make you feel comfortable. I want you to love this space as much as I love you.” 

Taglist: @winterrrnight @loves0phelia

#let me angel #rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #outer banks #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron series #rafe #rafe x reader #rafe imagine #rafe fic #rafe outer banks #rafe obx #rafe fanfiction #rafe x y/n #rafe x you #outer banks rafe #outerbanks #outer banks x reader #outer banks imagine #outer banks fanfiction #obx #obx fic #obx fanfiction #obx fanfic #obx imagine #obx x reader

[thelastofhyde]

ii. santorini.

pairing. tourguide!joel miller x fem!reader. series synopsis. on the brink of undergoing a life-altering change, you runaway from your problems in the only way any sane person can: embarking on a mediterranean cruise. there you meet joel miller, a grumpy, private tour-guide, who just so happens to be tasked with touring you through each stop on your cruise. from greek goddesses to roman ruins, you have ten days to avoid your fate. maybe a frowning, southern, sex-on-legs of a man is just what the doctor ordered. chapter summary. tensions are high as you and joel spend your first day together exploring the popular island of santorini. back on the boat, joel gets a glimpse at more than he bargained for. series warnings. no use of y/n, set in 2015, no apocalypse au, cruise!au, rom-com, enemies-ish to lovers, tour-guide!joel, unspecified age gap, depictions/discussions of grief, angst, fluff, a whole load of smut, a lot of cheesy stereotypical romance tropes bc i just wanna see joel not suffer ( too much ) <3 chapter warnings. mild smut ( female masturbation, mentions of oral sex + piv sex ), bickering, alcohol, mild angst, so much cheese it'll turn you lactose intolerant!! btw joel hates santorini and he makes that known, but none of his opinions reflect my own ( please don't be mean to me over things characters say <33 ) word count. 7.9k hyde’s input. the majority of this chapter was written with a mixture of medicine flowing through my veins, it's a miracle it's even intelligible. apologies for the wait, the holidays and health issues got in the way <3 as always, i hope you enjoy, comments an dreblogs are always appreciated !! previous chapter - next chapter - series masterlist

It is a known fact that your name and late rarely exist within the same sentence.

The mere thought of being late fills you with a sickness you cannot cure. The extremes you’ll go to avoid it know no bounds. From arriving four hours before a flight, to waiting in your car a whole hour before entering a lecture hall, adulthood is a phase in which you’d sworn to repair the damage of a childhood worth of not arriving late.

Late to school, late to birthday parties, late to dentist appointments.

It wasn’t that you were a particularly difficult child, running rampant around the house as your mother tried to dress you, or your father tried to feed you. Quite the contrary, really. Often, it was little-you who chased around after them, and who waited by the door, school bag in hand, tapping your foot with every second that ticked by on the clock. You were too young and hadn’t the ability nor the empathy to understand that your parents were held up with sorting through things directly influenced by your existence, like cleaning up the messes you left at the breakfast table, or fixing the doorknob you and your sister broke in an intense game of hide and seek.

Nowadays, you can count on one hand the times you’ve been late.

First, you were late to your own surprise birthday party, but that was down to you getting stuck an extra hour at work. It was out of your control.

Then, there’d been your graduation ceremony. Your father missed an exit and ended up taking you on a mystery tour of the city, trying to find the next turn that led to your campus. Again, out of your control.

The third time is the one you remember panicking over the most, knee bouncing uncontrollably with nerves as you sat squeezed between two strangers on a plane. Your sister, barely halfway through her third trimester, had gone into labour, and where were you? Stumbling around drunk on a private beach in Cancún, mumbling along to the lyrics of some early 2000s classic you forget the name of. Your niece, all 4 and a half pounds of her, had decided now was her time to shine and there was nothing, not even the 4 weeks she had yet to grow in utero, that was going to stop her. By the time you arrived, mascara smudged eyes and with the stench of tequila still on your skin, she was laying peacefully in her incubator, the tiniest little fingers clenched into fists and a name tag around her wrist. This too was out of your control.

But the fourth time you’re late, as you stride urgently across the wooden decking of the ship, weaving in and out of lounge chairs and polo-neck wearing crew members, it’s completely within your control.

Yet, it’s not entirely your fault.

An alarm that never went off. A game of hide-and-seek with your purse. An unfortunate slip on bathroom tiles adding another bruise to your knees. An elevator that refused to travel faster than the speed of a snail. It’s as though Lady Luck had set out in favour of being against you, doing her utmost to ensure you arrive exactly seven minutes past your deadline. His deadline.

Best be on the deck by 7 am, darlin’, or I’m dockin’ without ya.

Your head whips from one side to another, eyes finding a familiar figure amongst the few passengers meeting their own private guides. It’s the same man from yesterday, out on the balcony, the memory of him cheering his champagne and shooting a tipsy smile your way replaying. Only now he’s clad in plaid, with a frown etched into his forehead as he stares at his watch. There’s another man, hanging off his arm, fusing with the collar of his shirt.

“She’s late,” you overhear him say, voice firm and leaking with annoyance.

“Maybe she just slept in!” The man next to him is cheerier, tired eyes full of optimism, even as he turns his head and stifles a yawn. “Give her a few minutes.”

“What kind of shitty tour guide sleeps in?” Balcony-Man huffs, and you can’t help but think of your niece and her pouty face whenever she fails to get her own way. “Does she think I’d not rather be asleep too? Lazy c-”

“See? This is why I told you to eat that damn croissant before we left.” The taller of them seems to snap, rolling his eyes. “Brighten up, Bill, or so help me God you’ll be leaving this boat a divorcee.”

Trying to tune their voices out, as the guilt of prying crawls its way into your bones, your gaze points down at your feet. The very same heels you’d worn last night, pretty as they may leave you, have you cursing at the Sun and the Moon. If you’d have just worn your sneakers, maybe you could have ran up the stairs instead of taking the snail-evator.

Joel, tour guide, Signore Miller’s voice- though your imagination can’t quite reach his level of arrogance- rears its irritating head through your mind, recalling his words from last night. Wear somethin’ a little more… practical. That had been enough to awaken that stubborn mule inside of you, hell-bent on proving him wrong.

But now, late, and with him nowhere in sight, your heels seem to have had the opposite effect. They’ve proved him right.

Which leaves you here, moping so pathetically you’re incapable of appreciating the shine of a rising sun over the horizon of aqua blue water.

Five minutes, you decide. That’s how long you’ll allow yourself to dwell in self-pity. Then, you’ll trek your way over to the Excelsior lounge, hit up the breakfast buffet, and await the general disembarking time.

Who knows, maybe you’ll get a call to say there’s a miraculous spot opened up on one of the tour groups.

If not, you’ll be fine! You’ve travelled alone before, you’ve got an all-inclusive data plan on your phone and you’re pretty well-acquainted with the less-than-accommodating features of Google Maps. You don’t need help, or a tour guide, much less one as blood-boiling, skin-prickling, irritating as Joel Mil-

“Wasn’t sure how ya like your coffee, but you look like a milk, two sugars kind of girl to me.”

Speak of the Devil and he shall appear. Or, in this case, think of him.

Turning a little too fast, you stumble a step or two back, and, sure enough, there he is. A tight fitting, dark grey t-shirt stretched over the swell of his biceps, a pair of washed-out denims, and two well-worn running shoes, one on each foot. Trailing up the swell of his tanned neck, you count the freckles up to his eyes, and find there’s bags under them. The growth of hair on his face is just as unkempt as yesterday, yet already it seems to have grown longer, making the litter of greys stand out more. The hair that sits atop his head is damp, and the strands that have managed to dry are being messed around by the morning air. He’s still got that ever-present frown stamped into his forehead, yet his mouth doesn’t seem to curl into a snarl as he calls your name.

You must stare a moment or two past his comfort level, for he clears his throat and nods down at his hand. Two to-go cups, the smallest streams of steam floating out the hole in each lid.

He’s extending one out- the one in his right hand- towards you. “If you’d rather black, you can take min-”

“No!” You snap back into your own body, all too quickly and all too volatile. Clear your throat, and then try again, this time with a little less of that im being held at gunpoint shake in your voice. “No… Thank you. It’s fine- Milk is fine.”

It’s more than fine.

In fact, he’s gotten it spot on. Down to the number of sugars you take.

But, still stubborn, you yearn to not give him the satisfaction of being right so early in the day, and instead settle for accepting the coffee out his hand. You welcome the golden warmth eagerly, eyes unable to resist slipping shut as you take your first sip. When they reopen, you find Joel watching you, intently. Purposefully, as though you’re something to be studied.

Clearing your throat, you glance to the side and spot Balcony-Man and his partner greeting an apologetic woman.

“Thanks for the, uh,” his stare is intimidating your nerves, setting you on edge of something you’re all to eager to jump off. “Coffee. Yeah. You didn’t have to… I mean, I actually thought you’d, you know, uh-”

“You thought I left without ya.” He states. All you can do is nod. “I could’ve. I did warn you not to be late.”

“You did.”

“I also told you to wear somethin’ other than them heels.”

“I know.”

“Yet here you are, late and in heels. You’re not very good at following orders.” He exhales something akin to a chuckle, as devoid of humour as it may be, and you swear he’s suddenly closer than you remember, knuckles brushing against your own as he bumps his paper cup against yours. “Just what am I gonna do with ya, huh?”

For a moment, you swear your heart has leaped from your chest and up to your throat, threatening to choke you with the beat of it. There’s no sense you can make of it, this reaction he rouses, a heat you can’t control creeping down your loins as you drag in a whiff of some manly cologne, the kind you’d usually turn your nose up at for being too overbearing. Yet, on him, it’s not. On him it’s just right, like he was born with pine soaked skin, and a tobacco stained kiss, and-

Before you can think of pulling in another breath, Joel’s stepped back, allowing a cool breeze to pass between you and get a hold of your senses.

“C’mon, we’re slotted in for the first tender that leaves for shore.”

“Oh my God.”

You’re half certain Joel’s growing sick of hearing those three words roll off your tongue. He’s likely felt this way since it first left your mouth, feet struggling to safely step out onto the dock as your mind became enchanted by the picturesque view in front of you. Only the burn of his hand meeting your lower back, nudging you ahead to make space for himself and the other passengers to step off the tender boat, was capable of dragging you back into your own body, the wanderlust that had gripped your soul yearning to be free to explore every building that sits carved into rock, every water-taxi that flows idly on cristaline water, every step that winds up and up and up the island’s cliff where, at the top, civilisation seems to lie.

The port you’ve docked on is rather small, with naught more than two docking strips and a walkway of shops and confection stands, with boats that find no space along the docking strips tying themselves to any safety they may find over the expanse of the walkway. It is no wonder the cruise floats safely out in deeper waters, alongside several other cruise lines, with no space for such large vessels. And, yet, the port is alive with something. The ground seems to pulse, like a beat of a heart, and the air, as fresh as the grass after heavy rainfall, almost dances its way down your lungs. Voices swim all around you, tourists scrambling past each other, fighting in a race towards something you’ve yet to identify.

“So this is Gialos, also known as the Old Port of Fira.” Somewhere, behind you perhaps, Joel’s voice pipes up, a speech so rehearsed and robotic, a part of your wonders how many times he’s recited it, how many people he’s recited it to. The other part of you, however, is much too fixated on the stairs ahead to pay him true attention, eyes following as two men and several donkeys descend. “That, up there, is Fira, the capital of Santorini. We’re going to need to take a cable- Are you even listening to me?”

“Yes!” You’re quick to react, a defensive rise in your voice. He meets it with a deadpan look and the crossing of his arms over his chest, which quickly becomes something you wish he wouldn’t do as you watch the tight fabric of his shirt stretch itself thin over the bulge of his arms. “No. Sorry, I’m just… Wow.”

You hope he appreciates the restraint you show towards repeating those three dreaded words again.

“You have all day to stare,” his words trip over his own irritated scoff, and you bite back a question of why he’s a guide if he seems to hate it so much, fearful he’s too honest to not tell you a truth that may hurt your fragile feelings. A truth where it is not so much his job he dislikes, but rather, your presence and all that it brings. “Right now, we need to move. Don’t wanna spend all day waitin’ in line now, do ya?”

This need for speed that hooks the other tourists seems to filter over into your guide, who’s forcing you forward, that heat of his palm now hovering inches away from your lower back. It’s enough to lead you where he pleases. As a pair, you weave in and out small clusters of people, till the space between you both and the large gathering crowd slowly diminishes. It is there where his once telepathic leading fails, with Joel turning left towards it as you stray right, over to the ascending pathway of stairs.

“Where are you going?” His tone is offended, almost, as he comes to a halt and watches you fail to do the same, to notice the space between you both and correct it like some puppy who’s been called to heel by its master.

“Where am I going?” The question, at first, is one you mistake as rhetorical. Staring back at him with an equaled confusion, you gesture to the stairway, as though it is the most obvious answer. Because, well, where else could you have been heading? He said so himself, that up there is Fira, the capital of Santorini, and you’ll be damned if you don’t get to see it. “Where are you going?”

“To the cable cars, that’ll take us up the island.”

Above the crowd of people, hanging over doors of small businesses, lay several signs. CABLE CARS - 6€ ! stands out, impossible to miss. Symbols you scarcely recognise sit beneath it, in smaller text, and you assume it’s Greek. In the distance, you spy the movement of the mobile boxes, people being carted up the length of the cliff at a speed that promises them a journey of mere minutes.

“Oh.” So, perhaps his option makes more sense than your own far longer, more tiring one. Still, stubborn as a mule, you double down on your decision to take the scenic route, inching closer towards the first step. Your guide, still in the face, refuses to move, daring eyes willing you to continue. “You want us to take the lazy man’s route? You go ahead, I’ll take the stairs and meet you at the top.”

You press one foot up onto the first step, weary of where you rest the point of your heel.

Glancing a few steps further up, there’s the unmistakable sight of a mound of brown substance, no doubt excreted out of one of the donkeys that walk ahead, tourists mounted on their poor backs.

“I don’t think you understand,” he finally inches closer, if only slightly, hands clenched at his side. “There’s five hundred and eighty-eight steps until you reach the top.”

The number is more daunting than you expect, and you pray he can’t read this on your face. “Only? I’ll be up in no time then!”

You feel more than see the way Joel’s eyes travel down the expanse of you, stuttering almost over the curvature of your chest, the dips at your hips, till they rest at your feet. The question hangs loose between you, unspoken yet evident.

In those heels?

“Listen, Joel,” taking a second, third, and fourth step, you aim for a literal higher ground, staring down below as he continues to drift closer and closer towards the stairway. “If you’re not fit for the task, or the climb’s no good for your knees, you can just say it, there’s no shame. Like I said, I’ll meet you at the top. Promise I won’t even report the fact my private guide abandoned me in favour of his own comfort.”

Defeat has never come easy.

Well, to phrase it better towards the truth, acceptance of defeat has never come easy.

There was always something more to be said, another excuse to be given for any of your shortcomings. When you’d been turned away from the school’s soccer team, you’d told yourself it was because you were a girl- ignoring the fact three girls in your year made the cut. When you’d lost an arduous game of Monopoly, you’d sworn you’d caught your sister sneaking notes out of the banker’s pile into her own. When you’d been beaten, round after round, by your own niece at Mario Kart, you’d stuck your tongue out at her and told her you let her win out of pity.

All that had been before, of course, back when you still roamed school hallways, when your sister sat across from you at the dining table, when your niece still laughed freely, wildly, celebrating her own victories with an over-the-top, uncoordinated dance around the living room.

As changed as things may be, defeat is still your foe.

It is that reason alone that you bite back a complaint.

You’d enjoyed the initial moments of your trek. Maybe it was the salty air in your lungs, or the beautiful views of your surroundings, or the idle grumbling coming from Joel, a few paces behind you, kicking up dirt under his feet with every step he travelled up. Whatever the reason, adrenaline had been flowing, into your heart and through your veins, covering every square inch of your body, a tingling of nerves from the tip of your toes to the top of your spine.

But, by the 10 minute mark, a dull ache forms in your feet. Each step of your heel feels more life threatening than the last, as the stairs grow slippier, dustier, and well-worn the further up you advanced. By stair who-knows-how-may, you take a near fatal tumble backwards, the crunch of crumbling rock threatening to be the last thing you hear. Till he appears behind you, fast as light, huffing out a breath as you smack down against his solid chest.

“Mind your step.” From anyone else, you would mistake it as a sign of care. From Joel, you know better than to think it’s anything beyond a humourless taunt.

You try to keep count of the steps, from then on, an effort to motivate yourself to move faster with each ten-pace you count. By 50, you lose your place and begin counting all over again.

The journey is difficult in other ways, too, with the constant passing of donkeys who obligate you to stand aside and make way for them. And the distant movement of cable cars, firing up and sliding down more times than you can keep track of.

When a particular step proves itself too steep, you can no longer hold back and, finally, a hiss slips out between your clenched teeth as pain shoots up your ankle, the leather of your shoe rubbing even harder into your brittle skin, threatening the promise of a blister yet to fully swell. Pushing the pain down, alongside a complaint, you take another step. Hiss. Then another, hiss. You can fight it no longer, bending at the waist to slip off your heel and examine the irritated skin.

Sure enough, it’s been rubbed raw, broken and spilling a small pool of blood.

Behind you comes an exasperated groan and, before you can straighten yourself to even register what’s happening, Joel barges past you and the figure of him up ahead slowly diminishes the faster he climbs up hill.

“Hey!” You call after him, hobbling to slip your shoe back on, but it’s to no avail.

He’s long gone, growing further and further out of your reach with each passing minute.

Cursing him under your breath, you decide to hell with the no complaints of his preferred regard for his own comfort. He’s abandoned you, injured and hobbling up the steps, all because he has the patience of a toddler who’s been waiting far too long to go potty.

“Wear somethin’ a little more sensible…” You’re bound to seem deranged to any passers by, half hopping up the steps, mumbling to yourself in a mockery of his deep voice “Yeah, right, how bout I shove somethin’ a little more sensible up your ass. Oh, what’s that? There’s no room up there with the massive stick you’re already carryin-”

“A local man warned me bout ya, on my way back down. Said there was some no-good girl casting out bad juju.” You freeze, foot stopped in mid-air. Shifting your gaze up ahead, you find Joel there, skipping a step every so often as he grows closer and closer. At his side, dangling from two fingers, sits a plastic bag. “Told him it ain’t no juju or curses you’re casting, just throwin’ a little tantrum.”

Like a fish out of water, all you can do is stare at him, wide eyes and mouth agape.

Joel pays your silence no mind, almost delighting in it. With a pop and a crack from his knees, he crouches down before you, holding out the palm of his hand.

“C’mon,” he mutters, pointing towards your injured foot. “Lemme see.”

You’re hesitant, at first, but ultimately lift it and let him curl his grip around it, holding you in place as the shoe slips off you. A tut meets your ears as his eyes meet the bloodied mess, and you watch how he contemplates, for a moment or two, before wetting his thumb with his tongue and swiping it over your broken skin.

It stings, like salt in a wound or a bee’s stinger through skin, and you try to flinch back, retract yourself from his hold. But Joel’s strong, resilient, nails biting at the flesh of your ankle to keep you in place. His free hand digs into the plastic bag he’d discarded at his side and pulls out a white box. Fiddling with it for a short period, he manages to open it at last and slips out a bandaid. He rips that open a lot quicker, using his teeth, and slips it over your open wound perfectly, thumb and pointer finger smoothing it around the curve of your heel.

“D’ya see now why I told you to not wear those things?” You feel like a child at his words, reprimanded like you once were for touching your mother’s curling iron. “And why I said we should take the cable car?”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you refuse to meet his eyes. But he just won’t let you be, craning his own neck to infiltrate the space you stare off into. There’s a pleased look on his face, smugness pulling at the right corner of his mouth. Alarmingly, you think of how it’s the closest you’ve gotten to seeing him smile.

You continue your pursuit of silence, repeating a mantra of how you don’t care that he’d tried to look out for your comfort, or how he’d then tried to save you the effort of an uphill battle, or how his hand, big and warm and rough at the fingertips, is still holding your foot in place, absentmindedly rubbing your ankle in a circular motion.

“Look at ya, gone all quiet on me,” that corner of his lip curls higher. You register the rustling of the bag, his hand digging back inside it. “Ain’t one for bein’ put in your place, are you?”

Out comes his hand once more, though this time it’s not a box of bandaids. Now, resting firm in his grasp, sits a mixture of navy blue dyed cotton, stitched atop a flat, thick layer of a straw-like material. A slip-on canvas shoe. Joel doesn’t await permission, nor does he even ask for it. He simply takes charge, slipping it onto your foot, mindful as he straightens out the back to lay against your heel.

“Other foot, up.”

Switching feet, you stumble as your weight completely shifts onto your injured side. Your hands, reaching out to stabilise your swaying body, are quickly directed by his own to rest atop his head, curls of brown threading between your fingers. You contemplate asking what products he uses to achieve locks so smooth and shiny, then rethink it as soon as you imagine his reply of a disinterested grunt and a snarky ain’t use anythin’ but dirt water and a splash o’ whiskey.

“How’s it feel?”

Soft, you almost reply, then realise he’s asking about the shoe.

With a wiggle of your toes, you tell him it’s fine, and leave it at that. He doesn’t need to know they’re surprisingly comfortable.

Joel rises with a bit of a struggle, yet refuses the help you offer. Rough hands scoop up your discarded heels, tossing them into the bag, and then he straightens his back, lets out a noise of discomfort, before nodding up ahead.

“C’mon, only got a hundred or so to go. We’ll be up in no time.”

The sun sits high in the sky when you reach the city of Fira.

Crossing over that last step, 588 painted in white across it, you huff out a sigh, exhaustion aching you out of any enjoyment of your victory over the stairway from hell. Before you can even utter a word of your thirst, Joel is already reaching into his bag of wonders, unscrewing the lid off a bottle of water and passing it to you. Grateful, you take a sip, and lament the few drops that spill down your chin.

At least they don’t go to complete waste, cooling your skin ever so slightly.

It’s a shame to see Joel start moving again, moments before you’re even ready to gain back your breath, but you follow after him, nonetheless, mindful to not press your foot too hard down. Through streets he winds, past shopkeepers he walks. Eventually, after a few minutes, you ask him where you’re both heading.

“To catch a coach,” his hand moves quickly, tugging you closer as a bicycle shoots past behind you. Your own find themselves against his chest, and realise it is nothing like his hair. Solid, warm, wide. It’s almost a shame to lower them back down to your side. “Less you think you can walk from here to Oia, too.”

Truth be told, you don’t know where Oia is.

But you do know your walking for the day is over, happy to follow Joel onto the coach. You take the aisle seat, he’s by the window. Across from you both sits a couple, young and giggling into one another’s ears, as though the sounds of their joy is sacred to none but them. A pang of envy thumps your soul, and you quickly turn your face.

Only to find that Joel’s is grey.

Not the hair that lines it but, rather, his whole face, paled and blood-drained. It’s a sickly image, and one that’s quick to get your heart racing.

“Are you okay?” Any thought of keeping your composure becomes mute as you hear your own voice, a treacherous shake to it that gives your panic away. “You look…” There is no word kind enough for you to use to relay the image of him, so you lock your lips.

It takes a few seconds for you to get a reply, as your hand moves up to feel his forehead. It’s sweaty, warm, and you move to pull your hand back when he’s holding it firm in place, eyes slipping shut. “‘S cold. You’re cold,” seems to be his explanation. “I’m fine, it’s just- Carsick.”

“You get carsick, yet you work on a cruise.”

“Not the same. Ship’s big, somethin’ bout the size and my own visibility, ‘s what stops me getting seasick.”

You sit like that the rest of the coach, your hand pressed to his forehead, his eyes slipped shut.

“What’s your favourite stop on the cruise?”

As it turns out, Oia is exactly what you’d pictured Santorini to be.

White washed houses, deep blue domes for rooftops, turquoise waters, all for as far as the eye can see. Joel complains, more than tells you, of the rise in tourism over the years, of how it’s turned the beautiful village into a party-town for idiots abroad, disregarding the clean environment, shamelessly blocking paths to snap a frame-worthy shot, raising prices to the ceiling. When you ask him if he thinks he’s in part to blame, if people like him are to blame- running tours, bringing guests onto the island, earning a wage off the visiting of such a place- he grumbles out something about missing breakfast, needing lunch.

So you find a cafe. Or, more, Joel leads you to one. He greets the doorman, with a wave and a pat on the back, before sauntering his way through to a back terrace, overlooking the whole village, the water perfectly framing it. Stepping out and sitting down, the view robs the very breath out of your lungs.

It’s like sitting inside a postcard.

Joel asks if you like Greek food.

You tell him you’ve never had it.

He orders for you both, a mixture of different plates, and swears he’ll find something you’ll like.

It turns out you’re rather fond of baklava.

“Florence.” Joel’s taken his time to answer, staring at you like a deer caught in headlights. Disbelief more than fear in his eyes, you have to wonder if it’s the first time someone’s thought to ask him, in all his years as a guide. Naturally, this leads you to wondering how many years that is. “It’s a real site. Full of history, a real story to be told.” He tilts a ceramic dish your way, eyes glancing down in an offering. You follow them, and spot olives. Shake your head, no, then smile, thanks. He shrugs, more for me, and pops two into his mouth. “There’s this…” he pauses to chew. “This library.”

“A library?”

“‘S not just a library.” He slips out the olive’s pip and raises another into his mouth. You try not to think about how thick his fingers look, rolling the remaining briny green pebbles around in the pot. “There’s a cinema built inside it. Plays some classic films. I always- or, I try to go whenever we dock.”

It’s hard to picture Joel inside a cinema, something about the setting too busy, too loud to place his scowling face in. Would he be the kind to have a favourite seat, perfectly picked to optimise the sound quality? Does he speak animatedly, excited any time he recognises an actor? Or is he a shusher, the kind to roll his eyes when someone dares to even clear their throat?

A part of you wants to ask him if your tour involves a trip to this library.

Something tells you it’s not a place he likes to share, though. It’s his own little corner, safe to sneak a moment of selfish indulgence amidst a week of catering to another’s needs.

“A cinema inside a library?” A waiter interrupts you, asks if everything’s alright. Joel orders another serving of baklava. “Isn’t that a bit of an oxymoron?”

“Yeah.” For a moment, you think you see a smile creep across his lips. “Suppose it is.”

Another interruption comes in the form of your ringtone, rippling the water in your glass as your phone vibrates upon the table. You’re well aware of how Joel spots the word Mum displayed across your screen. Just like you’re aware he sees how you swipe down on your screen and switch on aeroplane mode.

Before he can ask any questions, or the sudden silence can become too deafening, you throw out another question. “And your least favourite?”

“Least favourite stop?” You nod, affirmative, and he needs no time to reply. “Here.”

“Here?! How come?”

The baklava arrives, as if on cue, and you point down at it, as though it is reason enough to be enamoured with the island. It seems to do little to convince him, his hand reaching out to push the plate closer to you, inviting you to indulge yourself.

“Compared to the other stops, Santorini’s bland.” He says it when your mouth is too occupied to protest, stuffed full with layer after layer of pastry. “Kind of like a diamond, y’know? Real pretty to look at, empties your wallet, and, at the end of the day, ain’t much you can do with it.”

“People propose with diamonds.” You point out, and cough as a flake of pastry hits the back of your throat.

Joel’s already passing you your glass of water before you even think to reach for it.

“People propose with rings. Diamonds are just custom, not a guarantee.”

Sunset arrives with no warning, a hue of fiery orange melting down into the calm waters on the horizon. It’s Joel who makes the call to head back, one glance at his watch enough to tell you the last chance to catch a coach is nigh. It’s only as you go to call for the bill that he tells you it’s covered and you realise his earlier trip to the bathroom had been a ruse to go pay.

The trip back is calmer, quieter, with the coach full of sunkissed and heat exhausted tourists.

Again, you take the aisle seat, and Joel, the window.

Keeping an eye on him is easy, switching your gaze towards the approaching darkness of the night sky calling upon the street lights anytime he meets your eyes. When you notice the increase in breaths and the paling of his skin, you wordlessly unscrew the cap off a bottle and slot it into his hand, inviting him to finish off the last sips of your water.

Skipping out on a trip down memory stairway, you quietly follow him into the cable car and, when you reach the Old Port, you try your best to block out his smug remark of how easy and fast the ride was. A feat which becomes easier as you stumble halfway up the dock and turn back.

Like hours before, as you first stepped off the tender, your mouth falls agape. Only, this time, wider. The view of the island lit up in all its glory is enough to leave you breathless, hands scrambling to fish out your phone, open the camera and-

“You gettin’ on or what?” Joel calls out from behind, and you find him waiting on board one of the tenders, hand held out towards you.

It’s a demand, more than it is an offer, to hurry up. The collective of other passengers are watching the interaction, and a feeling you’ve come to know all too well crawls its way into your veins.

A burden, holding them all up, that’s what you are.

The feeling follows you back, as you slip into a damp seat and watch as the boat carries you further and further from the island, it’s lights twinkling in a way that chokes you up, drains you out, eyes stinging from more than just the salty air. You’ll love it, I swear! The memory plays out in your head, those words gushed at you. Hands squeezing your cheeks, a smile blinding you under its brightness. Just wait till you see it at night, the lights shine over it like stars!

You blink.

A tear pools at the corner of your eye.

“Here, look,” something nudges you. It’s Joel, inching his phone into your view. Through blurred sight, you glance at it. And find yourself, centre frame, lit only by the moon. In the back lies the whole skyline of Santorini, lights reflecting down onto the waters below. “Best view you can get, the whole island in one shot.”

Afraid to hear your own voice, you smile.

He answers by pointing his phone back at you, snapping another photo.

Back on the cruise, the two of you part ways, with Joel telling you to meet him in the same bar, same time as the night before.

Dinner had been part of your plans. With a glance over the listed restaurants on board, the ache in your tired bones asks you to stay in bed and make use of the room service. You listen, order something light, easy. It arrives in under 10 minutes and your hunger is satisfied sitting out on the balcony, watching the dark waves roll past.

Phoning your mother is the next port o'call.

Unlike with your food, that takes longer than 10 minutes. Much longer, and involves you countlessly reassuring her that yes, you’re okay, and no, you don’t need her to fly out and meet you in Naples.

“I’m a big girl,” you even throw in a laugh, hoping it’ll ease the worry lines you can picture splayed over your mother’s face. “I think I can climb up a mountain without my mum’s help.”

“Honey, you know that’s not what why I’m worri-”

“Did you know you can get carsick but, at the same time, not seasick?”

You hang up shortly after, with a promise to try your best to answer when she calls tomorrow, instead of hours later, when she should be fast asleep.

The time on your phone tells you there’s still forty minutes until you need to meet Joel. The image of that grandiose bathtub flashes before your eyes and, in record timing, you’re sinking into scalding waters, a complimentary bath bomb dumped in and granting you the childish gift of bubbles.

You try to relax, at first.

There’s no need to wet your hair, so you indulge yourself. Lay your head back, close your eyes. Feel your muscles loosen with the warmth, ignore the sting of soap in your blistering heel. Your hands struggle to find a resting place, until they meet your thighs. They sit still, for a moment or two, before one slips down, inching into the crease of where your legs meet.

Something stirs in your core, comes alive as you think of how long it’s been since you last felt someone. A few months, it has to be. A fellow graduate, if you remember correctly, that stupid robe still on his shoulders as he let his mouth come down on you.

Your hand is soon on your core, before you really notice, mind on a mission to recall the hazy encounter. When you think of his tongue, messy yet eager, your finger’s already on your clit, pressing against it with a tease of pleasure. When you think of his cock, uncut and thicker than your ex, splitting you open on his bedroom floor, your hips cant up against yourself, chasing friction. When you rewind how soft Joel’s hair had been between your fingers, your free hand grips one of your breasts, fingers pinching at your nipple.

Your eyes snap open.

Joel’s hair.

Joel.

Something you should not be thinking of right now, hand buried between your thighs.

You wait a few seconds, remind yourself of the graduate’s face.

His blue eyes, your fingers roll over your nipple.

His blonde hair, your legs spread wider.

Joel’s solid chest, your fingers dip inside your cunt.

Your breath is shaky, Joel’s annoyed groan echoes.

The shame of it, of thinking of him, is almost as tantalising as touching yourself, fucking your own hole full with as much of your fingers the angle will allow. It’s a one time thing, you justify. You just need to get it out your system. One and done, cum and done. No more of Joel Miller between your thighs, this is the closest he’ll get.

Someone knocks at your door.

You nearly miss it over the sound of your breathing, the pounding of your heart.

“Who is it?” You don’t like how weak you sound, but it’s too late to take it back now.

Another knock.

“Can I come in?”

A hand still between your thighs, orgasm titering on the edge, body fully submerged in lukewarm water. “No!”

“Ain’t safe to leave your door unlocked. Anybody could walk in- Jesus!”

You’ve never screamed louder.

Joel takes up most of the bathroom doorway, same clothes save for the shirt that’s got two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled halfway up his arms. You’re pressed right back into the bathtub, as physically far from him as you can get, knees pressed up to your chest, ankles crossed over.

In Joel’s defence, he’s quick to turn away, presenting you with a view of his back. A hand runs through his hair.

“Why are you in my room?!” You inch even further back, the water suddenly dropping several degrees.

“I asked to come in!”

“And I told you not to!”

“Well obviously I didn’t hear that!”

“Why are you in my room?” You’re back to your first question, eyeing up your towel.

It’s across the room, on the bathroom sink. No way for you to reach it without the risk of him seeing you reflected on something.

“You were late. Came to check if ya tripped on them heels and broke your neck.”

“I,” you’re not sure what time it is with your phone sitting by the bed, charging. That's now five times you've been late in adulthood. “Didn’t realise the time. I can meet you at the bar in ten minutes.”

He nods, and you watch him take a step, then immediately pause. “You know, I’ve heard a few things from passengers…” You may not see his face, but you swear there’s that half-smirk, smug look upon it. It’s practically dripping off his words. “The shower head, fourth setting. Seems to get the job done for most ladies on board.”

Grabbing the closest thing in reach- a bar of soap- you launch it and watch it bounce off his irritatingly wide shoulders. “Get OUT!”

You make it to the Tipsy Byson in 15 minutes.

Dressed more appropriately than the night before, your flared jeans and crop top garner less stares. It’s just as busy, if not busier, yet it’s not hard to spot Joel on a barstool, nursing a glass of something syrupy looking. Behind the bar is Luke, head thrown back at something Joel says.

They’re an interesting pair to observe, you realise as you make your way over. With Luke, so tall, so lanky, so bright-face, his energy warm and inviting, and Joel so- well, Joel.

“There she is,” Luke cheers, a little too loudly, calling attention to you as you slip into the stool next to Joel. “My new favourite customer.”

“Thought I was your favourite,” Joel’s yet to look at you, and it’s a relief. He’s looked at you enough for one day, one week, one lifetime.

“Sorry but she smells better than you, Joel,” the barman winks at you, a cheeky grin on his face. “ Plus, she’s a hell of a lot nicer to look at.”

Joel scoffs, you giggle.

“Not sure about the whole smelling better thing,” your response comes minutes later, after Luke’s already served you a glass of wine and turned away your cash, telling you he’ll put it on Joel’s tab. “But thanks!”

Unprompted and uninvited, Luke bends over the bar and takes an exaggerated sniff. “I don’t know, smell alright to me.”

“Really? I’m not even wearing perfume, I forgot to pack any-.”

“Yeah! Go on Joel, give her a whiff, tell her she smells fine!” There’s resistance on his end, but Luke’s adamant, hand clamped on the back of Joel’s head, shoving him face first into your neck. Joel’s nose brushes against you. You hear him inhale. Exhale. Inhale again, then the urge to cross your thighs begins to nag at you. “Well?”

“Yeah, smells nice- Fine. Ya smell fine.”

“Be still my beating heart! Someone alert the press that Texas said something other than-”

Joel interrupts Luke’s dramatics, scowl on his face. “Don’t you have a job to be doin’?”

Only once the bartender is down the other end of the bar, engrossed in a heated discussion over what beer pulls a better head, does Joel speak again, sipping on his drink. Whiskey.

“So I noticed somethin’, when I was checking your bookin’ info.” You nod, urge him to continue, and take a sip of your own drink. Some country song plays over the speakers and you notice a sudden shake in Joel’s knee, his foot tapping to the beat. “Says there should be two of you in my guide team.”

“Oh,” the lump forming in your throat falls safely back into the pit of your stomach as you take another drink of wine. “Must be a printing error. You know how technology can be, always complicating things.”

“Hmm,” it’s easy to write off the awkward energy between you with the excuse of earlier events, and it’s the first bright-side you find to him walking in on your intimate bath. “Well, you know the drill for tomorrow. 7 am on that deck or I’m-”

“Docking without me, I know.”

You finish your drink first. When Joel orders himself another glass, you smile politely and turn it down. Yawn, then tell him you best head to bed.

Before you can slip out the entry, someone calls your last name. Loud enough to turn more than just your own head.

It’s Joel, approaching you, effortlessly parting crowds through the lively bar as though he is knife and, the people, butter. The loud music seems to ring louder in your ear, impeding you from hearing the words that leave his moving lips.

“What?” You call out, hands clasped over your mouth in an attempt to amplify the volume of your voice.

His response is to step closer, hands holding you in place by the waist as he leans down. A hot breath on your neck, the smell of whiskey on his breath, the soft brush of lips against your ear.

“It’s your turn to bring the coffees.”

series taglist. @auteurdelabre

#joel miller series #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller fic #pedro pascal smut #joel miller fanfic

[metamatar]

$200k seems like quite a reasonable cost for a small sterile lab. It's not a plan to make it at home, it's a plan to make it in your town. As of now, there are so few insulin plants that the economies of scale aren't optimal for distribution (but they are for profits!)

did you miss the part that it was speculative? that it has never been demonstrated? also no, the economies of scale are fine for distribution cold chain distribution it is a solved problem. people aren't struggling to get insulin bc it can't be delivered, they're struggling bc its expensive.

im not sure you understand what economies of scale means, it means when you try to do things at larger scale – you are generally able to deploy productive technologies and innovations in organisation (specialisation) which make things easier to produce (less labour and capital input) on average. things become cheaper to produce. it is cheaper to weave cloth at a factory than in a loom you install in your backyard. that's why open insulin can only hypothetically get a vial down to the price of for profit insulin in the uk. big pharma is able to profit from insulin at 7 dollars a vial, ie it's even cheaper to produce. this is like, adam smith pin example.

the existence of a big factory or doing things at scale doesn't create destructive megaprofits... this is such a bizarre worldview of the world. you have to make a very sophisticated argument to prove this, which imo is immediately debunked by the reality of worker organised cooperatives in factories or even state run industrial production. profit tends to be a function of factors like labour relations + market dynamics like supply, demand and competition. us healthcare sucks bc your workers don't have rights, private insurance colludes with hospitals and competitors and the govt doesn't regulate pharma companies who are providing an inelastic good (medicine.)

also addressing this bc some people are mad at me but the only part of my argument that cites a piece hosted on RAND corp is the extremely high price of US insulin compared to every other country in the world. its like 30x. i don't think that is a fact that's a capitalist conspiracy, the data can be confirmed with other sources too, it just illustrates how dysfunctional US healthcare is. like, when your enemies agree...

#asks #anon #bathtub insulin discourse

[probablyasocialecologist]

Had it not been for the steady stream of cheap raw cotton flowing out of the New World (which supplied nearly three-quarters of Britain’s imports of raw cotton), the British cotton industry would have never been able to play such a central role in Britain’s industrialisation. As David Washbrook notes, ‘[c]otton was exceptionally well-placed to lead the move towards mechanization: but favourably placed precisely because its raw material came from abroad’. That the British were able to outsource the production of raw cotton to the Americas – where the costs of production and labour in particular were considerably lower – was central to their industrial takeoff in the 18th century. Through the institution of the slave plantation in the colonies, capitalists were able to significantly reduce the costs of constant capital in the form of raw materials. Without this key input, it is highly unlikely British manufactures could have overcome the formidable competition from Indian cotton textiles, which even in the mid-18th century still held a leading position in world markets. The ‘workshop of the world’ was thus built on the foundations of plantation slavery.

Alexander Anievas and Kerem Nişancıoğlu, How the West Came to Rule: The Geopolitical Origins of Capitalism

#How the West Came to Rule #british empire #slavery #industrial revolution

[shoujoboy-restart]

Video of Steven Crowder yelling, belittling and being emotionally abusive towards his then pregnant ex-wife.

trigger warning: emotional abuse and manipulation, yelling(from crowder) and crying.

I really wanna know what "basic biology" books crowder is using to attack trans people while he also claims pregnant women should have cigarette smoke blow on their face, go trought stressful situations and as this situation obviously implies to probably do hard manual labour?

The guy must have hit really hard times since he threw away his 50 million dollar contract, he only has enough money to have a back ward with two pools, a balcony with furniture and perfectly mowed meters long grass bed, but not a second car for his wife to not "inconvenience" him

The same man saying "i never loved you because you never showed me any affection" tomhis Pregnant wife he is blowing cigar smoke on, now comes to his million dollar studio to cry on camera "that the state of Texas decided she could divorce him without his input :c"

#steven crowder #louder with crowder #right wing grifters #discourse #politics #right wing extremism

[screampotato]

I don't even go here, but some of these responses are a little weird ngl. As far as I can gather there are two uwu babygirls who have been wickedly kidnapped by an evil mastermind and forced to enact his dastardly plan while sobbing in private and signalling for help with their eyelids.

I think there is a valid point to be made about online businesses cultivating emotionally-invested communities around their content, happily accepting patronage and creative input from that community who see it as a shared labour of love, then pulling the rug as soon as the profits look fat enough. When people feel exploited by that, there's a reason for it. Using "parasocial" as an insult to dismiss people's upset rather misses that point.

But folks, you are really going to have to climb down a few steps from Parasocial Level 9 before that conversation can be had. Print out their pictures and throw some darts, burn sage or whatever you need to do. Mourn your blorbos. But ultimately, these were all just some blokes who don't know you, who were good at making content and making people like them, who have collectively made a bad business decision that's a really interesting microcosm of internet enshittification as a whole. I think it's really interesting to look at it from that point of view.

#watcher #enshittification #parasocial relationships #parasociality

[pinkydevil16]

Aemond targaryen x targaryen reader: part 2

(Just to let you guys know i've aged up jace to 8 when the fight with aemond happens, aemond is 9, reader is 7 and luce is 6, everyone else is the same age) (also let me know what i should name this series?)

From the moment Y/n had been born everyone knew she was a true targaryen, her Grandfather Viserys had kissed her forehead and complimented his daughter on producing a beautiful heir. Alicient had been silently screaming when the baby was brought before her, she had been certain the babe would be identical to Sir Harwin Strong much like the first child, Jacaerys, had been. Instead a baby with beautiful violet eyes and tiny white hairs sticking out her head was staring into her eyes, Rhaenyra sat on a chair looking exhausted, whilst Laenor smiled at Alicient.

"Hm she is beautiful, a true Valeryon it seems" Alicient spat as she handed the child to Laenor.

"She has your smile my child" Viserys spoke softly whilst kissing his daughter on the forehead and holding her hand. Laenor smiled down at the young babe, a toothless smile returned as she closed her eyes and began to drift off.

"What will you name her?" Alicient said as she moved towards her goblet, taking a large swig as she stared at the child who threatened her childrens heritage. 

"Y/n" Rhaenyra said quickly before Laenor could input, Viserys smile grew as he recognised the name from the history books.

"A fine name for a beautiful princess" he stated staring in his daughters eyes, to him it was like seeing his Aemma staring back at him and his baby Rhaenyra in Laenor's arms. It was clear Y/n became his favourite grandchild from the moment she was born.

"Well husband we should get back to our room to bathe her and let Jacaerys see his sister" Rhaenyra stated as she started to stand, Viserys assisting her to stand as she walked out, a small blood trail following as Alicient had sent for her moments after the baby had began crying. 

When Jacaerys had seen his younger sister, although he was just over the age of one he could see how different they were. He hugged her with help from his father Laenor and gave her a grin wiggling his fingers in front of her face and enjoying when she grabbed his pinky. 

"Sis-ter" Jace said quietly as Laenor rocked them on his lap as Rhaenyra was being looked over by the maesters to stop any bleeding and begin the healing process. 

Once Rhaenyra was seen too and the maesters left along with Laenor to go tell his lover about the new babe and celebrate with his mother and father, Rhaenyra sat on a plush chair with her beautiful baby tucked in her arms. A baby born of forbidden love which she cherished when she stared into her eyes.

"Hello princess" Rhaenyra looked up with a soft smile as Sir Harwin Strong entered her chambers, carefully picking up Jace who was asleep next to Rhaenyra. 

"I see your hours of labour were worth while?" Crouching down to look at the baby he looked into Rhaenyra's eyes, completely happy for her as he knew he was not her only lover. He was not selfish with his affection for her and would protect the bundle in her arms with his life just as he would the boy in his even if Jace would never know the truth. He would take the secret to his grave before allowing Rhaenyra to be sullied, which is why he had proposed her have a pure targaryen child as to stop the rumours. 

"I think i kicked a servant" Rhaenyra responded with a breathy laugh, pulling the blanket back to reveal the white haired baby. 

"This is Y/n Targaryen, the King has already fallen in love with her" Rhaenyra said gently petting Y/n's head as Harwin placed his larger hand over Rhaenyra's, Y/n opened her eyes slowly and looked into Harwins dark brown ones before blinking and returning to stare at her mother.

"She is beautiful, an image of her mother." Harwin stated before standing and placing Jace on the bed, bowing and taking his leave as he knew he must to keep his relationship a secret. 

Y/n Valeryon was introduced to the court a few weeks later once the maesters had monitored her and Rhaenyra, everyone in court were instantly in love with the small bundle, Viserys seemed to be enamored with the young babe and would be seen frequently holding her whilst Rhaenyra walked beside him talking of his plans for the child. Alicient took notice as she watched her own children play, Aemond only 2 and yet Viserys had barely seen him since he was born. Her rage simmered underneath the surface as she watched Laenor so contently parade around with his lover, Sir Criston standing beside her with a look of disgust when Rhaenyra took the baby from the king.

"Rumours appear and suddenly she pops out a white haired baby which looks nothing like the father. More bastards." Criston sneered, Alicient kept her eye roll hidden, they say a woman scorned is fierce and yet Sir Criston seemed to take it worse than she herself did. 

"Hm indeed, we must take leave to attend council or our seats may be taken by her." Alicient spoke before turning gracefully, kidding Halaena on the head and smiling at her children before leaving with Sir Criston. 

As they walked she pondered how the child would affect her future, her children were a challenge to Rhaenyra as her father had made sure to remind her every time they were alone. Jacaerys could be disinherited as he was clearly a bastard, but the new born Y/n was a clone of her mother and most certainly her late grandmother Aemma which posed a greater threat to Alicient's charm on the king. Her Father soon joined her walk towards the council, taking her hand and pulling her away from prying ears.

"She has had a true Targaryen baby, that child is now a true danger to your succession." Otto whispered angrily to his daughter, his hands gripping her smaller ones tightly. Alicient breathed out as she nodded.

"I understand father" Otto released her hands and looped her arm within his elbow, walking her towards the council room, Alicient put a political smile on her face as she felt her father grip her tighter. 

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #jacaerys velaryon #house of targaryen #daemon targeryan #queen rhaenyra #house of the dragon #sir harwin #harwin breakbones #rhaenyra x harwin #daddy harwin #viserys #alicent

[literallyjustanerd]

Clone Wars Hospital AU Headcanons

Forgive me my shameless indulgence, but years of working in a hospital has given me Thoughts™ so just for some stupid fun: Welcome to the GHR: the Grand Hospital of the Republic! Where the Jedi are doctors, the clones are nurses, and the padawans are interns

501st battalion: Paediatrics

212th battalion: Maternity

104th battalion: Gen-Med

327th battalion: Orthopedics

Corrie Guard: Emergency Department

Headcanons below:

Paediatrics: Ward 501, Paediatrician Dr Anakin Skywalker

The ward is split on loving or hating Anakin, there's no in between

He's great with the kids though, the patients love him

Rex is the unit manager who has more experience than Anakin despite Anakin “outranking” him

Has to gently steer Anakin back on track and wearily remind him not to make orders just to spite other doctors

Constant happy music playing in the ward, everyone has fun accessories and brightly coloured scrubs

Fives and Echo are the most senior nurses and also the worst influences

Together they can cannulate a kid without them even noticing but also they're the ones shit-talking the annoying/unhelpful parents in the nurses' station five minutes later

If the kids are extra good, Jesse lets them colour in his tattoo

Dogma and Tup are the new grads - Tup is great with the kids, gentle and always gets them smiling, Dogma makes them cry no matter how hard he tries

Kix is NICU-trained and somehow still remembers every single piece of anatomy and physiology from training. Unparallelled medication knowledge. He’s the one all the student nurses want to be paired with

Ahsoka is on her paediatric rotation under Anakin's instruction

She's the intern the nurses give their feedback and requests to when they don't want to talk to Anakin, because they know Anakin will listen to Ahsoka over them

Maternity: Ward 212, Obstetrician Dr Obi-Wan Kenobi

Obi-Wan works closely with Anakin, refers most of his clients there for their child’s care

Anakin did rotations with him in training, Obi-Wan sometimes forgets that he's now a fully registered doctor and will still try to instruct/encourage him

Obi-Wan has borrowed Ahsoka for days in clinic or in the birthing unit, during which time the nurses will spend their entire shift trying to convince her to come to their unit instead

Obi-Wan is beloved by the nurses because he actually asks them for their input, unlike SOME doctors who just give orders (Anakin)

Did you catch him talking to the unit manager after handover this morning?? Hardcore flirting at 7:05am?? Cody was definitely into it

Cody is one of the most involved unit managers - he’s on the floor with the other nurses most days, always staying overtime and pulling double shifts to help keep things running smoothly

Waxer and Boil are considered bad luck charms - whenever they’re rostered on the same shift, things will always go to shit

God forbid either of them mentions it being “nice” or “quiet” on any given day - that just guarantees that three minutes later they’ll have five labouring people come in actively pushing 

The two of them once delivered a baby in the parking lot outside because the mother didn’t make it in time - the parents still bring Numa in to visit sometimes

Their nurses have the best stories, sometimes even more gory than ED

General Medical: Ward 104, Physician Dr Plo Koon

Has Dr Plo been here forever?? Nobody at the hospital can remember a time he didn't work here

The best doctor, agreed by all nurses and patients

Keeps offering free check-ups to the nurses on the ward

Brings snacks for the nurses' station

Wolffe is the scariest unit manager there is - grads and students are terrified of him

The unit is the most efficient in the hospital because of it

God help the pathologist who loses a sample from them. He will not hesitate to riskman you

*Over the PA* “Visiting hours finish at 1900. It is now 1902. Get the fuck out.”

Emergency Department: Corrie Guard, lawless wasteland

Boost, Comet and Sinker knew him in training and are immune to his glare, they use this power to constantly fuck with him

Caffeinated to the point of medical concern

Lectures drunk uni students about the dangers of alcohol before finishing night shift at 0730 and going home to drink wine straight from the bottle

If Fox has to triage one more belligerent idiot demanding immediate attention for a stubbed toe he's going to come through the plastic window and throw hands

Take the turkey sandwich and shut the fuck up

Constant arguments with the ward over whether or not the patients are stable enough for ward transfer

Just take the fucking patient Wolffe, they've got enough to deal with down here, they're bed blocked and there's a line out the door

Orthopedics: Ward 327, Orthopedic surgeon Dr Aayla Secura

They all started in sports science

The most jacked nurses

Group gym sessions before or after shifts

I don't care if you're tired. You're getting out of that bed whether you want to or not. Use it or lose it. Mobilise, bitch.

They’re the ones who keep stealing the bladder scanner from gen med but won’t admit to it

If you witnessed the incident between Dr Secura and the unit manager Bly at the last Christmas party, no you didn't

Bonus:

The Bad Batch are agency nurses, they go where they're needed and everyone hates them because they make more on the hour for it

Weird mish-mash of different skills and background knowledge

Will go eat dinner in their car instead of in the break room with the other nurses

Tech will not stop correcting people on the wards he’s put on, he is not popular for this despite mostly being right

“You can’t nurse-initiate that drug.”

“That phone order is invalid. We need to call the doctor for another.”

“The patient’s blood pressure is 135/82. This is technically outside normal parameters.”

Crosshair openly shit talks the other nurses with his patients because he knows he won’t be there tomorrow to catch the fallout

#this is so self-indulgent but #i can do whatever i want forever #sw tcw #star wars the clone wars #sw tcw headcanons #star wars au #501st shenanigans #212th shenanigans

[gothhabiba]

Israeli Agriculture. Development of a Resource in Service of an Ideology

Israel’s agricultural system is characterized by an intensive system of production employing the latest engineering techniques and biotechnology. It contributed 3% to GDP and employed 2% of the population in 2006. Agricultural output in 2008 was worth about $5.5 billion, of which 20 percent was exported (Statistical Abstract of Israel, 2008). Israel’s agricultural system has evolved in large measure due to political and historical factors that extend back beyond the establishment of the state of Israel. In Israel, endogenous drivers of agricultural policy, including religion, culture, socioeconomics and demographics, take on monumental importance. Foremost among these is the role of Zionism in shaping agricultural and water policy. Agriculture was integral to the realization of the Zionist project since its inception. The settlers were led by a pioneering spirit and a back to the earth ethos, which aimed to wed the people to the land. This agrarian vision had two branches – conquering the land through its transformation and redemption, and simultaneously the creation of a new Jewish man. «In exile, the story goes, the Jewish people have been separated from nature, forbidden to work the soil and forced to be urban. The Jewish people will go back to the land, and they will be rebuilt by the land. In their return Jews will again tend to the earth and draw strength from their renewed biological rootedness» (Schoenfeld, 2004: 6)[.]

The central goal of Zionism was to create a geographical Jewish presence in Israel/Palestine. Collective agricultural settlement of the land was seen as an integral part of this process due to its role in population dispersal, securing peripheral areas and nurturing a bond between the Jews and their homeland. The other important goal for agriculture was self-sufficiency, in light of Israel’s inability to trade with her neighbours. For these reasons, Israeli is one example of a country pursuing agriculture despite its unprofitability, not to mention the unsuitability of the ecological environment to the agricultural activity (Da’na, 2000: 419)[.] This can be most clearly evidenced through Israel’s policy of water development. As Lipchin remarks (2003: 69): «In a country with naturally scarce water resources it is astonishing to see that Israel’s water policy does not reflect this natural scarcity». For example, for a long time much of Israel’s land mass was used to grow cotton, a water and pesticide hungry plant, rather than food (Richter & Safi, 1997: 211).

[...] Zionist ideology [...] interfaces with agricultural policy in numerous other ways, contributing to the unique character of the Israeli agricultural system. These include: the establishment of collective farms, including kibbutzim and moshavim, to defend against attackers in the early years; large capital inflows from the Jewish Diaspora, the United States and German reparations, permitting modern technologies; a preference for expensive Hebrew labour, including prohibitions against Arab labour; and large subsidies to the agricultural sector of inputs such as water, due to their strategic importance in laying claim to the land. Along with the agrarian vision, the Jews brought with them a European modernizing initiative, which saw the need to redeem the landscape and shape it to the settlers´ will. This implied a series of sweeping changes in agricultural production methods and land use patterns, which would transform the country.

– 2009. Leah Temper, “Creating Facts on the Ground: Agriculture in Israel and Palestine (1882-2000),” Historia Agraria 48, pp. 75-110.

#Leah Temper #palestine #Israel #zionism #quote

[paddockbunny]

One

Summary: Aria Armund is hired by Alpine as an "image guardian" for a reluctant Pierre Gasly - AKA she is hired to be his "babysitter". What happens as the season progresses and both of them have their buttons pressed by the other? And what happens when one of them suggests making a rather interesting bet? Rating: 18+. Pairing : Pierre Gasly x Aria Armund (OC) Word Count : 4,418 Trigger Warnings : 18+, NSFW, misogynistic Pierre, language, mention of sex & blowjobs, descriptions of women's bodies etc. 💞Authors Note : This is going to be written from a first person narrative and will switch from Aria's POV and Pierre's POV. No idea how long this will be but I'm considering posting every race day (not sure yet due to work commitments, as usual). OH, and if you want to be added to a tag list then please comment on the newest chapter's before I make a dedicated page for it!!

Pierre

I let out a long, laboured sigh as I slide into the car. I really didn’t want to be doing this. I would much rather have been still in bed with Jessica - or was it Jenna or maybe Jennie, fuck maybe it was Julie? It began with a J in any case. And anyway, who fucking cares?! All that mattered was I had to peel myself away from her this morning to get to the factory on time for this dumb as fuck meeting. A groan escaped me as I suddenly remembered how fucking phenomenal Jessica (Jenna, Jennie or Julie) was at giving head and how I would much rather be getting sucked off right now rather than go to this boring meeting where some big wigs will talk AT me not TO me for a few hours and waste my day.

Ben opens the door on the other side of the car and gets in. He slides into the back next to me and I can’t help but glance over at him as as he checks his watch and tuts about the fact we’re going to be late. I let him stew instead of answering him. There’s no point. Last year I realised pretty quickly he was one of those types of guys. The ones that were so regimented and anal about doing things right and on time that even a minute behind schedule and he would be having an internal meltdown. I just let him do what he wants without input from me. So I pull my phone from my jeans pocket and smirk to myself when I see a DM from a Jocelyn Silva pop up - JOCELYN! Her name was Jocelyn! - so I click on it and it’s a photo. She’s lying in the bed I had just left her in throwing the camera some “come hither eyes” with a tiny little pout dancing across her full (filler injected) lips. But I only fleetingly glance at her face, it’s lower that I pay more attention too and the fact the bedsheet barely covered her exquisite boobs and the deep sun kissed glow from her tanned skin. I’m sure she said she was a model or trying to be a model and really, it wasn’t a stretch to imagine her in a bikini or lingerie in front of a camera. I swallow instinctively upon remembering what she tasted like last night before actually reading the text that went along with her provocative pic.

Jocelyn_S_Silva: 💋 last night was fun Papi, let’s do it again sometime?xxx

Was it too soon to ask if she would be down for tonight? That picture she sent was enough to give me blue balls for the rest of the day. I clear my throat so I don’t laugh aloud at how ridiculous I sounded. No pussy was that good to go chasing after so quickly. So I sent a stock response back;

PierreGasly: until we do…give me something to remember you by?🍑

And click off my phone to stare out of the window hoping I could stay in control of the blood rushing down toward my dick. It was raining (again) in England. The country looked so dull and grey in comparison to some of the other places we visited with the travelling circus that was F1 but they wanted me here, in Enstone for a meeting ahead of flying out for testing next week. Ben’s ear had already been significantly chewed off about that. I was supposed to be at the PSG match tonight, had a date lined up and everything - Aletta Dekker, sister of Lars Dekker the Dutch tennis player. We’d gone out a few times, fucked a lot, but I actually got on well with her. We could chat without feeling the need for it to go anywhere. It was just some fun with no strings attached. I didn’t have the balls to let her down over the phone so chickened out and text her saying I needed a rain check. The irony now as the rain hammered down on the car as we drove down a monotonous English motorway was not lost on me.

It took close to two hours to get to the factory. I never stayed near it simply because there was fucking nothing there so we’d come up from London to the factory and go back when the day was over. It wasn’t like all those years at AT where you could at least be in the beautiful Italian countryside and take in the stunning landscapes out the window, not fields and copious amounts of cows and sheep. When we finally pulled in front of the building where all the offices and important rooms with important people in them were, Ben finally asked if I knew what this was all about. Seriously, he didn’t even question this random meeting until the moment he stepped out of the car and I couldn’t help but shake my head at him. I liked Ben, he had become a good friend over the course of last year. It’s hard not to grow close to someone you see pretty much every day and does everything with you.

“No idea.” I told him as he rounded the back of the car as I shut the car door. “Hope I’m getting a raise for dealing with all that shit last year though.” Ben laughed at my words, which weren’t intended as a joke but must have sounded like one. As two of the guys from Alpine came out from the building to greet us, apologise for the bad weather and issue us inside my phone buzzed in my pocket and I wondered if that was the photo I had asked that Jocelyn girl for earlier. Took her time didn’t she? I made sure I didn’t scoff and tried to stay professional as we walked through the building while the guys I had met a million times before talked about the weather and asked me if it was better in Paris - clearly not clocking the tan I was sporting to realise I had certainly not spent my winter break in Paris.

“We’re just in here, Pierre.” The shorter, more rotund one of the two opened the door and held it open for me. I’d been in here before. It was where I had that big meeting with the big bosses after the incident in Singapore but the less said about that the better. I recognised everyone in the room. Otmar and the like were all sitting around the oval table and got up immediately to welcome me. But my eyes were firmly trained on the mass of long brown curls and feminine shoulders that were still sat at the table facing away from me. This was a new addition. There hadn’t usually been a woman at these meetings before. I glance around and confirmed no one had been fired and I hadn’t found out. So maybe she was just a new PR girl or one of the girls that worked in the offices at the factory. Otmar suggested I take a seat and so I did. The mystery girls head turned slightly, enough that I could make out some of her features. Cute straight nose, naturally full lips and high as hell cheekbones. She had to have only been around 23 or 24 perhaps? But maybe I was wrong and she only just looked younger - I wasn’t the best at women’s ages and my I knew better than to presume I knew anything about the feminine being anyway - anyway, as Otmar started speaking I would be sure to find out exactly who this new addition was.

“As you know, at the end of last season I told you I would be discussing things with some of our bosses and whatnots at the end of year review we have. The big debrief meeting where all the heads of department get together and talk about the good things and the not so good things that happened and how we could look to improve in the future. Y’know, like our race debriefs at the end of a race day….” Yeah Otmar, I know, I’m not fucking stupid get to to point. I pull my leg up and rest my ankle upon my opposite knee while I sit back in the chair and nod in the right places. “Well, one of the things that kept coming up was the tension between yourself and Esteban and the incidents that arose last year.” He means him running me off the track at two separate races, trying to break test me anytime I was behind him, me bashing him in front of the cameras any chance I got but it was probably, the public near fight caught by cameras in Singapore when I tried to get my own back by flirting with his girlfriend that was what he was really referring too.

“Pierre with your results last year there’s no doubt of your future within the team but the negative attention the pair of you have garnered has raised a lot of concern.” “Otmar I…” I was going to tell him it takes two to tango and if this conversation was happening with me it better be happening with Ocon too. He was as much to blame for last year as I was. But a hand made me pause while he continued. “However, after some deliberation on how to resolve the conflict and how we can possibly move in a more positive direction for all of us involved. We have decided to bring in an image guardian.” I look at him like he’s grown another head. What the fuck was an image guardian? And that was when I saw his hand flick over toward the girl that had momentarily occupied my mind before Otmar started talking.

This time, when I looked over at her, she was looking straight back at me with quite possibly a pair of the most striking blue eyes I had ever seen before. A soft, sincere smile spread across her lips as her hand rose from her lap in a “that’s me” gesture. Fuck, I couldn’t help but imaging those eyes staring up at me while she had her lips wrapped around my cock. Which involuntarily twitched in my jeans while I had to blink a few times to make sure I wasn’t daydreaming. The words “image guardian” were still ringing in my ears so I most certainly in reality and not a twisted dreamland. “Sorry, what exactly is an image guardian?” I had truthfully never heard of the term and was one hundred percent certain they were making this up. “Well, we felt that the added pressure that the press and marketing teams had to face last year was rather, unfair to them. Their jobs turned into looking after or, perhaps that’s not the right words, making sure the both of you were looked after which meant some of those PR people weren’t as focused on their jobs as maybe they should have been.” I knew he was indirectly referring to Claudia without actually wanting to say her name but the less said about her the better. “So we created the role of an image guardian specifically to make sure your own PR game is onboard with ours. Someone who can liaise from your side with regards to meeting the needs of the team.”

Things took a minute to click in. He was bullshitting. This was a totally made up job so they could make someone my fucking nanny. “A babysitter?” I exclaimed loudly, my anger clearly evident in my voice and body language mimicking it. My foot fell back to the floor and I leaned in. “I don’t need a fucking babysitter.” I glance back over toward this girl whose name I didn’t even know (but who moments ago I had envisioned fucking) that was now labelled as my fucking au pair. “Pierre, it’s image guardian and we feel that you do.” Otmars voice changed tone. He was now not as breezy has he had been. He turned direct and much more commanding. “This is bullshit.” “Esteban has also been given an image guardian who will consult regularly with Miss Armund to ensure a more harmonious season this year. I can’t stress enough how this needs to work, Pierre. You know what can happen if it doesn’t.” I fucking knew. I had seen how people like Ricciardo and Mick Schumacher had been treated. Fuck! How I myself had been treated a few years ago at Red Bull. But a minder? Really? “And what is it she’ll do?” “I think Miss Armund is best to talk to you about that.”

“Hi…” She was nervous. She took a pause after simply saying hello. I was probably glaring at her like I wanted to set her on fire which might not have helped, but rage ran through my veins like boiling hot lava. “Firstly, I just want to introduce myself. I’m Aria Armund. I was born and raised in France till I was 10 and then moved here to England so if you want to talk to me in French you can, I’m bilingual.” There was a pause when she looked at me and I could tell she was waiting for me to say something polite (probably in French) but absolutely nothing came to mind that I wanted to say to her. She took a little breath in and it was usually while I was giving girls the come on when they got this nervous around me. I rolled my eyes and pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth as the pause seemed to get longer. I observed her straightening up and let out a quick exhale. She seemed to be gathering herself and I clocked her little touch of the bracelet on her wrist as if it was somehow giving her the strength to keep going.

“So basically, what I’m here to do is to look after you. You’re not particularly incorrect in thinking I’m a “babysitter” as you called it. My sole purpose is to keep you out of trouble. To minimise any issues you may have with your team mate and prevent them from leaking into the media. I’ll also help make sure your image doesn’t suffer from all of your liaisons with various….friends, and you don’t end up on the gossip pages as you have done in previous years. I’ll make sure your reputation and that of Alpine isn’t damaged in any way, shape or form.” Where did her sudden directness come from? Her nerves seemed to evaporate immediately. It was confusing it happened at such breakneck speed. But how she managed to take control of herself and take charge was nothing shorter than a major turn on. She could take control of me anytime she wanted. “Ok?” She smiled and it was now on me.

I had nothing to say or at least nothing came to mind as those swimming pool blue eyes stared into mines like they were trying to read my mind. As she turned her head away and Otmar went to speak suddenly a question did pop into my head. “Who does Ocon have?” I asked the question in the direction of her turned head. When she looked away some of her glossy curled locks fell across her shoulder and drew my attention directly to her ample chest. She was a woman - very much a woman - and I had a horrible feeling that Alpine might have been trying to set me up for failure. What with everything that happened with Claudia. “Excuse me?” Otmar seemed confused. “Who is looking after Ocon? You said he had a babysitter too.” In those minutes my question went unanswered, I hoped it would click on someone’s brain about why I was asking and I wouldn’t actually have to fucking say it. “Uh….” Otmar sat back in his chair and narrowed his eyes at me in a fashion that told me he twigged and he realised the intonation behind my questioning. He didn’t expect me to react like this, did he? During the increasingly awkward pause I fully believed that he was imposing this girl on me as a way to trip me up so he could get rid of me at the end of the year. If Esteban got a guy babbysitter then there was my answer. He would be getting off with his dickhead behaviour last year. “Mr Ocon’s guardian is Kyle Gilby.” Aria spoke up and I let out a quick exhale of air. Why the fuck did this not surprise me? I knew it. I could sense it from the way Otmar was staring at me. Ocon gets someone he can talk to, level with and I get stuck with her? Typical. “Is there a problem Mr Gasly?” Fuck her calling me Mr Gasly. Girls only usually called me that in the bedroom, not a boardroom.

I pretend there isn’t but there is. The whole thing is totally fucked but what can I do? I don’t want thrown out my seat so I have to play ball. And if that means I have to have a babysitter then fine, I’ll do it. This whole thing was feeling like a massive, risky, fucked up game of temptation? I made an audible scoff because I know where this is going and I know she won’t last long meaning they’ll probably get their way. I can’t help the fact I was born a flirt and women always fell for it. I’d give it two or three months before they’ll be having conduct meetings with me after she breaks her fraternisation contract clause after firing her for sleeping with the person she’s there to manage. It’s happened before and it will happen again. After all, it’s their own fault for hiring someone that would look more at home in Playboy or Sports Illustrated than working in an F1 team. They seriously couldn’t have hired someone less, tempting? They couldn’t have given her to Ocon and at least pretend they weren’t setting me up for failure?

Thankfully the meeting was over rather quickly. There were orders to go with her somewhere so she could do something or other and go over stuff but by that point I was zoned out. I cancelled my plans for this? They could have just told me over the phone. I didn’t need to be here in person when it would have been a quick email. I try not to sigh when I lean forward in my chair to get up but notice her move first. When she rises from her seat I can’t help but cast my eyes over her body. A perfect rack was hidden behind a satin-y type blouse and her smart, tight trousers did little to stem my attention away from her perky, peachy rear practically begging to be spanked. I was right. Playboy or Sports Illustrated. She would look so pretty on her knees. Give it a few weeks, I tell myself. By Miami she’ll be begging for me. I can tell.

Fifteen minutes later we were sat in a smaller, more bland impersonal office while she tried to convince me to hand over my social media passwords. “Mr Gasly, I assure you that your accounts and information will be safe with me. I simply need access in order to keep on top of any potential Alpine related business.” She was getting me riled up at this point. “Last year I believe there were, incidents, over social media with some questionable comments?” She was referring to the emoji’s wasn’t she? The PR girls laughed about them last year but she said it with a straight face. “I simply need to be able to delete anything that would be unsavoury toward your own reputation and the team.” “Telling people my favourite sex position through an emoji is not damaging to my reputation or the team.” I retort back with a smooth laugh. I thought it would throw her but the silence and stoney face I was met with made me push it even further. I smirked before adding; “it’s the dog by the way.” Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I couldn’t recall the last time I wasn’t able to flirt and smooth talk a girl into at least raising a smile. But there was nothing from her. “It’s the dog because my favourite position is doggy…” “Yes, I gathered that Mr Gasly.” She hastily shut me up and I noticed her roll her eyes. Was she not into men? Maybe that’s why my forwardness wasn’t doing it for her.

“Please, your passwords.” I watched as slowly she placed her pen on top of a notepad and pushed it across the glass topped table toward me. Her eyes didn’t leave mine. They stayed trained on me as if she had gone through military training. Unflinching. I would have been complaining if they weren’t so fucking captivating. You could get lost in these eyes.

“Earn them.” I glanced over toward Ben and smirked again. It was a game at this point. I couldn’t help myself. “Excuse me?” “I said, earn them.” I didn’t even know where this was going or why it was coming out of my mouth. I just went with it. I liked how women would squirm a little when I turned it on and I desperately wanted to know she was eating out of the palm of my hand, so sue me. But if I expected her to crumble like all of the others she surprised me. She sat back in her chair and took a deep breath before exhaling. For a brief second I thought I won and I managed to rattle her but unfortunately for me, apparently not.

“Listen, looking after a twenty-seven year old self confessed playboy is not something I thought I would be doing when I got this job so if you think your flirting will have an effect on me and I will pull a Claudia, was it? Then you are very much mistaken.” It was I that was rumbled. And she had to mention last years indiscretion by name so she had clearly been told all about it - or had she read about it online and didn’t need anyone else’s judgment about it to pass her own judgment on to me? “Now…Mr Gasly, your passwords.” Touché. Fucking Touché.

I reached for the pen and notepad and noted how much I felt like a child. It was as if I had been sent to the Alpine School’s principle’s office for being naughty in class. As I wrote down the passwords for her highness, my phone buzzed again in my jeans pocket and it suddenly l dawned on me that she would see everything I received. She would see all of the DMs I was sent along with the mountains of nudes (such as those waiting on me from last nights hook-up) that various girls sent me, mostly without a single shred of prompting. I should probably have felt a little embarrassed or ashamed by them in all fairness but for some reason - probably because she was acting like a fake ball buster she actually was one - I wasn’t. Let her look. There’s probably a fair few suggestive ones of myself on there she could find too if she really wanted too. I cursed the route of thought my own mind suddenly drove me down as now I was imagining her sliding her hand down past the waistband of her tight trousers to get off on the risqué pics I had floating around in some conversations. But she didn’t seem like the type. Fortunately for me the passwords were enough to appease her, for now. She smiled - a fake one of course - and said that was all, I could leave before adding she would would see me at testing. She would be at testing? This girl was really going to be sticking to me like glue, wasn’t she?

Thankfully, this whole fiasco was clearly coming to an end and I glanced toward the door and was desperately trying to think of something smart to say and a way to get out of here. I didn’t want to hang around for any longer than I needed to and certainly not long enough for her to continue getting one over on me or getting a metaphorical upper hand again, but it looked like she had and there was nothing I could do. When I happened to look toward Ben I realised he was smirking and clearly holding back a laugh. He was married and so never really joined in (nor understood) with the flirting and flustering behaviour I was king at. Now, after I had lost the opening match against her, it was as if he could read my startled little mind and I certainly didn’t like that. I arose out if my seat opposite my new babysitter and stared at her for a moment. I couldn’t help but wonder if she had ever worked in F1 - or even just a sport - before because she didn’t act like how all the girls usually acted around guys in sport. She simply seemed unimpressed. Stoic almost. “Goodbye, Mr Gasly.” A normal girl would be turned on by saying that over and over again. By now imagining how it would feel to be bent over the glass desk and having me rail them into next week. But she used it formally, professionally and without a single shred of sarcasm. I just about managed to get to the door to the office when my phone buzzed loudly one more time and I paused to remove it from my pocket.

“I hope that isn’t something I am going to have to get involved in?” Her sweet, soft voice echoed from behind and my sudden laughter filled the room as my brain had come up with the most perfect of perfect responses. “Not unless you want to make it a threesome?” I didn’t hang around long enough for her to respond and mentally high fives myself for my quick retort. She lead herself into it and my brain couldn’t catch up to my mouth. She may have been hired to be my babysitter, but that didn’t mean I had to make it easy for her.

#pierre gasly #pierre gasly fanfiction #pierre gasly fanfic #pierre gasly fic #pierre gasly series #pierre gasly x oc #pierre gasly imagine #pierre gasly imagines #pierre gasly multi chapter #f1 smut #f1 fanfiction #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 imagines #f1 imagine #f1 series #f1 x oc #bet trope #grumpy sunshine trope

[pattern-recognition]

Good starting points for socialist reading? Detailed medium form summaries? Skeptic debate between various forms, and between other theoretical systems? Please do recommend

For introductory texts, start with the basics. That means starting with the foundation laid out by Marx and Engels themselves, not some abridged text or modern compilation that seeks to re-explain scientific socialism out of a lack of agency for the modern reader (though some of these type are good, but I digress.)

For this i’d recommend:

- Marx, Engels. The Communist Manifesto (obviously)

- Engels. Socialism: Utopian and Scientific

- Marx, Engels. Wage-Labour and Capital/Value, Price, and Profit

The above three are very short, succinct, and informative. The latter two are woefully unrecognized as ideal texts for introductory socialism, and they were written for that explicit purpose.

After that, move on to more wholistic works that flesh out and elaborate upon the historical, material, circumstances that gave rise to the capitalist epoch and how and why they furnish the future conditions for a socialist system.

- Engels. Origin of the Family, State, and Private Property (Whatever copy you’ll procure will probably include his complimentary essay, The Part Played by Labour in the Transition from Ape to Man, which isn’t hugely beneficial for most discursive purposes but interesting, nonetheless.)

- Lenin. The State and Revolution

- Bukharin. Historical Materialism - A System of Sociology

All of Engels’ work, from his introductions to Marx’s texts, his input on the former, and his original treatises, are a wealth of information.

After the structure of dialectical materialism and the capitalist system are understood, I’d recommend works on how the former can/should be implemented and the latter’s historical reign of misery, as well as works addressing the pressing contradiction of imperialism and core-periphery subjugation. (You won’t find vocabulary like core/periphery/semi periphery in texts like this though, that wouldn’t come about until Immanuel Wallerstein outlined the World Systems Theory in his eponymous book. It’s not strictly a historical materialist work, and made by a bourgeois academic (who was the sociology professor of my sociology professor, which is fun I suppose) but is formative for much of contemporary sociological discourse).

- Lenin. Imperialism: The Highest Stage of Capitalism

- Lenin. What is to Be Done?

- Galeano. Open Viens of Latin America: Five Centuries of the Pillage of a Continent

- Said. Orientalism

Along the way, I strongly suggest you actually read Marx’s Capital in full, at least the first volume. It’s not as monolithic and inaccessible as some would lead you to believe, quite the opposite, and cannot be understated in its utility and insight.

- Marx. Capital: A Critique of the Political Economy, Volume I

Other recommendations:

- Marx. Critique of the Gotha Programme

- Marx. The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte

- Bevins. The Jakarta Method: Washington's Anticommunist Crusade and the Mass Murder Program that Shaped Our World

- Bevins. If We Burn: The Mass Protest Decade and the Missing Revolution

- Lenin. Critical Remarks on the National Question (1913) (Also, can be found in the recent compilation of Lenin’s work on the subject called Imperialism and the National Question)

- Debord. The Society if the Spectacle

- Benjamin. The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction

- Mishra. From the Ruins of Empire: The Revolt Against the West and the Remaking of Asia

Truth be told, I’m a grievously under-read marxist, and there are others on this site who could provide a more comprehensive syllabus. To half-assedly make up for it, here are some books i’ve been meaning to read/finish but haven’t gotten to it yet:

- Adorno, Horkheimer. Dialect of Enlightenment

- Marx. Capital, Volumes 2 and 3

- Strong. The Soviets Expected It

- Adorno, Bernstein. The Culture Industry

- Adorno. Minima Moralia

- Mao. On the Correct Handling of Contradictions Among the People

- Mao. On Protracted War

All of the aforementioned reading can be found online, for free and readily accessible, on places like Marxists.org, or as downloads from places like Libgen. If you want to read on your phone, download the file as an epub and use your device’s proprietary Books app or similar. If you want to read on a PC, I’d recommend a PDF for easiest navigation. If you want to pursue the latter but can only procure the former, you can use a epub reading program like SumatraPDF. If you’re a person who values a physical copy highly enough to warrant a purchase, I’d recommend ThriftBooks, though do be attentive to buying the most suitable copy of whatever material. Also, I’d be happy to send my copies to you or anyone else, via a google drive or telegram, if you feel like coming off anon.

As for “skeptic debate between various forms, and between various systems,” I can’t think of a standalone work with the principle task of dissecting and contrasting various stripes of marxism, but you’ll find as such permeating throughout almost all of these texts. The thing is, the fundamental material conditions haven’t shifted substantially since these were written, wether it be in Marx’s 19th century, Lenin’s 20th, or Bevins’ 21st. The old enemies remain enemies, the old arguments remain true. Dialectical materialism, scientific socialism, is a malleable system. It is a scientific method by which one can analyze the world, understand it with rational clarity, and come to conclusions on how to react to it and make predictions as to how things may unfold. This is the task assigned to any student of marxism. It is not dogma or a ecclesiastical canon, it is a tool.

After you’ve garnered your bachelor’s degree in scientific socialism you can move on to the postgraduate courses, such as chainsmoking cigarettes, caffeine and amphetamine addiction, alcoholism, and playing Disco Elysium.

#anonymous #if anyone has further material they’d like to recommend or something they’d like to espouse upon #please feel free to add

[flappyhappystim]

how can your profits be so low that you can't add freebies to your orders? don't you sell the products for high enough to be able to re order the products?

Hi anon,

There are a lot more costs associated with a business than just re-ordering the products.

We need to be able to afford our packing supplies like our envelopes and boxes.

I also have to purchase storage and organizers for our inventory. We also had to purchase our label printer, and the labels for it.

We've had to deal with chargebacks here and there, and while we have usually won our cases, it is a cost when we don't.

Sometimes orders go missing, and it's not on the customer, so we send it back out at our cost, and sometimes we can't get the money back for the loss from the shipping company.

We've also had several parcels bounce back due to incomplete addresses, and while we do need to ask customers to pay shipping again in order to re-send it if it's their mistake entering their address, we do get charged a fee from our shipper in order to get our products back and we do not pass that cost on.

This also doesn't include the cost that some inventory ends up having to be written off, or sold at a loss to move it. or payment processing fees.

At this time, Irene and I are not paid for the time we spend on the business like packing orders, talking with customers, ordering/planning products, and inputting everything for accurate costs and accounting. The only payment we take currently is when we make our own products. We do include a labour cost in our handmade products.

I will take this opportunity to say thank you though! Most of our following is on our Tumblr blog! It's thanks to all of you on Tumblr for spreading the word that we have not had to pay much in advertising costs. That is a huge cost for most businesses, and I think we've spent under $10 on advertising since we started. Thanks to all of you, we can keep our costs lower as well! TLDR: There are a lot more costs associated with a business than one might think of.

#fhask #tw hate #i'm not sure if this is hate? #i can't tell if this is a genuine question or not #maybe that's my autism showing lol