#I’m proud to say i never spent a dime on this game | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

Visit Blog

Explore Tumblr blogs with no restrictions, modern design and the best experience.

Fun Fact

There were a total of 171.5 billion posts on Tumblr in 2019.

#I’m proud to say i never spent a dime on this game

bookishofalder · 3 years

Text

Saviours Coffee House [Prologue]

Summary: Negan hires a new manager.

Warnings: Language! We’re starting off tame, but get ready because future parts get dark. WC—+2.7k.

A/N: Even if you aren’t a The Walking Dead fan, you might like this story—it’s a coffee shop A/U, I really only take the characters from TWD!

Now

Your eyes were only on Negan as he stalked forward, his normally bright eyes dark with fury as he clenched the baseball bat in his hands. You’d never seen him so angry...you’d never seen anyone so angry. Apprehension coiled in your gut, your mind blank, a doe caught in the headlights. You knew you had to move, to stop him—but part of you almost didn’t want to.

It was the part of you that had been beaten and broken over and over screaming for it to end. Screaming for you to let it happen.

And fuck, you wanted to listen to her.

Maybe you would.

—

Way Back

Negan Dean was sat at his desk, staring at the computer monitor in front of him without really seeing it. His mind had wandered away from the shop's accounting, the task he needed to complete. He had reason to be distracted, though, as he was in desperate need of a new manager, and he had a few interviews lined up that afternoon.

He’d put off rehiring for too long, left the manager position open and simply worked himself to the bone, running the place and leading it. But it had been months.

He’d needed to keep busy, after Lucille...no, he wasn’t thinking of her today. He needed to get the accounts sorted, have some lunch, and then start the interviews.

That was today’s game plan, and he was sticking to it. The extra work had finally caught up to him, as he knew it would. He was ready to step back because he was fucking exhausted and wanted to focus on his role as the owner of the Saviours Coffee House, behind the scenes. He needed a full-time manager to run the floor, someone smart and competent and good with people.

Simon had been on his ass for a while now about it, but he’d resolutely ignored his long-time friend, too stubborn for his own good. He knew Simon was right. But it was going to be on his fucking orders that a new person joined the tea—his family—even if it meant he’d fallen asleep in his office some nights, slumped over his desk in pure exhaustion.

Negan finished his task and stood, stretching out the kinks in his back, before making his way out onto the loft that overlooked most of the shop below. He had a few couches up here, and a little kitchenette next to his office, the area acting as a staff room in many ways; customers could not come up. At the opposite end of the loft, a door led up to the next floor, which was Negan’s condo. He’d bought the entire three-storey after the recession, gutted the whole thing and, working with a crew of mostly friends who had various trade jobs, renovated it entirely.

Negan was proud of Saviours Coffee House, a dream that he hadn’t always had come to life in the walls of what used to be an old, relatively small, textile factory. Now situated in the heart of downtown, it was the perfect spot for an edgy, laid-back place to unwind, meet friends, go on dates. Hell, Negan loved looking down and seeing a customer stay the whole day as they worked, even if they only bought one coffee. As far as he was concerned, the moment you spent a dime in his place, you were a customer for the day. And that had been a hit with many of the locals and students from the nearby university. Open five-thirty in the morning till eleven-thirty in the evening, Saviours welcomed all. So long as you kept your feet off the fucking tables and minded your manners.

In his former life, Negan worked as a high-ranking guard at the nearby penitentiary. It was a minimum-security, well-funded place where non-violent criminals ended up. He’d loved his years there, but after getting stabbed for the second time (the first was when he was young enough that he’d bounced back almost instantly) he decided to retire.

He sunk all of his savings into this dream, and years later had a lot to show for it. He’d also met a lot of down on their luck men in his time as a guard, so after Saviours became successful, he started a hiring program for white-collar criminals who completed a local, not-for-profit reintegration program. He only kept two on at a time, and most moved on after saving up enough.

Currently at the bar was Dwight, who’d been with Negan the longest now, having started just over a year before after getting out from serving time for drug possession. If Negan was proud of anything, it was Dwight. He’d seen the man evolve from a quiet asshole who barely grunted when customers paid, to a friendly bartender who mixed both amazing lattes and delicious cocktails, even if he grumbled about it. He was a fixture here now as much as Negan—and probably more well-liked, but Negan didn’t care about being liked. As long as people were happy, he was just fine.

It was the post-lunch lull now, so Dwight was wiping up the counters and switching the signs around from daytime menus to evening. Maggie, who had been working at Saviours for about two years, was wiping down the tables while Fleetwood Mac played over the expensive Bluetooth stereo system. He’d asked Maggie if she wanted the job, but she’d only laughed before telling him plainly that she had no desire to work full time or see him that much. He’d figured as much, seeing as she was in university, but he had wanted her to know it was hers if she did want it—she’d earned it.

Dwight was happy where he was, and didn’t want to upset the balance in life he’d worked so hard for, which Negan respected. His newest employee, also a convict hire, wasn’t up to scruff to become the manager, as much as he liked Paul, or ‘Jesus’, as everyone called him. He was a nice kid, worked hard, but seemed content working three part-time jobs. That had left Rosita and Tara, both part-time and students, and then Carol, part-time and not interested as she worked as a volunteer at the Children’s Hospital and didn’t want to give that up.

Which left him where he was now, stomping up the steps to his place to have a quick lunch before back-to-back interviews of promising contenders for a job he wished like hell he didn’t need to fill.

“Jesus. Fucking. Christ.” Negan slammed his hands onto the marble counter in frustration as Dwight watched him. He smirked as he tidied up the barista station.

“That bad, boss?” Dwight was shit at keeping the amusement off of his face. Negan scoffed, glancing behind him to ensure no customers were listening, but it was busy enough now with the after-class and work rush that the cacophony of voices and music allowed him to speak privately despite the location.

Negan held up one hand, holding his thumb and index finger a sliver apart. “I’ve got this much fucking patience left. Only one candidate wasn’t a god damned catfish and I didn’t like him,” He sighed, nodding gratefully when Dwight pointed to the espresso machine, knowing Negan needed his usual five o'clock pick-me-up. “I’ve got one last one; Daryl's friend. If she doesn’t fit, I’m going to have to beg Maggie—and you know she’ll love that too much to say yes.”

With a laugh, Dwight nodded in agreement, expertly moving about making Negan’s latte. “Carol seemed pretty sure you’d like her, said Daryl thinks of her like a little sister and when he heard you were looking for someone he was adamant she’d be perfect.”

Negan sighed, “Yeah, and I like Daryl so if this doesn’t work out and I have to start hating him I’m going to be real pissed off. Thanks, D.” He added when Dwight passed over the piping hot drink, still grinning at Negan’s displeasure.

Dwight dipped his head forward, eyes behind Negan, “I think that must be her, don’t recognize her and she’s dressed too nice for this place.” With that, he turned away and started loading dishes into one of the dishwashers. Negan turned, eyes scanning for the potential candidate, and he didn’t have to look far.

Because there you were, right out of a fucking dream.

Dwight had been right, you were dressed far too nicely for Saviours, but perfect for an interview (which instantly gave you points over a few of the previous interviewees). You were weaving by a few men who were standing at a high table and hadn’t yet noticed Negan, which allowed him to survey you.

The pretty green dress paired with a smart leather jacket and shiny kitten heels gave off an air of sophistication, accentuated your curves beautifully, and rendered his mind to mush for a brief moment. You wore your hair down, and it fell in elegant waves around your shoulders. Fuck, though, if you weren’t the prettiest woman he’d ever laid eyes on.

He thought Carol had mentioned you were in your mid-twenties, but you walked with more confidence about you than one usually saw in those formative years. Already impressed, Negan pushed himself away from the counter, stepped forward and smiled.

You looked around, his movement catching your eye, and returned the smile warmly as you approached. No doubt, you’d looked up their social media, seen pictures of Negan. Any smart candidate would do that, and Negan could already tell you were a clever girl. He called your name over the music, and you nodded, extending your hand

Negan took it into his and shook, enjoying how small your hand was compared to his. You were curvy and petite in the best ways, so much shorter than him but fully voluptuous, and you dressed like you knew you looked damn good, fuck whatever society said about beauty standards. “Mr. Dean, it’s great to meet you, sir.”

Negan grinned down at you, then pointed toward the staircase to your left, “Come on up, it’s quieter in the office.” And he led the way.

When he glanced back to make sure you were following, Negan saw you looking toward Dwight, giving him a friendly wave. He gave you a nod, a near smile, a pretty decent result from the house grump. He needed a manager who could get along with everyone, so right there was another point in your favour.

Closing the door brought the loudness of Saviours down to mere background noise, the evening crowds were always loud as shit. Negan loved it, the differences between the start and end of days, the energy. He gestured toward two armchairs he had, hating the process of sitting behind a desk to interview like he was some hot shot lawyer. He preferred the less intimidating, friendly way. It was just a coffee shop, after all.

A damn good one, though.

When you settled, Negan took his seat across from you, suddenly feeling a little distracted under the gaze of your bright eyes. “Well I’ll get straight to it; you come highly recommended by both Carol and Daryl. I won’t lie, I’m a pain in the ass to work for and I’m looking for someone who can handle hard work, long hours and most importantly, get along with my people. You really think that’s you?”

You were sitting with your back straight, legs crossed at the ankles, hands in your lap. You looked entirely at ease, meeting Negan’s eyes straight on as he spoke. When he finished, you leaned forward almost imperceptibly, your response instant.

“I’m exactly what you’re looking for, sir. I love people and get along with everyone. Do you think I’m best friends with Daryl and don’t know how to deal with a pain in the ass?” At this, Negan smirked, “I’m hardworking, and I have no other major commitments, so full time and long hours will suit me just fine.” You had a lovely voice, which was probably why you’d stayed working at the sales call centre for years before now.

In your resume, Negan had noted the year gap in wor—you had stopped working for the call centre just over a year ago, though it was noted you were a freelance writer and kept income that way. But he found it curious that you’d been working since you were a teenager and yet hadn't worked a solid job in a year. And now that he’d met you, he could see you were the hardworking type. Carol hadn’t known why you’d been away from a job for so long, stating that Daryl knew but didn’t tell her. He had said it didn’t matter, and that was good enough for Negan.

“Well, I’ll admit, on paper you’re ideal, which is why I scheduled you last today. I wanted to have time to read you.”

“And,” You interjected, a small smirk on your lips, “You know that keeping someone waiting the whole day for an interview will shred their nerves and leave them more susceptible to letting their true colours out.”

Negan stared, surprised, “Can’t get much past you, eh?”

You shrugged, “It’s a good tactic. But I assure you, I’m just as competent in the evening as the morning, and I think if you give me a chance to prove myself, you’ll be very happy with hiring me, Mr. Dean. I want to work here, you have an amazing place. It’s a part of this community, and the reintegration program is something I respect greatly, I have no issues working with men hired from there.” You paused, adjusting yourself slightly, palms falling open on your legs, “And, I’ll be frank, I want a job that has long days, that’ll keep me busy and tire me out and let me build relationships with customers. When I found out you were hiring, I jumped on the chance for Daryl to have Carol put in a good word for me. It just seems...right, to work here.”

“What about your writing, do you still do that?” Negan watched your face closely, and it didn’t waver, instead, your smile widened.

“I can write anywhere, anytime. And I make my own schedule with whatever commissions I take on, so it’ll be easy to write on my days off, or breaks if I don’t have a day off,” You pointed at Negan’s phone, which he’d set on the wide arm of his chair, “I can also help with writing any social media or website content, I know Carol mentioned you wanted to expand that presence, and I’m comfortable with that sort of work.”

Negan considered you, letting a comfortable silence fall as he thought over your words. You did seem eager, excited, and the fact that you’d researched what he was looking for impressed him further. Breaking eye contact, he glanced down at your resume once more, though he couldn’t think of anything else to ask. If he was honest with himself, he was ready to hire you after the first two minutes.

“I like you,” He said, thrumming his hands on his knees, “When can you start?”

“In the morning? Or I can go home, have my dinner and come back dressed more appropriately for work, if you need me straight away, sir.”

Negan shook his head, both as a response and in an attempt to toss away the thoughts that stirred up in the back of his mind every time you called him ‘sir’. “Tomorrow morning is perfect. And since you work for me now, you can call me Negan, asshole, or shithead, no more ‘Mr. Dean’ or fucking, ‘sir’, okay?”

When you smiled at Negan, it was the most dazzling he’d seen yet, bright white teeth and sweet dimples making his heart stutter. Damn, you really affected him. He needed to get a gri—you were half his age, for Christ's sake.

“Thank you, Negan,” You stood, holding your hand out and grasping his when he offered, your head tilting back to look at him as he stood before you. “Really, I promise I’ll make you proud.”

“Kid, I don’t doubt it.” He replied softly, and for a moment you simply looked at one another. Negan wasn't sure if you felt it, but he did; it was a spark. Fleeting, but strong enough that he knew life was about to get interesting again.

Taglist: @mermaidxatxheart @paintballkid711 @ladydmalfoy 🤍

93 notes · View notes

aellynera · 4 years

Text

Don’t Forget the Napkins (Llewyn Davis x Reader)

DON’T FORGET THE NAPKINS

Word count: 2733(ish)

Warnings: Just a little bit of language, really (I mean, it’s Llewyn, so...) Like one sentence about Pappi’s creepy tendencies.

(with prompts: “Call me now, it’s urgent”; “Have you lost your mind”; and “So...can we go eat?”)

Another Saturday night at the Gaslight. There was nothing odd about that, it was where you spent pretty much every Saturday night for the past year and half, working behind the bar and waiting on the tables out by the stage when needed. Sure, it was dark, smoky, and kind of dingy, but it helped make ends meet and you got to listen to music for free.

The music is what you had first come to the Gaslight for, right after you graduated from college and moved to the big city. You loved the music and started coming in every chance you got, no matter who was on stage, just to sit in the room in the moment and experience the music. Pappi had taken a shine to you, said you reminded him of his little sister. You had no idea if he really had a sister, nor did you care, but it was certainly less creepy than Pappi telling you it was because he wanted to fuck you, so you let it slide. You had heard him make the latter suggestion to more performers than you cared to admit, but he was a decent boss and you got on well at the job, so it all worked out.

You had majored in English and wanted to be a famous writer, maybe even write some songs that people would talk about and still sing years from now, so where else would you go other than New York City? That’s where the culture was. That’s where the art scene was. That’s where the nightlife and bright lights and intellectuals were. And that’s also where Llewyn Davis was.

Llewyn. Now there was a riddle wrapped in an enigma inside a mystery.

You had seen him perform quite a few times at the Gaslight, and even bought his record when it came out. You talked to him just about every time he was there, because he always sat at the bar both before and after he performed. He had seemed quiet at first; well, he still did, really, but by now you knew the right combination of idle chit-chat, soft smiles, and whiskey straight up to get him to drop the first line of defense. Once that happened, he would talk to you all night. And if you weren’t busy, you’d let him. At some point, you had told him about your dreams of writing and creating songs that people wanted to sing (there was no way you were going to sing them yourself, at least not in public; your stage fright was too monumental and soul crushing). He had just looked at you thoughtfully for a moment, pushing one of his perfect dark curls off his face, then finished his drink and went up on the stage. When he came back, he ordered another drink and started up random conversation again. Then the night was over.

And that was his mystery - he spoke of many things, but he never really told you anything. You had an easy back and forth, a friendship even, but it felt like he never let on more than the bare minimum.

But the night after you had told him about the songwriting, you had come in to work and there was a note for you behind the bar. Two lines, scribbled on a napkin. You read them a few times and realized it was maybe the beginning of a poem...or lyrics. So you quickly wrote two more lines, and when Llewyn came in that night, you walked up to him and stuck the folded napkin in his pocket. He looked surprised, but you caught the slight upturn of his lips a few minutes later when he took it out, looked at it, and then carefully put it back in his pocket.

The next night, the napkin was back. Two more lines. So you added two more. The same thing the next day. And the next, and the day after that. It kind of became your thing, without anything else ever being said about it. Sometimes there was a whole verse written out and you would start a chorus, and vice versa. Once it was one word at a time and that had honestly gone off the rails pretty quickly, but it was fun.

And it had been going on for just about a year. You saw it as a mental game to keep your writing sharp and your brain engaged and your friend entertained. He certainly did more than his fair share in entertainment from his stool on the stage.

So when you got to work that night, it wasn’t a surprise to find another napkin meticulously folded and placed behind the bar where you normally stowed your pocketbook and keys. The place was more packed than usual, but there was some new guy named Dylan or something that was playing and there was a lot of buzz around him. So that was normal too. Smiling to yourself, you picked up the napkin and read the familiar scrawl.

Call me now, it’s urgent.

That was..not normal. Your face scrunched up in confusion, you quickly looked up and caught the mop of dark curls hunched over at the end of the bar. Grabbing a clean bar towel and the bottle of his favorite whiskey, you made your way over.

“Oh...good, you got my message,” he said, raising his eyes ever so slightly to meet yours over the rim of his tumbler. They were (beautiful and dark and compelling and soft and…) sort of glassy and red around the edges and maybe a little bloodshot? And was that a smirk inching its way onto his lips? You sighed.

“You’re sitting right here, Llewyn,” you said, taking the glass from his hand and refilling it without him asking. You pushed it back to him. “So thank you for saving me the dime.”

He snorted. “Come on, it was...a little funny, right?”

You shook your head, but you couldn’t keep your own small smile off your face. Did he realize the irony that you wouldn’t have been able to call him anyway, since you never really knew where he would be staying? “And you’re a little pissed already, huh? Isn’t it a bit early for that?”

“Nah, not really. And I’m not drunk. I am alcoholically reinforced,” he took another sip of his drink.

“...what does that even mean?”

He shook his head, that one particular curl flopping over his forehead and into (those beautiful, soulful, deep, enchanting…) his eyes. He totally ignored your question. “So, uh, look,” he started, suddenly seeming a bit more unsure of himself. “I really wanted to ask you, if…”

“No, you cannot borrow my couch tonight, Llewyn. My sister is in town.” You idly wiped at the bar top with your towel, raising an eyebrow at him.

For a split second he looked offended, but it was so brief you almost missed it. “What? No, no, I don’t need a place to...look, I just needed to tell you...well, ask you really, but also tell you…”

“Hey, Llewyn!” Pappi’s voice suddenly boomed from the other side of the room. “Lay off the help and get your ass up on stage! You’re not gettin’ half the basket just to sit here and drink all my booze!”

Llewyn sighed. “Yeah, yeah, all right,” he yelled back. His attention turned back to you. “So, listen, really though I need to…”

You swatted at him with the towel. “You need to finish that glass and get up there before we both get in trouble, is what you need to do. It looks like it’s gonna be a crazy night, I’ll catch you after, yeah? We’ll go grab a burger at that place down the block, my treat.” You flashed him a grin as you walked away before he could say anything else. And by say anything else, you really meant say no, because that man needed to eat a good, hot meal. As usual.

Llewyn watched you walk off and start tending to other patrons, then threw back the rest of his glass in one gulp. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath as he walked to the stage. “Please don’t kill me, please don’t kill me…”

As Llewyn picked up his guitar and got himself situated, you filled drink orders and watched him as you did so. It was getting harder to deny that he was the most beautiful man you had ever seen, especially when he was up there, under the single spotlight and surrounded by the smoky haze of the crowd and his own cigarette smoke. There was just something about him. But the puzzle and mystery and enigma hung over everything and you were fairly certain you’d never crack the actual code, so you just let your crush be a crush. It was part of what made the Gaslight worth it, after all.

The night went on, busy and loud and musical. This particular crowd was really getting into his set and you couldn’t help but feel proud of him. He deserved the attention, and you knew he wanted it, even if he liked to pretend he didn’t. After a few songs, you took a pint glass of water up to the stage. It was something you always did for performers, but especially for Llewyn (since he tended to drink more than his fair share of whiskey in the meantime). You were about halfway to the stage when he strummed a few notes and started to introduce his next song.

“So, uh...well, this is a new song for me,” he started, noticing you coming his way. “And I didn’t really plan on doing this until maybe about an hour or so ago, but well...I dunno, sometimes when something just feels right, it’s right, you know?” His eyes meet yours as you set the glass on the small table next to him on the stage, and he momentarily seems to search for the next words.

“Y’know I usually work alone, but, uh, I wrote this next song with a friend. A good friend. Someone who is really talented and good with words, better with words than I am. And...and she doesn’t know I’m doing this but I’ll ask for forgiveness later.” He chuckled and the crowd did too in response.

Llewyn cleared his throat. “So, yeah. This is a song I wrote with the help of a lovely lady you probably all know. If you do, ask her to make you a drink, and if you don’t, well, go back to the bar and introduce yourself.”

You were almost to the back of the room, back to said bar, when your eyes shot wide and you spun on your heel to face the stage. Oh no, he did not just...did he? It’s kind of hard to clearly see his face from back here with the light and the glare in the smoke but you could swear that jerk is grinning, like full on guilty smiling, and in that instant you swore if you weren’t working and there weren’t so many people shoved into this space you might go up there and actually punch him. Your face was on fire and your stomach felt like it was going to drop out the bottoms of your feet. Your mouth dropped open before you could stop it.

Every pair of eyes in the room suddenly turned on you. There were maybe a hundred people there? Around that many. A hundred people times two and that’s how many eyes were suddenly staring right at you. There was only one pair of eyes you really cared about, though.

You managed to catch Llewyn’s eyes for a moment and you mouthed at him - Have you lost your mind? He shrugged slightly, closed his eyes, and started playing his...your...song.

It was beautiful. From the second line you recognized the napkin it had come from, one that got passed back and forth about four months ago, during a particularly cold week when it didn’t quite snow but the rain was still frozen. It was a back and forth about two people realizing they were in love but being too afraid and preoccupied and aloof to do or say anything about it. Typical unrequited love stuff. But oh, suddenly, oh now it had much more meaning. You listened, and watched, from the corner behind the bar, transfixed and unable to look away as every emotion you knew and some you never knew existed washed over you in time with the notes from the guitar and Llewyn’s gorgeous voice.

Once the song ended, you somewhat got your bearings and turned back to the bar. People were already coming over to tell you how beautiful the song was, ask if you really wrote it with Llewyn Davis, tell you how much they enjoyed it, ask if you had written any others...you were only vaguely aware of most of it and managed to pour some drinks and answered things as best you could, until finally one voice broke through all the others.

“So. Um. Did you like it?”

You closed your eyes for a minute, biting your lip. “Llewyn...I...what just happened?”

He looked down for a second, then reached over and took the glass you were holding and the bar towel out of your hands. He gently wrapped his fingers around yours, giving you a light squeeze. He didn’t say anything for a few more seconds, but when you didn’t pull away, he continued, “I tried to tell you...shit, I kept every single one of those napkins since we started doing that, and I turned some of ‘em into a song and wanted to play it tonight. I tried, but...well...fuck, you’re not mad at me are you?”

You weren’t mad. God, you were anything but mad at this man. Stunned, and surprised, yes, but definitely not mad. He kept all those napkins? You’d always half-wondered what happened to them, but never really gave it much thought, but you hadn’t really expected that to be the answer. Your brain still couldn’t quite process your own words correctly, so you just shook your head no and squeezed his hands in return.

Llewyn let out a huge sigh of relief. “Oh, thank fuck. For a few minutes there I thought I really fucked things up.”

You finally got your head back straight and laughed. “No, you didn’t,” you smiled. You cocked your head to the side and studied his face for a moment. “I still can’t quite figure you out, but you definitely did not fuck anything up.”

“Good,” he nodded. He lifted your fingers to his lips and brushed his lips along your knuckles, suddenly pulling away when Pappi snorted from his corner of the bar. You both turned to him, scowls on your faces, and Llewyn whipped the bar towel at Pappi’s head.

“So...can we go eat?” Llewyn asked, turning his attention back to you and ignoring Pappi’s continued string of bemused and somewhat lewd sounds.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Eat. Y’know, burgers? At that joint down the street? You said something earlier about buying me dinner?” Llewyn asked dryly.

You rolled your eyes. “Seriously? You sing me a song that I helped you write, and then you expect me to buy you dinner.”

“Well, you did offer.”

You bit your lip again as your smile grew wider and a blush crept further up your face. “Okay. But make sure you don’t lose these, we’re going to need them.” You grabbed a few pens from underneath the bar before coming around to his side and shoving them in Llewyn’s coat pocket.

“Okay, sure? But what are those for?” he asked, slipping and arm around your waist and leading you to the door.

“Because,” you replied, your tone implying that he should already know, “there are a lot of napkins floating around that place.”

Llewyn pulled you a little closer and you smiled into his embrace. “Ohhhhh.”

“And Llewyn?”

“Yeah?”

“I wasn’t kidding about the couch, my sister really is in town. But I’ve got a much more comfortable place you can stay tonight.”

~end~

#oscar isaac #inside llewyn davis #llewyn davis #llewyn davis x reader #llewyn davis x you #prompt fic #fluff

118 notes · View notes

cavalierious-whim · 3 years

Text

Felix's life is turned upside-down when Sylvain comes back after years away to hustle at his pool hall. #

Ever have an idea that's neat until it grows legs and just becomes 12k words worth of filth? Yeah, that. My google search history suffered intensely for this fic, but now I know that you can use cue stick oil as lube. You're welcome. Read here on A03 for better quality, and for wips, updates and more, follow me here on Twitter!

Felix runs a clean establishment which is why the red-headed idiot is the bane of his existence.

Every night, he’s there, running the action for a dime a pot. Making his victims even up before they start a new round. Regulars know that he’s hustling; he makes his targets put the money in the rack and then before they know it, he sweeps them in the last game, taking the pot for his own.

The newbies don’t stand a chance. Everyone else stays to watch the slaughter.

Felix waits before he steps in. He might run a tight ship but he can’t risk his regulars running out because he puts a stop to the usual entertainment. So, Felix watches from his corner spot on the wall, arms crossed over his chest as he scowls.

The idiot has cued up a tricky three-rail bank shot. His opponent looks confident that he’s going to win but everyone else knows better. Ingrid tries to warn the new guy; tugs on his arm to whisper into his ear. The man only smiles at her like she’s dumb, twirling a lock of her short hair around his finger.

When Ingrid smiles back, it isn’t kind.

The idiot takes his shot, the cue ball connecting with all three walls just as planned before sinking the eight like there’s a magnet in the pocket.

The newbie’s cigarette falls from his mouth, Ingrid stamps it out before it can do any lasting damage, and Felix makes his move before things get ugly.

“Sylvain,” he snaps, sliding in near the billiards table and leveling him with an unimpressed glare.

Sylvain’s already snatched up the money, thumbing through it and double-checking even though he knows it’s good. The bills never leave the table, not under his keen eye. Sylvain pauses dramatically and offers him a smarmy smile.

“Felix,” he greets in a low baritone.

“Are you done swindling my customers?”

“Hey, I’m a customer too.”

Felix scoffs. “You’re a leech and I can throw you right out.” The crowd around them is used to the theatrics of it all and begins to disperse, making themselves scarce. Ingrid hangs back for a moment and exchanges a knowing glance with Felix.

She isn’t much better than Sylvain at the end of the night, hustling her own targets in games of Cribbage before clearing the table, but she and Felix have an agreement. Felix and Sylvain don’t. Mostly because the latter is impossible to reason with.

“You won’t,” says Sylvain, back to counting his bills. “If I made this much, you easily made twice that.” He folds them before tucking them into his pocket.

Sylvain isn’t wrong. He might be a hustler, but he’s a damn good pool player, and people will spend all night in the hall just to peek at a game or two. Sylvain makes good change, but Felix takes a better cut off the booze and food he sells as a result.

It’s a win-win and it’s why he’s never actually kicked the man out despite his idle threats. Among other reasons, those far more complicated. Still, it’s the principle of the matter.

Sylvain orders a whiskey, neat, and Felix scowls. When Annie brings him a crystal tumbler, Sylvain gives her a wink. He’s barking up the wrong tree and knows it, but it’s harmless flirting that they throw between them on the regular. Annette finds it cute.

Felix finds it appalling.

Sylvain takes a sip and sets the glass aside, picking up a cue stick and rolling it between his palms. “So, it was a good night, I’m sure,” he says conversationally.

“I don’t talk shop with patrons, least of all you.”

“Here’s a reminder that I bring in money--”

“You could bring in Blaiddyd himself, and I still wouldn’t talk.”

Sylvain whistles lowly. “That’s a bit low,” he says. “Blaiddyd wouldn’t ever step foot into a place like this.”

Dimitri wouldn’t. Felix knows it, but it’s not because his pool hall is tucked into a dark corner of Fhirdiad. It’s because he and Dimitri aren’t on speaking terms and likely never will be again. The red-headed idiot doesn’t know that, can’t know that. He and Sylvain haven’t properly talked in years. Hustling in his hall is a fairly new development and it’s haunted Felix’s dreams for nearly a half-year.

Sylvain’s calling a blind-eyed bluff and Felix lets it ruffle him.

“Insufferable fool,” snaps Felix.

Sylvain shrugs as Felix rounds the table to clean it off, grabbing the wide boar-bristle brush. He sets about sweeping up the chalk marks from the felt because Sylvain’s shit at doing it.

Or, he doesn’t even bother, racking up another game without any consideration. Truly, the bane of Felix’s existence, a constant aggravation, from the way that he hustles patrons in his carefully cultivated pool hall, to that damned smirk that is more attractive than it should be.

Old habits die hard, especially when it comes to the decade-old flame still flickering in Felix’s pathetic heart.

When Sylvain leans against the table, Felix stands up, instantly high alert. When he sits his ass on the rail with his entire weight, Felix nearly has a coronary.

“Off!” he snaps, shaking the brush at Sylvain. “You’ll fuck up the balance.”

“I can fuck up a lot more than that, you know,” says Sylvain. “All you have to do is ask.”

Felix isn’t a mobster so he doesn’t murder the man. But he is a pool shark, so he does the next best thing. “You and me,” says Felix. “Later when the doors close. One-on-one, house rules.”

Sylvain regards Felix with one long, sweeping gaze across the entirety of his body, and Felix almost snarls back. But he doesn’t. Ingrid would be proud.

“I’m a front-runner,” says Sylvain, as though it makes a difference. Of course, he’s a front-runner, he’s likely the best player Felix has ever seen aside from Glenn. But Glenn’s dead and that doesn’t matter anymore.

“I’m no slouch,” says Felix.

Sylvain smiles a curling thing that spells danger. “Oh, I know. I’ve seen you shoot a rack or two.” Or two thousand. Sylvain looks at his whiskey glass, swirling it gently. “And the stakes? A dime? Two?”

“Rights to play here,” says Felix. “You lose and I get to kick you out once and for all.”

“And if I win, you never bother me about hustling again.” Felix opens his mouth and Sylvain cuts him off. “Ah-ah-ah, none of that. You and I both know that I bring in more business than this dusty old place would see without me.”

Felix hates that he’s right and he hates that he doesn’t have the guts to refute it. He swipes the brush over the table angrily. “Fine, I’ll take your damned deal.”

They don’t shake on it, but Sylvain does tip his glass in a salute. Good enough for Felix since the faith of Sylvain’s word doesn’t mean shit.

So the thing is, they’ve actually known each other since they were children. Ingrid and Dimitri as well; they’d grown up together during the tail-end of Prohibition, spending their afternoons with Glenn shooting pool on tilted tables with badly balanced cue sticks.

Felix was good, but Sylvain was the prodigy when it came to shooting racks, an absolute monster that no one wanted to challenge. Back then, he didn’t hustle, he just enjoyed the sport. And Felix did too, their days spent leaning over chalk-dusted felt and hand-me-down sticks.

Then Glenn died, Sylvain went pro and Felix turned bitter and angry. And everything between them stretched wide and thin, colored by wanton attraction and the fear of fucking it up.

Dimitri bought this place to relive fond memories. Abandoned it when he lost his mind for fancier clientele. Felix, unable to forget his youth no matter how he tried, stepped in to keep it from shutting down entirely.

No longer in its prime, the place struggled for years, Felix barely paying the bills and keeping it afloat.

Until Sylvain walked back in one day. It’d been five years without a word, and nearly a decade of sore, unbidden feelings. Felix wanted nothing to do with him. Didn’t want to relive those memories.

One problem, though: Sylvain can’t take a fucking hint. Felix has told him to his face that he’s unwelcome and Sylvain just shoots him that signature smirk of his, the one that’s so impossible to ignore, and pretends that nothing was ever said.

Felix never kicks him out because he lacks any resolve, something that haunts his dreams. It makes Ingrid laugh.

“So, house rules,” says Sylvain, sliding up next to him with a smooth swagger that Felix makes a point of ignoring.

“Eight-ball,” starts Felix, but Sylvain tuts.

“Where’s the fun in that? That’s a family game.” Felix doesn’t like the glint in Sylvain’s eye as he leans against the table rail. “Nine-ball. Best three out of five.”

“Nine-ball’s a tournament game,” says Felix. “I don’t do tournaments.”

“You could,” says Sylvain with a shrug. He’s right; Felix can. But he won’t.

“You know that I don’t compete.”

“Anymore,” says Sylvain, a quiet correction that turns Felix’s blood red-hot. Sylvain must see it because he raises his hands in deference. “Not the point, not the point. I’m just saying. We’re playing for a high pot so might as well make the game match.”

Felix doesn’t think that playing for his pool hall is a high pot but there isn’t a point in arguing-- Sylvain’s been bit by a competitive bug and it’s too late to stop it.

“Fine, nine-ball,” says Felix. He crosses his arms over his chest and scowls at Sylvain. “Casual rules, though. Ball-in-hand--”

“Ugh.” Sylvain sounds positively offended and Felix smirks.

“And none of that fancy shit you like to pull.”

“Felix, you wound me.”

Felix levels him with an unimpressed look. “I don’t have time for it,” he says. Then he kicks Sylvain’s shin. “And off the fucking table. I won’t tell you again.”

Sylvain hops off but doesn’t apologize. “I’ll rack--”

“I’ll do it,” cuts in Felix, reaching for the triangle rack instead of the one used for nine-ball. “I don’t trust you further than I can throw you.”

Sylvain pauses, frowning the slightest bit, a tiny little crack in his carefully maintained facade. Felix nearly pauses-- nearly. Sylvain isn’t the kind to wear his heart on his sleeve. He only shows what he wants other people to see. But this here, it doesn’t seem intentional. He’s already off his game, distracted by something.

“I only meant you setting up the game,” says Felix.

“I’ve no qualms about you racking, but you know it means that I get to break.”

A calculated decision that Felix has already considered. Felix isn’t bad at getting a good spread, but Sylvain’s better at it. It’s a risky move to give him the first shot since he’ll likely sink one at the get-go, but it’s a risk Felix is willing to take.

Sylvain pulls a cue from his bag and twists it together, carefully wiping it down with a soft little cloth. Felix watches while he arranges the balls, nine in the middle. He presses his fingers against the bottom of the diamond, pushing them tight into the corner of the triangle. Not a traditional method, but Felix can get a better grip if the rack isn’t in the way of his fingers. Sylvain hasn’t noticed his stare.

Instead, he’s too busy inspecting the tip of the cue that he uses for breaking before chalking it up.

Once the balls are racked, Felix steps off to the side, showing off the table. “All yours.”

Sylvain offers him a smile, something small and genuine and for a second it’s like they’ve gone back in time. All that unwanted shit he’s tried to forget just wells right up from the depths of his heart. Felix pretends that they aren’t friends, that they were never close, that he hates Sylvain quite severely.

It isn’t true. When Sylvain left they’d been sitting awkwardly, hanging strangely in their friendship. Trying to figure out what they were together. For Felix, it’s never been something as simple as just friends.

And it never was for Sylvain either, which is why everything’s so fucked up between the two of them. Sylvain, despite whatever he feels, isn’t the type to settle down. And neither is Felix. But they’d thought about doing it, together.

Feelings can’t save shitty relationships, though, no matter how strong they are. They’re better off like this, frenemies that constantly dog each other.

Sylvain looks slick as he runs a hand through his wild auburn hair. The light above the pool table is dim and casts a shitty glow, but Sylvain looks alive as he takes his place at the south end of the table. He’s focused when he leans over, break cue held loosely in his hand. He lines up his shot, utterly focused on the task at hand, and then he brings the cue back before letting it loose.

There’s a crack as the cue ball flies across the table. The diamond scatters and balls bounce off the rails. He doesn’t sink one on the first shot which is an immediate red flag.

“You missed,” says Felix. “You did that on purpose.”

Sylvain shrugs, unconcerned as he swaps out his break cue for his regular. He chalks it up. “There isn’t any fun in running the table on the first go.”

Felix scowls. “You’re playing for keeps.”

“It’s best three out of five,” says Sylvain. “Might as well make it worth it.”

He’s a hustler through and through. Sylvain makes his bread and butter swindling poor sots out of their coin, pushing and pulling pots as he sees fit. Ingrid’s no better, but she’s already at a disadvantage. No one takes her seriously because she’s a woman, and if her goal is to take men down a notch, Felix isn’t going to be the one to tell her no.

Sylvain, however, doesn’t do it for the money, he does it for the thrill. He’s always been like that, living by the seat of his pants because it’s the only way that he feels things. Like right now. It’s the only reason he even bargained the game to begin with.

Felix only wanted a go at it, a friendly game between somewhat enemies. Sylvain was the one that put stakes on the table.

The cue that Felix uses is old and a little battered, but it’s straight and it’s got a decent weight to it. Nothing fancy, but he doesn’t need fancy, he only needs functional.

The spread on the table is good. The one-ball sits at the bottom left and the nine is at the right side pocket. The rest have enough space to get in a good table run if he plays his angles right. Felix leans over the corner of the table, lining up his shot.

Sylvain watches as Felix thinks it through. Nervousness prickles down Felix’s spine. He might play a game or two alone after the doors shut, but he’s admittedly, out of practice. Felix already knows if he mucks this shot up, Sylvain will spend the rest of the night poking fun at him.

The cue stick strikes true and Felix sinks the one-ball in the opposite side pocket. So far so good. The two is near a north corner, an easy shot. But the three is along a rail, leaving behind a tricky follow-up lie. Felix sighs and sinks the two, the cue ball kicking back to the left.

Not far enough, leaving him in a precarious position.

Sylvain whistles low and says, “Tricky, tricky. Not where I’d want to sit.”

“Shut up,” says Felix, scowling. He chalks up his cue, thinking about his next shot.

Sylvain shrugs, sipping at his drink. “I’m just saying. You’ve always been shit at putting spin on the ball.” Sylvain’s right. Felix never did practice his English much.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve played a game,” says Felix. Not since before Sylvain fucked off. He’s watched him, of course, but Felix hasn’t shot a rack around Sylvain since he came back. “Plenty of time to pick up some skill.”

“It wasn’t ever about skill, you just sucked at it even with how much you practiced.”

Felix would spend hours hitting shot after shot. He’d set up complicated lies and work out the math. He’s good with angles, and he’s decent at putting spin on the ball but it’s definitely his weak spot.

Felix doesn’t answer and Sylvain crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m not trying to be rude--”

“Zip it,” cuts in Felix, shushing him. “I’m thinking.”

Sylvain’s quiet for exactly ten seconds before he says, “Lower half, middle of the ball. Put some meat behind it and it should stop dead.”

Felix ignores him on principle, hitting slightly to the right instead. The cue ball connects with the three, then banks to the side, flubbing the shot entirely.

Sylvain snickers from behind his hand, amused.

Felix knew it was a bad shot the moment his arm moved. He’s unsure why he’s so obstinate when it comes to taking Sylvain’s advice on a go. But then he sees the insufferable smirk plastered across Sylvain’s face.

Scratch that, he knows exactly why: Felix refuses to give in to his hustling.

“Should have just listened to me,” says Sylvain, getting up from the barstool and chalking up his cue.

“I’d rather sell out,” says Felix. And he would. He’d sooner leave him a good shot, sitting pretty on the table than give him any sort of satisfaction.

“Thought we were playing for keeps,” says Sylvain, repeating what Felix snarked earlier. “At least give me some satisfaction.” He leans over the table, marking up a shot at the three. He pulls the cue back once, twice, testing the wait of his aim.

“The only satisfaction you want is someone stroking your big, fat ego.”

Sylvain stops right in the middle of his shot, head cocking to the side as he shoots Felix a dangerous look. “Oh trust me, there’s something else I’d rather you stroke.”

Felix turns red in anger, hissing at the innuendo. Here it is, that unspoken thing that’s loomed between them for years. Sylvain’s always been overtly flirty with it, low whispers as he murmurs dark and dirty words into his ears. Felix refuses to be just another notch in his belt.

And it’s hard, so unbearably hard because the worst part is that Felix wouldn’t say no. Ingrid tells him that it’s stupid to hold off, that he should just get it over with and satisfy his fucking curiosity.

Felix refuses.

Sylvain bursts into laughter, shaking his head. “Man, you should’ve seen your face, Felix,” he says, setting up his shot again. He falls silent as he baits the cue ball, his practice strokes smooth like buttered perfection. Then, he takes the shot and sinks in the three, lining up for a perfect hit to the four.

And the five, and then the six. Sylvain cleans the table with little-to-no effort, calling his shots because he knows it pisses Felix off.

“Eight off the seven,” says Sylvain, grinning widely as he surveys the table. “But I’m going to bank it off this rail and nail the corner pocket instead.”

It’s an absurd trick shot and Felix tells him as such. “You’re wasting time with these superfluous tricks.”

“Sit back,” says Sylvain. “Relax. Shit Felix, this is supposed to be fun.”

Felix knew that it wasn’t going to be fun the moment he proposed it. He knew he’d be staring at Sylvain’s long and lean form, bent over the table as he figures out math and angles. Sylvain’s a smart guy, despite what people think. It’s one of the few times that the look on his face is truly genuine.

He’s more handsome now than ever before, something straight from Felix’s most vivid wet dreams. He has a love-hate relationship with those.

“Nothing about this is fun,” says Felix finally. “It’s infuriating.”

Sylvain bites the inside of his cheek in a huff, a nervous tic that he’s never been able to get rid of. “You’re the one making it so,” he says smoothly. “As I said, just relax. We’re here to play a game.”

“That I need to win if I want you good and gone.”

Sylvain pauses at that, still hanging over the table as he looks at Felix. “Is that really what you want Felix?” For once in his damn life, he sounds serious, not his usually mocking tone.

Felix doesn’t warrant the question with an answer. Instead, he just crosses his arms over his chest as he lurks in the corner near his pool cue.

Eventually, Sylvain gets tired of waiting. “Suit yourself,” he mutters under his breath, just loud enough for Felix to hear. He lines up his ridiculous shot and takes a few practice sweeps. The moment he pulls back, Felix speaks.

“Of course I want you to piss off.”

Sylvain fucks up the shot, nearly miscuing. The cue ball lurches to the side, misses the seven entirely, and nearly sinks in the nine-ball instead. That’d be a game lost, one to Felix’s favor, which is greatly amusing.

To his credit, Sylvain doesn’t look angry, despite his swear. He looks dejected. And really, what does he expect? That he’d come back here to find everything normal? Back to the way it was? Felix is too tired for ifs, ands, and buts. He moved on years ago.

Or so Felix pretends. It’s his most practiced lie, second nature at this point.

The look, though, that shadow of sadness that falls across Sylvain’s face is gone nearly as soon as it appears. He schools it into a competitive grin instead, nodding to the table. “Well, here’s your chance,” says Sylvain, leaning onto his stool, cue resting against his thigh. “Knock me out of the game.”

Felix surveys the table. The ending lie of Sylvain’s kicked shot leaves Felix in a decent position. Just enough to smack the seven-ball in and clear the table if he can keep his mind empty. Felix looks at Sylvain again who stares right back. Easier said than done.

He sets up his shot, pulling back the cue a few times. He sinks the seven easily and with the left spin he put on the cue ball, it rolls over to the eight. The side pocket’s an easy target that leaves only the nine left.

“Think it through,” says Sylvain.

“Shut up.”

“Look, I’m just saying. The easiest shots are always the worst, especially when it’s the nine.”

True. Felix can hit a stellar shot and still fuck it up-- there are a thousand ways to lose a game of pool, almost all of them your fault. Felix knows that he should take a deep breath, sit back and think about angles and spin.

But he won’t because he’s too fucking impatient, the absolute worst quality he has.

“Nine-ball, corner pocket,” says Felix, gesturing with his cue. He forces himself to try and take his time, at least, breathing in deeply before letting it loose.

He fucks the shot up royally. Taps it a little too hard and overshoots, the cue ball sinking in right after the nine. A scratch, and the worst kind-- entirely self-inflicted because he’s far too distracted to keep his head in the game.

Felix blames it on Sylvain. Doesn’t matter what part of him-- that handsome, devilish smile of his; the way that he twirls his cue around nonchalantly; the gentle grasp he has around his crystal whiskey tumbler; the ease as he sinks in ball after ball.

It’s all the same shit as far as Felix is concerned.

“Man, you dogged it,” says Sylvain, a badly concealed smirk set across his face.

“You’re taking way too much pleasure in it.” Felix is beyond annoyed.

Sylvain’s expression changes as he raises an eyebrow. “Felix, if I wanted to take pleasure from something, it certainly wouldn’t be you losing.”

“Is that so?”

Sylvain doesn’t answer, he only stares him down, the depth of his face smoldering. And Felix stares back, frozen in place as he worries his lip between his teeth. At least after the game, he thinks. The pool hall deserves that much.

The tension between them is so thick you could cut it; the kind of joke that Ingrid would happily make were she watching their sorry asses dance around each other. Ridiculous, Felix thinks. Utterly ridiculous, how the two of them still act like teenagers who can’t keep it in their pants.

“You nearly had it,” says Sylvain finally, trying to diffuse the tightness in the air. “Next time I can show you--”

“I don’t need your pity,” says Felix suddenly.

Sylvain blinks. “An honest offer,” he says. “No pity involved.”

Felix knows there’s a catch, though. There has to be. When it comes to Sylvain, there’s always an ulterior motive.

They fall silent again for a moment that stretches a little bit too long. Staring at each other, neither willing to make the first move.

It’s Sylvain that finally does. “Rack them,” he says, pulling the balls from the pockets on his end of the table.

Felix says nothing as he sets the next rack, the nine-ball right in the center. He rolls them back and forth, pressing his fingers in between the wood and resin, ensuring a tight diamond.

“Three out of five, one to my name,” says Sylvain as he swipes some of his drink before cueing up his for his break.

It’s effortless as always, the crack of his shot deafening in the awkward quiet. He sinks two balls on the first go, the three, and the seven. Sylvain isn’t playing around this time. Felix knows he isn’t angry. He’s trying to distract himself.

And Sylvain does that by doing what he does best-- sharking pool.

He continues to clean the table in relative silence, intensely focused on the game. He gets like this when he’s thinking about things. Goes weirdly quiet as he formulates what he’s going to say next. Most think he’s inherently suave, an instinctual casanova, but that isn’t it at all.

Sylvain’s the best pretender around, carefully cultivating how others perceive him. Everything he says and does is by design.

Especially when it comes to Felix. It’s a well-practiced game to Sylvain when it comes to whatever the fuck their relationship is. Felix maintains there isn’t one, that there wasn’t ever. But it’s hard to hold to that when Sylvain’s two feet away in the pool hall, hustling right next to him every night. And Felix can’t stop looking, hasn’t ever been able to stop.

Even now.

“It’s hot in here,” says Sylvain, hooking a finger into the collar of his shirt, pulling at it slightly. It is, and a little humid too. That’s what the weather does this far south, as far away from Fhirdiad as you can get.

“You’re the one insisting on being fully clothed,” says Felix.

Sylvain’s usual fare of dress is high-class. Crisply ironed button-downs paired with a well-tailored vest. Sometimes he wears his pocket watch, sometimes it’s a pocket square. He always rolls up his sleeves though, showing off well-defined forearms. Paired with the sleeve garters, everyone can’t help but stare.

Felix included.

“Gotta look the part,” says Sylvain with a tawdry wink. “You know that.”

“You already do,” Felix huffs, “With all the money you spend on those ridiculous brand-name labels.” Because it’s always been the best of the best for Sylvain.

Sylvain responds by reaching up and pulling his tie loose, unfastening the top few buttons before pressing the collar open, showing off his collarbone. And the sheen of sweat that glistens in the shitty glow of the light hanging above the table. Felix finally looks away, settling his gaze onto the wall.

“Nine off the eight,” says Sylvain. “Corner pocket.” He doesn’t point to the corner pocket that Felix would aim for.

Sylvain leans against the table, ass on the railing, the cue behind him. Shooting backward because he’s a gluttonous prick who can’t help but show off.

“Wrong corner pocket, you dick,” says Felix, obstinate as always. Mostly because he can’t stop staring at Sylvain’s ass when he should be watching the game. Between that and Sylvain’s gleaming collarbone on display, Felix is a goner.

Sylvain’s aim is impeccable, so naturally, he sinks the nine, winning the second game. “Rack ‘em,” he says with a smirk, jumping off the table.

Felix snarls before doing as he’s asked. Sylvain keeps smirking, running a hand through his unruly hair, stretching out his neck just so. Because he knows; he’s seen Felix looking and he’s hamming it up.

“Insufferable git,” says Felix, dropping the balls into the triangle-shaped rack and shuffling them around.

“You’re the one who keeps staring.” Felix pauses, looking back at Sylvain. He knows a challenge when he hears one and Sylvain’s looking at him like he’s ready to eat him right up.

“Only because you’re utterly ridiculous,” says Felix finally. “Pompous and loud, cheating my good patrons out of their money. Someone has to keep an eye on you.”

Sylvain hums at that, sipping at his whiskey. “Well, if someone’s going to, I prefer it be you.”

Felix nearly throws the rack at him but he doesn’t, hanging it neatly where it belongs under the table instead. Ingrid would be proud of his remarkable restraint. “Your break,” says Felix, turning away.

Sylvain’s already chalking up his cue. Figuring out exactly how he wants to set up his final run. “One more, my favor,” he says. “Better step up your game.”

Felix intends to, tired of this song and dance, of playing cat-and-mouse. They’ve chased after each other for years. It’s time to put an end to it. As Sylvain preps his shot, Felix switches cue sticks, pulling a second one from his bag. Pitch black with mother of pearl accents, but a tad beat up and not well-polished.

When Sylvain turns to him, he goes stock still like he’s frozen in time. Watches as Felix screws it together, brows knitted as recognition sets in.

“You kept that old thing?” asks Sylvain, quietly.

“It shoots straight. Might as well.”

Sylvain’s surprised because he gave the cue stick to Felix. Spent nearly three month’s loose change when they were young and desperately poor. Probably thought Felix chucked it the moment that he fucked off. Felix nearly did, and nearly has repeatedly over the years. Never quite gets there.

There’s one thing that Felix is really, really bad at: actually getting rid of Sylvain once and for all. It’s a complicated thing, full of complicated feelings. For better and worse. Felix and Sylvain were very nearly something all those years ago. Shared a few kisses in dark corners, wandering hands here and there.

Childhood friends to nearly-lovers, then rivals to whatever the fuck they are now.

Felix has caught Sylvain off guard, judging by his unsure expression. And for once, Felix doesn’t know what he’s thinking, can’t really tell. Sylvain just looks at him with this entirely unreadable expression.

“What?” asks Felix, a little more bite to his tone than he wants.

Sylvain doesn’t immediately answer, just rubs at his chin with his fingers. Thinking. But then he smirks, shooting Felix a rather dirty grin, and just like that everything’s back to normal again, brushed away like chalk from the table felt.

“Nothing,” says Sylvain, swiping the cue ball from Felix’s hand and their fingers brush, Sylvain lingering. Felix is the one to pull away.

But, he can’t look away when Sylvain sets up his break, or the long lines of his frame as he leans over the table and tests the slide of his cue. Draped over the felt like he belongs here, in this dingy pool hall. Right before Felix, just like the days of old.

Felix sighs. He’s tired of longing for the past.

Sylvain’s cue makes great contact and the break spreads well. He sinks the two and four-ball and leaves a good lie for the one. Sinks that, and then the two. Leaves the three, and the five onward. Felix bites at his thumb nervously because Sylvain’s likely about to run the entire table with little effort.

He’s fucked this up.

Sylvain spares a glance at him and pauses, biting at his lip. Then he lines up his shot for the three. Should be an easy shot into the side pocket, incredibly straightforward. Until he fucks it up. Intentionally.

“Shit,” murmurs Sylvain, “Jawed the tit.” Bounced right off the corner edge of the pocket.

Felix’s eyes narrow. Unlike before, this time it doesn’t seem like he’s giving him a chance to catch up or drag the game out. He’s left Felix with a pretty terrible lie. Whatever Sylvain’s plan is, it’s something else entirely.

Something that Felix isn’t sure he wants part of.

Which is why he doesn’t call it out. Instead, they swap sides, slowly rounding the table. Felix has been left with a shitty option for the three-ball, but still doable. He lines it up and calls his shot, takes a deep breath, and then shoots.

Sylvain watches from the stool on the opposite side, strangely quiet. The cue ball hits one rail, then the second, then connects with the three-ball, sinking it into the left corner. Felix lets out a sigh of relief and Sylvain a low whistle.

Felix makes quick work of the five and six-ball, leaving the seven in a good spot on the side pocket. He freezes, hesitating. The last time he had a shot like this, he fucked it up, leaving the table open for Sylvain to take the win.

And Felix knows that Sylvain won’t risk losing because he isn’t playing to keep hustling, he’s playing to keep Felix at his side. Even if they aren’t anything.

Anymore, Felix’s brain unhappily supplies.

“Think about it,” says Sylvain, just like before.

“I am,” says Felix irately.

“If you want, I can show you a trick. Help you sink shots like that with no issue.”

“I’d win.” It isn’t a guarantee, of course, but a high chance. The spread on the table is in Felix’s favor if he sinks this shot.

Sylvain shrugs and stands. “Fine by me,” he says. Sylvain walks around the table, running his hand along the wooden rail smoothly. Felix tracks the movement. Then Sylvain’s behind him, leaning close.

“Alright then,” he says right next to his ear. “Mind if I guide you?”

Felix nods minutely, words stuck in his throat because he lacks any conviction to say no. Sylvain reaches around him and takes the cue, carefully arranging Felix’s arms. “Loose form,” he says. “Lift your elbow just a bit, yeah, like that.”

Sylvain’s hand isn’t just warm, it practically burns through the sleeve of Felix’s shirt. “From this angle, you want the cue ball to kick left, so you’ve got to put your spin here.” Sylvain slots himself even closer, his pelvis flush with Felix’s ass. One hand on his waist, holding him there gently as he reaches even further to point to the cue ball.

The only thing that Felix can focus on Sylvain’s crotch and-- “Are you seriously hard right now?”

Sylvain freezes but he doesn’t move. “Can you blame me?” he asks simply. Like there’s nothing to it, like it’s completely normal. He doesn’t make any further movements to manhandle Felix, he just stands there nonchalantly as Felix’s gut twists at the thought of it.

Definitely not how this game is supposed to go.

“Yes,” says Felix, “I can absolutely blame you.”

A pause. Sylvain’s mouth is very close to his cheek, Felix can feel the gentle puffing of his breath against it. “Do you want me to move?” asks Sylvain, sincerely.

“No.” Felix’s answer is barely above a whisper and comes far too quickly. Sylvain’s breath hitches slightly as he shifts his stance just barely, his hardness more evident than ever before. “But at least help me finish the shot.”

“Felix--”

“You never give away your tricks,” cuts in Felix. “I’m not letting this opportunity go.”

Sylvain laughs mirthlessly but complies, guiding Felix’s cue to the proper position. “Tap it here, on the right. Not too hard, just enough to kiss it.” Felix swallows, trying not to think of the insinuating verbiage. He doesn’t want to kiss the ball, he wants to kiss Sylvain instead.

Sylvain pulls back but doesn’t move away entirely, still holding onto his waist. Felix sinks the shot and the cue ball kicks back just as it should.

Time slows, the both of them hesitating. Sylvain makes the first move. He doesn’t give Felix the chance to lean into another shot, turning him around and pressing him against the edge of the pool table.

Felix lets him, but says-- very weakly-- “We’ve got a game to finish.” He still has a cue in one hand as the other reaches up and latches onto the tie hanging loosely around Sylvain’s neck, tugging at it slightly. Teasingly, if he were the sort to tease.

Sylvain certainly takes it that way, reaching up to grip Felix’s chin lightly. “The only game I was playing wasn’t pool,” he says, thinking he’s smooth.

“I’m aware,” says Felix. “Noticed it the moment that you undid your shirt. How annoying.”

“But it worked, didn’t it?”

It certainly didn’t help, thinks Felix, but he’d been gone long before that. Before this night, weeks and months ago. He was gone the night Sylvain walked right back into his life.

“I’m tired of pretending,” says Felix. “Of ignoring it.” Because he is. Tired of being the last to leave work because he knows he’ll go home with Sylvain if he isn’t. Of watching from afar, itching to touch but resigning himself to stay on the other side of the room. Of Ingrid’s eye-rolling and suggestive hand gestures. It’s exhausting.

“So don’t,” says Sylvain.

Felix pulls him down and Sylvain meets his mouth eagerly. Felix is risking the balance of the pool table for this, leaning onto it fully as Sylvain presses in close, slipping a thigh between Felix’s legs.

Kissing Sylvain is like riding a bike; Felix remembers exactly how to do it. What Sylvain likes and the amount of pressure. The way their mouths slot together like it’s meant to be. Sylvain moans against his mouth, just a soft breathy sound like he can’t believe this is happening.

Maybe he can’t. Felix isn’t the type to reciprocate and he’s been fighting this for months. Not that Sylvain hasn’t tried his best to unruffle him, to get him to fall back into the ease of it.

Felix finally gives in, tumbling down that darkly lit corridor to chase that tell-tale fire that stokes slowly in his gut.

Sylvain’s lips are soft against his and he holds him too tenderly. Felix responds by yanking at the tie again and nipping at his mouth. Sylvain opens it in surprise and Felix’s tongue finds his, seeking out that wet warmth and comfort.

The sound that Sylvain makes is enough to fill Felix’s cock halfway.

They part to breathe and Felix knows he looks a mess. Flushed and breathing heavily in the hot and humid pool hall. Half-sprawled across one of his carefully balanced tables. He can’t find much care in it, his brain muddled by the sharp press of Sylvain’s body against his own.

“Shit, Felix.” Sylvain runs a thumb across the high arch of Felix’s cheekbone. Just looking at him as it slides across the seam of his mouth. Felix nips at the digit in response.

Their next kiss is a little slower, driven by Sylvain’s persistence to take his time. Felix is impatient but lets him lead, relishing in the softness of his lips. Sylvain slides a hand down his front and pulls his shirt from his pants. His fingers are cold against Felix’s skin despite the heat of the room, splaying smoothly across the planes of his stomach.

But he hesitates, nails just barely scratching at the top of Felix’s waistband.

“Touch me, you imbecile,” says Felix, demanding and needy, kicking his hips closer to drive home his point.

“Right,” says Sylvain against Felix’s lips. “Yes, okay.” He sounds even needier, something that Felix takes great pride in. Sylvain’s stopped kissing him, nose pressed into the nape of Felix’s neck instead, resting there. No doubt savoring the moment or whatever other romantic bullshit that Sylvain thinks when lost in the moment.

Felix’s only complaint is that he isn’t moving fast enough. “Sylvain,” he warns, “I’m this close to shoving you off and taking care of myself in the office.” Not his favorite option and not nearly as fun.

Sylvain pulls back, one hand gripping Felix’s chin. “You wouldn’t,” he says.

“Try me,” says Felix defiantly. Because he definitely would and Sylvain knows it.

And the way that Sylvain looks at him in response, how his gaze smolders as he smirks knowingly, makes Felix want to drown in the heat of it.

Sylvain surprises him by dropping to his knees against the hard ground, grasping Felix by the hips. Nuzzles at Felix’s crotch, where he tents his trousers. Felix lets out a soft moan, fingers finding Sylvain’s hair, scratching at his scalp.

They’d shared kisses in the past and rutted against each other fully clothed. Fevered hands grabbing at each other over rough cotton in dark corners as they roughly jerked off.

Sylvain’s hand is soft as he drags it over the front of Felix’s trousers, the touch somehow still familiar. Then he grips a little firmer, cupping him properly.

“Sylvain--”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Sylvain, fingers already pulling at his zipper instead. “Impatient as always. Just like old times.” Even with Felix egging him on, Sylvain is unbearably slow when it comes to undressing him. “I’m savoring it,” he says when Felix grunts in frustration. “You only get one first time with another.”

Felix can’t dispute that. Still. Felix moves, shimmying his trousers past his ass, letting them drop to the ground.

“That’s one way to do it, I suppose,” says Sylvain with a chuckle. Then Felix’s briefs quickly follow and he stops laughing. Sylvain’s mouth falls open as he stares, hands gripping Felix’s thighs tightly. “Felix,” he croaks, looking at him like he’s a man starving, fingers itching to touch. And do more.

Felix isn’t an angel. There’ve been others. But this is Sylvain, and Felix has never been like this with him, never given him that much.

He would’ve but it never panned out.

Sylvain leans in close, pressing a kiss at the juncture where Felix’s groin meets his thigh. Then to the base of Felix’s cock, his lips lingering there. Felix takes a deep breath, his eyes slipping closed at the sensation.

Then Sylvain swallows him down, his mouth hot and wet around his length.

“Fuck,” says Felix, fingers tightening their grip on Sylvain’s hair. “Fuck.”

Sylvain moans around him as he bobs up and down his cock, tongue flat along the underside of him. Then on the upstroke, Sylvain’s tongue curls around the tip and his hand finds the part of Felix’s cock that isn’t buried in his mouth.

Felix wasn’t expecting this and he tells him as such. “You’re the kind that takes what he wants,” says Felix in a light-hearted jab. Even if this had gone another way, he wouldn’t have complained.

Sylvain pulls off to retort. “Oh, darling,” he says, pressing a sweet little kiss to the crown of his cock, “I never do anything that I don’t want to. And this? I’ve wanted to do this for years.”

“Insufferable bastard,” says Felix, but the insult dissolves into a blissed-out moan when Sylvain’s mouth finds him again, this time sucking around him properly. Felix can’t get enough of it, the tight and wet heat that engulfs his cock. The way that Sylvain works him like he’s trained his entire life for this.

Felix likes to think he has.

Sylvain’s hand moves to cup his balls, rolling them softly in the palm of his hand, and Felix nearly pulls Sylvain’s hair right from his head. He can feel the way that he smiles around his cock, the way that his laugh rumbles up from his throat. How it caresses his dick.

Felix shoves Sylvain’s face off none-too gently, his chest heaving as he tries his best not to come right then.

“Oh,” says Sylvain in surprise. Then his face melts into something amused. “Oh--”

“Shut it,” cuts in Felix. “I’m losing my patience and I didn’t want to finish in your mouth.”

“But what if I wanted you to?”

Felix blinks, the words barely registering. “What?”

“What if I wanted you to come in my mouth?” Sylvain looks up at him, eyes half-lidded and hazy with want. “What if I wanted to swallow it down?” It’s sinful, the earnest way that he says it. The way that Sylvain still cups his balls in one hand and drags lazy circles across Felix’s thigh with the other. Eagerly waiting.

Felix swallows thickly, thinking about the debauched image that fills his mind. Then he guides Sylvain back to his cock, his hands on either side of his face, thumbing at his cheekbones. Sylvain happily accepts it, tongue out and waiting before slotting his mouth around Felix’s length once more.

And he keeps going until the tip of Felix’s cock hits the back of his throat, and Sylvain’s nose is near the coarse hair at his pubic bone.

Felix is going to die, he’s pretty sure of it. Not a bad way to go, all things considered. One hand moves to grab at Sylvain’s hair tightly, the other still cupping his jaw. Sylvain’s efficient in the way that he moves, sliding up and down, tonguing expertly around him. The pressure as he sucks and laps at his cock.

“I’m--” Felix tries to warn that he won’t last much longer. “Sylvain, I’m--”

Sylvain doubles his efforts, letting go of his balls to press his fingers a little further back. Against the smooth skin there, massaging at it gently. Felix curses and spills into his mouth, doing his best to not buck against him. The tightly coiled tension has snapped and Felix does his best to come down from the high of it, but he’s nothing but a puddled mess, leaning back against the pool table. His legs shake like jelly.

When Sylvain pulls off him, he looks triumphant, swallowing Felix’s spend like it’s an expensive delicacy. Which is almost worse, the fucked-out look of it. Seeing Sylvain like this, on his knees before him, lips swollen and face ruddy in the aftermath of spectacularly sucking him off.

It’s almost enough to get Felix going again.

Felix tugs at Sylvain’s tie and he stands, leaning over him again, slotted between Felix’s open legs. Felix doesn’t care where his mouth’s been, he pulls Sylvain in for a kiss. Tastes himself as Sylvain deepens it, licking into Felix’s mouth.

Sylvain’s cock is fully hard and digging into his thigh.

“You’re wearing too much,” says Felix when he breaks the kiss.

“Going to return the favor?” asks Sylvain, his hands braced against the table rails on either side of Felix.

“No,” says Felix. “Not this time. You took too long, indulging as you did.”

“You weren’t complaining about it.”

“And I won’t.” Felix knows he’s being cheeky but Sylvain loves it, the way that he teases. Felix presses a hand to the open collar of his shirt where it’s undone, fingering Sylvain’s collarbone there.

“Irritating,” he continues. “How good you look when you show off your skin.”

“Only for you, babe,” says Sylvain.

Felix scoffs. “That, I doubt.”

Sylvain’s expression changes, softening. “No, really,” he says. “Not in a long time.” It isn’t a lie; judging by the subtle change in his demeanor, Sylvain’s sharing a rare moment of truth.

Felix stares at him for a long moment, and Sylvain stares right back. Then, Felix’s hand shifts down to Sylvain’s vest. “So, no one else has peeled this off you in a while, then.” He toys casually with a button.

“That’d be right.”

“That must’ve been annoying.” Felix undoes one button and then the rest, and Sylvain shucks the vest off faster than Felix can finish his sentence. “Knowing you.”

“I managed,” says Sylvain.

Felix hums as his hand curls into the front of Sylvain’s shirt, pulling him closer. “Must’ve put your hand through the wringer,” taunts Felix. He unbuttons the rest, pulling it from Sylvain’s trousers. Sylvain’s always looked good, but he’s downright unfair now with his trim waist and just-enough-muscle.

“A downright nightmare,” says Sylvain with a chuckle. “Damn near sprained the thing.” Then he leans close, his mouth near Felix’s ear as he whispers, “Last few months especially, with all the thinking I’ve done about you.”

Those are the words that do him in. Felix’s hands drop to Sylvain’s waist, pulling at his trouser band. His hands are steadier than expected he when unzips them. Not so much when he slips his hand in, caressing Sylvain’s cock through his underwear.

The moan Felix gets in response can set him on fire.

“You’re cruel,” says Sylvain through a punched breath.

“Not as much as you with how slow you’re being. Are you going to fuck me or not?”

Sylvain has two modes. The first is the saccharine one where he whispers sweet nothings in your ear, his voice smooth as silk. The kind that makes women swoon at romantic, chivalrous ideas, toes curling in their shoes.

This is the second; the searing hot one where his smile is a devilish smirk, and everything that he whispers against Felix’s ear is dirty and salacious. “Is that what you want?” asks Sylvain, before pressing a kiss just below Felix’s chin. “Goddess knows it’s what I want, you underneath me all hot and bothered.”

Sylvain’s intoxicating in the way that he leans close to him, and the weight of his hard cock pressed against Felix’s thigh.

“You’re all talk,” says Felix, rubbing a thumb across the front of Sylvain’s briefs, relishing in the wet dampness there. The way that his cock tents against the soft cotton there, twitching slightly under Felix’s grasp.

Were he more a patient man, he’d suck Sylvain off. But Felix isn’t, so he’ll save it for another time.

“You wound me, Felix,” says Sylvain, eyes shutting as he bites at his lip.

“Certainly no action,” says Felix, fingers tugging at the waistband of his briefs, letting it snap back into place.

Sylvain groans. “Have you forgotten so quickly? How I was on my knees before you just moments ago?”

Felix’s hands still as he thinks about it. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget such a sight,” he says.

And he won’t. It’ll haunt his dreams for decades to come. Even now, Sylvain looks so delectable; his face flushed, his shirt is open in the front and showing off his pecs, and his sleeves rolled up to the arm garters, revealing perfectly toned forearms.

Felix said it before, how irritating it is; how he can’t help but stare, to drink up and memorize it so he’ll never forget. Maybe he won’t have to. Maybe this’ll be the start of something new and a little more permanent. He won’t hold his breath.

Sylvain’s unpredictable at best and despite his earlier promise that there hasn’t been anyone else, for years, it’s always been the flavor of the week when it came to his interests.

“I’m waiting,” says Felix, tugging at Sylvain’s briefs again.

“Okay,” breathes Sylvain, kicking off his pants entirely. His briefs land in a messy pile on the floor beside them. His hand finds Felix’s hip, squeezing it gently as he looks down. Felix feels the heat of his gaze deep in his gut, his cock already twitching again.

Sylvain smirks as he sees it, hand sliding over Felix’s front and then down, his fingers nestling into the hair at the base of his dick. “Gorgeous,” says Sylvain, before leaning forward and pressing a kiss to Felix’s neck. “But you know that.”

“Yes,” says Felix. Then pauses, huffing. “Still waiting.”

Sylvain licks a stripe up the side of his neck, then says, “Lube?”

At least he’s considerate. Felix is too impatient to even think about something like that at the moment. “What, none on you? What’s happened to your stellar reputation?” As a player who was always ready. Felix is going to tease him about it until the end of time.

“Wasn’t expecting this to happen,” says Sylvain, looking around the room.

“You practically orchestrated this.”

“Trying to seduce you isn’t the same as actually doing it.” Sylvain’s got a point there. Felix is notoriously prickly. He’d managed to ignore it the best he could for months. Until he couldn’t anymore. Sylvain’s gaze settles on something at the far end of the room. “Jackpot,” he says, pulling away from Felix.

Felix watches his backside with a burning gaze, eyes honed in Sylvain’s perfect ass. Sylvain digs through his cue stick bag before pulling out a bottle. Then, Felix narrows his eyes. “Is that your cue stick oil?”

“What?” asks Sylvain, looking incredibly dumb as he stands there mostly naked and confused. “It’ll work.”

“Sylvain, I’m not--”

“It’s linseed oil,” cuts in Sylvain, “and it’s very good for--” Felix bursts into laughter and Sylvain stops dead. “What now?”

Of all the things they can argue about, it’s what they’re going to use as lube. Not their sordid past, or the awkward shit between them, or hell, why Sylvain even left in the first place. But lube.

Sylvain crosses the room in record time. “I’ve broken you,” he murmurs.

Felix clears his throat and says, “Not yet.” He leans back onto the table and spreads his legs, and Sylvain’s gaze drops right to where Felix wants it. Sylvain’s throat bobs as he swallows. “But I expect you to ruin me entirely.”

“Shit,” says Sylvain, a soft little curse as he looks skyward. “I can do that.” His hands find Felix again, squeezing at his hips, running along his sides, pressing close enough that it’s hard to tell where Felix ends and Sylvain begins.

“I mean it,” says Felix. He’s never been one for dirty talk, but with Sylvain, it feels natural. He reaches out to grab the loose tie that still hangs limply around Sylvain’s neck. Felix’s other hand dips into the open shirt, smoothing over a pec. He thumbs at Sylvain’s nipple and gets a low moan in return. “Make it impossible for me to forget.

Sylvain will, Felix knows it. Can already tell by the way that Sylvain whimpers softly against his neck when Felix’s hand drops to grab his cock. Felix’s fingers finally circle around him after such a long wait. He’s hard and wanting in Felix’s hand, already wet at the tip.

“Turn around,” says Sylvain when he regains his senses. Felix responds by sliding his hand up and down instead. “Felix, move--” Felix palms the crown of Sylvain’s dick and he chokes out a sound that Felix would give his first child to hear again.

Sylvain turns him around and presses Felix’s chest down against the felt of the table. “We’re going to fuck up the table,” says Felix, teasing. He doesn’t give a shit about the table anymore, the only thing that matters is Sylvain’s hands on his ass, settling him into a more preferable position.

“Not as fucked as you will be,” says Sylvain, leaning over and whispering into his ear. “Thoroughly and extensively. Within an inch of your life.”

Terrible, terrible lines that absolutely work on Felix. “Do your worst, then,” says Felix, goading him.

Sylvain smiles against the side of Felix’s neck. Felix can imagine it, the way that Sylvain’s lips are curled dangerously. Sylvain presses a soft kiss against the skin there, directly contradictory to the way that his hands slide across his ass, massaging it gently.

“Is that a challenge?” asks Sylvain.

Felix scoffs. “Everything’s a game with you, isn’t it?”

“Not this.” Sylvain’s voice is quiet as he bites at the back of Felix’s neck. “Never this.”

Felix loves it, the way that Sylvain sprinkles in romantic shit as he touches him. “Is that a promise?”

“Yes,” says Sylvain immediately. Sincerely. Like he’s holding the world in his fingertips. One hand slides around Felix’s front, tweaking a nipple through his shirt that’s stubbornly remained on.

Felix hates how much he craves this kind of attention, those soft-spoken words of attention that he’s longed to hear, even when he was pushing them away. In the end, he’s never been able to say no to Sylvain, even if he tries. He’ll always come back.

Still, Sylvain’s insufferably slow at this, taking his damn time. Fingers skimming across Felix’s skin as he relishes the way he’s pressed into the pool table underneath him. “You’re playing lemonade,” says Felix. Stalling everything intentionally, slowing the pace of the game to a crawl. “Get on with it.”

“Yes, yes,” says Sylvain, pulling back. He spreads Felix’s ass cheeks and stares. Felix squirms under the touch, kicking his hips, trying to get the game on the road.

Sylvain slicks his fingers with the accursed cue stick oil and presses one against him. Felix’s breath hitches in anticipation, huffing slightly as Sylvain carefully circles around his entrance. When he slips the finger in, Felix moans so loudly that it’s embarrassing, practically echoing in the empty pool hall.

“Dammit, Felix,” murmurs Sylvain, working his finger in gently, pressing around inside. “Your--”

“So it’s been a while,” Felix bites out. “Fuck off.”

“No, that’s not--” Sylvain pauses, biting at his lip. “Goddess, I can’t wait to just--”

“Faster then, you idiot. I won’t break.”

Felix knows that Sylvain will still be careful, though, treating him like he’s something precious. Sylvain keeps it slower than Felix prefers, pressing in and out leisurely as he tugs slightly at his rim. Then a second finger joins the first. Felix loves the stinging pressure and the way that it makes him feel alive. It sets his blood on fire as it starts to boil, the pressure mounting deep in his gut.

Felix is hard again, cock twitching as it hangs below them.

Sylvain’s fingers move a little faster, setting a prickling pace. The way that he slips them in, the way he spreads them wide to lovingly stretch him-- Felix thrusts back against Sylvain’s hand, trying to speed up the process.

A third finger is added, Sylvain perfectly attuned to the wants and needs of Felix. Felix moans again, bites at his lip, grips tightly at the table rails below him. Sylvain’s good at what he does, prepping him so nicely.

Then his fingers stroke across his prostrate and Felix tightens up.

“Bull’s eye,” says Sylvain triumphantly.

Felix huffs, trying to seem indifferent. “Took you long enough,” he says, but his voice pitches high, crying out wantonly as Sylvain caresses him there relentlessly.

“Not yet,” says Sylvain. He slows his fingers but he doesn’t stop, moving them slowly as Felix does his best to not buck against his hand. “Don’t come until I’m inside you properly.”

“Give me some credit. It’s going to take more than your half-assed efforts.”

Sylvain’s fingers halt. Then he pulls them out entirely, leaving Felix suddenly bereft, his hole clenching around nothing.

“Half-assed,” repeats Sylvain, opening the bottle of oil once again. Felix looks back, watching as he pours it over his cock. He’s delicious looking, long and hard as Sylvain spreads the oil around with his hand. Then he’s spreading Felix’s ass again, thumbing at his loosened hole, watching with a dark and heated gaze. “I thought we weren’t playing games?”

“That was before you decided to take too long. I think I’ve already threatened you about that.”

Sylvain laughs before pulling Felix’s hips back. He nudges Felix’s entrance with the tip of his cock. “Ready?”

“A decade ago,” says Felix. It’s a double meaning, they both know it. They’ve wanted to indulge in this for far too long which is why Felix is so tired of waiting. He has to commend Sylvain on his valiant show of constraint because if it were Felix in his position, he’d have already lost.

Sylvain slides in like it’s second nature. He fills Felix up like he’s always belonged there. And maybe he has, maybe this is what Felix has been missing for so long. The heat and pleasure of what’s probably the world’s most perfect cock.

The man attached to it isn’t so bad either.

“Fuck,” says Sylvain, leaning forward once he’s fully seated, pressing his brow into the back of Felix’s neck. Waiting. Trying to ground himself. His fingers grip Felix by the hips, nearly bruising as he hangs on.

“You aren’t yet.” Felix can’t help the banter and Sylvain chuckles. Presses a kiss to his neck and then moves.

The slide of his cock is smooth. Sylvain’s lazy in the way that his length drags through Felix, a carefully maintained pace that’s just gentle enough. The kind of pace that’s wholly satisfying but not nearly enough.

It’s Felix’s turn to curse; filthy words, Sylvain’s name, anything that he can remember at the moment. He presses back, meeting Sylvain’s thrusts eagerly.

“Are you going to come like a clean shot?” asks Sylvain, his lips finding his ear, tongue licking around the shell of it. “Without me touching you? Like you’ve sunk the nine-ball without any interference.”

Felix should hate the ridiculous pool analogy on principle. He doesn’t, tightening up in response to the jargon. Felix moans at the words, biting at his lip and Sylvain smirks like he’s just won a new pot of money. Felix feels so satisfyingly full. Sylvain’s cock hits in all the right places as he moves over him. In and out. Pulls at his rim with stinging satisfaction.

Sylvain lifts Felix’s leg slightly, the angle changes and suddenly, Felix is seeing stars. Blinding white pleasure now that Sylvain’s cock has direct access to his prostate. Felix is mostly sprawled across the table now, his cock pressed into the soft felt of the table. Dribbling precome pathetically all over it.

“The table’s wet,” whispers Sylvain naughtily into his ear, his breath warm and intoxicating. Felix knows he doesn’t mean the humidity of the room and how it can fuck up a game. Sylvain reaches around to grab Felix’s cock, hand sliding along the length in time as he thrusts into him. “Felix, look at the mess you’ve made.”

“More,” says Felix, needily. He barely recognizes his own voice, too busy chasing the high that’s coursing through him. He can only focus on the thrust of Sylvain’s hips and the way that he fills him so perfectly, setting his nerves alight with every touch.

Sylvain delivers, pressing in as deep as he can go. He’s got a slick grip on Felix’s cock, fingers curled around it loosely as he jerks him. Sylvain bites at the meat of Felix’s shoulder, marking him up, and Felix moans, craving it.

“Felix, fuck.” Sylvain sounds so gone, his hips dragging against Felix in stuttering motions. He’s close, Felix can tell. And Felix is close too, the heat in his groin tightening more and more with every touch of Sylvain’s hand over his dick.

“Inside,” says Felix.

Sylvain pauses. “What?”

“I said to come inside me, you bonehead, not to stop. As in--”

“Yeah, yeah,” murmurs Sylvain. “Shit, Felix. You’ve got a way with words don’t you?” Then he lets go of his cock, leaving Felix feeling stripped of pleasure and entirely on edge. “Think you can do it? Come from just my cock?”

Felix can and he will, wholly determined. It’s perfect, Sylvain’s perfect; from the heat of his length, to the way that drags at him-- Felix can’t think of coming any other way. “Yes,” he says, his voice cracking like the word’s been punched straight from his gut. “Yes.”

Sylvain leans back, fingers digging into the meat of Felix’s waist. He doesn’t speed up, but he thrusts in hard and deep, sweeping strokes that aim to finish this off quickly.

“Look at you,” says Sylvain, “Taking me so well. Always knew that you would.” He spreads Felix’s cheeks, watching as his cock slips in, watching the way that Felix’s rim is stretched around him. Felix can imagine that satisfied smirk on his face, the kind that he gets when he’s won a pot.

Felix is the first to come, his cock just barely touching the felt of the table as Sylvain ruts into him. He tips over the edge, crying out Sylvain’s name and a litany of curses. None of them bad, all of them deserved. He feels rung out and limbless, legs shaking as he collapses onto the table.

Sylvain’s right behind, thrusting in only a few more times because he comes deep, filling him up. The resulting sound is downright sinful, Sylvain’s moan the kind of thing that Felix dreams about every night.

Even his dreams can’t compare. Sylvain lives up to the hype, thinks Felix as he breathes heavily, awkwardly folded against the pool table. His only regret is that he’d been facing away, that he wasn’t able to see Sylvain’s face in the throes of his orgasm.

Next time.

Sylvain’s careful when he pulls out. He’s gone for only a moment before he’s back with his polishing towel, splashed with lukewarm water from the tap. He cleans Felix up with a soft touch, pausing to look at his work. Felix can feel his spend leaking out of him. Moans when Sylvain presses it back in, his thumb lolling around his hole with smug satisfaction.

“Was it an adequate ruining?” he asks Felix.

Felix shoots him a rude gesture back, too tired to say anything else. Sylvain only chuckles, finishes wiping him up, and then leans in close for a sweet kiss against Felix’s sweaty head.

“For the record, I think you ruined me more,” says Sylvain. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget that.”

Felix won’t either. After a few minutes, he finds the strength to move, pulling back from the table. Then he sees the absolute mess he’s made all over the felt. Felix pinches the bridge of his nose, hissing at the idea of it.

Sylvain looks over his shoulder, wincing. “That’s, uh--”

“It’s ruined,” says Felix. “I’ll have to get it re-felted.” It’s his fault, though, not Sylvain’s. Not entirely at least. Felix was so gone he didn’t even think about it, lost entirely in their passion. Felix sees Sylvain’s expression and he reaches out, grabbing him by the shirt sleeve. “It isn’t a big deal.”

Sylvain’s flushed and sweaty, his cheeks pink and his hair mussed. Looks like he ran a marathon. Might as well have; Felix put him through the wringer. But then Sylvain smiles like he’s found the meaning of life, a wide grin that makes Felix’s heart stutter.

Felix leans back against the edge of the pool table gingerly and pulls Sylvain close. Sylvain follows, his hands immediately finding purchase on his waist. “Does this mean I’m not kicked out?” asks Sylvain quietly.

“You do bring me a lot of business,” says Felix.

“Oh, so this is all business then?”

Felix is quiet for a moment, fiddling with Sylvain’s collar. “No, it isn’t all business. It’s definitely something more.”

Sylvain cups his cheek, looking at him seriously. Felix pulls him down for a kiss, the kind where lips linger because you want them to. He doesn’t want to forget the way that Sylvain tastes.

When they part, they clean up. Felix limps about slightly, resulting in more raunchy innuendo from Sylvain. He’s never going to hear the end of it.

But Felix doesn’t want to, smiling softly when Sylvain isn’t looking.

They leave the pool hall tired and satisfied, fingers melded together as they walk hand-in-hand. Sylvain stays the night at Felix’s shitty apartment and it’s surprisingly chaste; they fall asleep fully clothed, shoved into a too-small bed, and wrapped around each other.

The next night at the pool hall is the same old bullshit.

Sylvain’s hustling Felix’s customers, stripping them of their money by winning pot after pot. Felix stands against the wall not far off, arms crossed over his chest as he watches. His expression is disgusted as usual. But his demeanor is entirely soft.

Ingrid notices. “Something happened,” she says.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” says Felix, obstinate as ever.

Ingrid levels him with a look. “You and Sylvain. Spill.”

“We played a few games last night.”

“Did you win?”

Ingrid sits on the edge of the doomed pool table. It’s covered that night and entirely off-limits. Felix isn’t sure that he’ll ever be able to look at it again, his face burning red at the mere thought of what he and Sylvain did there.

“You--” Ingrid’s mouth falls open. Then her gaze drops to the table which usually isn’t out of commission. “No,” she says. She jumps off it. “ No.”

Felix doesn’t confirm nor deny it, just sips at his well-deserved alcohol as he looks back at Sylvain. He’s dashing as ever, despite the shitty lighting, sleeves rolled up to show off his forearms. He isn’t wearing a vest this time and the collar’s undone, showing off what Felix would consider his biggest fucking weakness.

He swallows thickly and Ingrid makes a disgusted noise.

“I mean, about fucking time,” she says, “But really, Felix? Here?”

“It wasn’t planned,” he says truthfully.

Silence stretches between the two of them, relatively comfortable. Sylvain wins another pot, leaving behind an angry victim. Looks like someone’s about to go fisticuffs.

“You should go stop whatever that is,” says Ingrid.

“Yeah,” murmurs Felix, pushing away from the wall.

Back to normal, thinks Felix as he tries to talk the scorned gentleman down from punching Sylvain right across the face. Except that it isn’t. Things have shifted entirely, almost like they’ve both gone back in time, and moved forward. The start of something fresh and new.

Felix can think of worse things.

#sylvain/felix #felix/sylvain #felix x sylvain #felix hugo fraldarius #fe3h #sylvain jose gautier #fe3h fanfiction

2 notes · View notes

ourdawncomes · 3 years

Note

4, 9, 16, 25, 44, 49, 50

4. What are their views of the Chantry?

Despite Thora’s status as an Andrastian, and a fairly devout one at that, her perspective of the Chantry is still that of an outsider. Not as much as an outsider as a Dalish elf or a born follower of the Qun, but an outsider nonetheless. Like elves and qunari, dwarves are not included in Chantry customs or lore, not even being referenced in the Chant of Light itself. Thora herself grew up never attending Chantry services in-person, instead listening to the Chanters on street corners and worshipping in private, it isn’t until Inquisition she attends them and by that point her own way of keeping the faith is such habit.

Her view of the Chantry is that it lost its way. At the beginning of Inquisition she thinks it’s more recent, that at some point in near history the Circles turned against what they had been founded for and that the Chantry has become something meant to maintain power than spread charity and hope. Through the game she begins to realise it lost its way a long time ago, when the first Circle was built or when the second Exalted March was declared.

She isn’t in favour of dismantling it entirely, but would approve of and advocate for a reduction in the Chantry’s political power and a complete disbanding of its military. Even when she approves of the politics of Divine as is the case with Leliana the fact that one person can have that much power means that if the next person comes along and feels differently, everything’s undone. Similar to the reasons that she disbands the Inquisition, something as unaccountable as the Chantry can’t really be allowed to persist as it is.

9. Did they have Bull sacrifice the Chargers or the Dreadnought?

Thora almost doesn’t go. Had the Qun not offered forward the opportunity to strike a blow against the Venatori, she probably wouldn’t have, feeling any alliance with the qunari would inevitably cut both ways. Unsurprisingly, she chooses to save the Chagers, although it’s not an easy decision. If I can like stand on my soapbox for a second, I find this being one of the decisions that people will judge you for choosing the opposite missing the part where a boatful of people die if you sacrifice the Dreadnought. Now, sacrificing the Chargers also kills what’s likely a similar number, it’s implied the Chargers are a larger company than the half dozen we meet in-game, but my point is that your Inquisitor probably shouldn’t come away from that quest feeling good.

Thora doesn’t. She is sorry for the lives lost and the people who will mourn them back home, but ultimately felt that when the lives of civilians aren’t on the line her people take precedence. On a cold, practical note, she completes this quest sometime prior to What Pride Had Wrought, and that kind of blow to morale that close to a battle would bode poorly. But she can’t call what she did the “right” decision, because there wasn’t one.

16. How do they react to the corruption of the Wardens? Why?

It’s upsetting. Thora’s default Warden is Joly’s Aeducan, Tamar, who apart from being a shining example of what a good Warden can be is also a Paragon. That not all Wardens live up to the example set by her and later Blackwall (who she fully believed was a Warden) was a massive letdown to say the least. She had considered becoming one herself after the Blight, only deciding against it because she didn’t want to be unable to see her family. She’s glad she didn’t, now.

25. What makes them lose trust in someone?

When you take Blackwall and Solas into account deception alone apparently isn’t enough. I’ve explored it in fics, both lie about who they are but not how they feel, and in spite of that she still reflects upon the time she spent with them and feels she knows them both. Perhaps more than he cared to be known in Solas’ case. She can’t say neither deception hurt, but even when her faith in them wavers it doesn’t break.

Making and breaking commitments will cause her to lose trust. Tetrak and her always promised to watch one another’s backs, and him leaving shattered the relationship they had as brother and sister and salrokas. People who make promises they can’t, no, won’t keep will erode her trust faster than lying to her. The people in the Carta who lied to you were a dime a dozen, she lied about herself plenty, but if you kept your word you were golden. The people who promised the world and turned up with empty hands were the ones you had to watch out for.

44. How do they think their race plays into being Inquisitor?

She navigates a strange place in both being dwarven but not dwarven enough by the standards of the “traditional” dwarf. As a Carta dwarf she’s not recognised by the dwarven Surface “nobility” but as one put in a position of power her connection with the people she ran with isn’t as complete as it used to be. She wears armour that was fitted for her and not scavenged, she has coin, and while she builds up those connections again through Inquisition and after they contribute to her isolation during the early parts of the game. It’s important to note that it’s race and class that play into her role. Her experience would be very different if she were a dwarf of Varric’s status, for example.

And then, of course, to humans she’s a dwarf. Sometimes conveniently not dwarven enough to have her dual faiths respected (I’m not quite sure how Cassandra would react to Thora believing in the Stone and the Maker, but in-game if you choose to say you believe in the Stone Cassandra undercuts it with “but aren’t you a Surface dwarf” so), but then also too dwarven to be respected as a human might. Her skills must be in her abilities as a warrior and not a scholar, or as a thief and not a negotiator, even though Thora’s true shining moments as an Inquisitor come from her bookishness and striving for pacifism.

They try to fit her into boxes she’s too big for. They can’t be surprised when she climbs out of it.

49. What is their least favourite foe to fight?

Spirits and demons, of any sort. They’re the ones she has zero experience with, she’s fought Templars in Kirkwall, the Carta’s been seen to employ apostates so she’s fought mages, and she’s locked blades with the occasional Darkspawn in her time. When the Breach opened she’d never seen them before, they were nightmares in the Chant and nothing else.

It gets worse when Solas tells her they’re people, and worse again when she actually starts to believe him.

50. Are they proud of what they accomplished?

Yes and no. There are some decisions which will never sit right with her— Halamshiral, for example. She’s not sure what she could go and do different if she had the chance, and wonders if letting Briala continue her work from exile is better than if she could go back and secure her a position as ambassador or marquise, but it doesn’t stop her from regretting it. That quest is also the instance where she is reminded that her accomplishments are already being rewritten, the mages she allied with are now enemies she vanquished on the lips of the herald who announced her entrance.

Some things, like her alliance with the mages, she is genuinely proud of and the good it does alone is enough to make her think it was worth everything else. The Wardens look to be reevaluating their Order, and hopefully improving what wasn’t working (at least south of Weisshaupt).

She’s worried too much pride will make her complacent, especially because everything she accomplished she hardly did alone. It’s hard not to feel good when she’s walking through Skyhold and seeing the beginnings of what she hopes is a better Thedas starting within its walls.

#( long post )#ofrevas #( asks )#v; once more unto the breach ( thora | inquisitor )#become the storm you are hiding from ( thora | about )

1 note · View note

mackinmacki · 5 years

Text

Penalty Shot

Rating: K

Word Count: 1705

Summary: Ruby and Weiss go to a pee-wee soccer game to cheer on their daughter. Weiss is one of those parents.

Pairing: White Rose

Notes: This is for day eight of White Rose Week. Topic: Free.

Link: (FFN) | (AO3)

——————————————————————————————

It was a beautiful day for pee-wee soccer. The sun was shining, but not hot enough to risk any dehydration. There was hardly a cloud in the sky, and the ones that remained were all white and fluffy. The stands at the local athletic club field were filled with proud parents and a couple random, curious spectators. In the middle of the stands, cheering on their young daughter, were Ruby and Weiss. Yang, who was sitting right above the married couple, was cheering with them for her favorite niece. As for Blake, she had a prior commitment of not being there.

"Come on, Autumn!" Ruby clapped as their daughter kicked the ball down the field and hustled after it. She was one of a handful on the field who were actually trying to play the game. Some were doing the bare minimum that would keep them on the field, and several others were standing around completely lost. That was just how sports went when the kids were that young, and Ruby understood that. She'd been that young too, and she'd learned to encourage those kids who didn't really know what they were doing.

Weiss, on the other hand, had a slightly different take on the situation. Despite having never played a sport in her life, she was the one who trained their daughter the most for soccer. She'd spent a lot of time online learning the ins and outs of the game, all very important technical information that a seven year old finds eminently fascinating. In her mind, having a child who looked lost on the field was unacceptable, and she had to make sure that little Autumn was the best player on the field at all times. Ruby had tried to get her to ease off, but she might as well have told Blake to stop being moody.

At least she'd gotten Weiss to come to the games at all. She'd never shown any interest in athletics before, and she'd worried that Autumn wouldn't have both of her moms cheering her on at her games should she choose to start playing sports. Well, she did, but to Ruby's surprise, it hadn't been hard at all to get Weiss to go. She'd insisted on going, which had been great! At first. Now, she'd started to wonder if there was a way to keep Weiss away from the games. She was on her best behavior at the moment, but the game had only begun recently. It was only a matter of time...

"Ugh, come on! Ref!" Well, there she went. Ruby sighed and sunk low on the bench as Weiss jumped to her feet in anger. One of the opposing players had run into Autumn, but the referee hadn't blown his whistle. From a distance, Ruby could tell the poor guy was college-age and likely just wetting his feet in the profession. It was more for the experience than the money. And boy, was he about to get an experience... "Where's the whistle, ref?!"

To his credit, he didn't seem to have any reaction to Weiss's yelling. Maybe it made him more nervous, but it didn't necessarily show. He wouldn't have been the first referee to have a reaction to her wife's shrill screech. She just hoped - pleaded, really - that there wouldn't be any more mistakes involving her daughter, so there wouldn't be any more opportunities for the other parents to stare and judge them.

That was but a pipe dream. Another missed call had Weiss up and screaming again, but it wasn't only concerning the ref's incompetency. She was shouting about how the other team was engaging in crooked play. The dirty, 'anything to win' shenanigans of elementary schoolers. Ruby looked back at Yang, her eyes wide and desperate for help. Her sister was sitting there with her phone out, gleefully recording Weiss's latest 'angry soccer parent' outburst. She looked around at all the eyes on them, especially two pairs of narrowed stares that more than likely came from the parents of the child Weiss was accusing of foul play. Ruby laughed nervously before groaning and withdrawing as far into herself as she could. If she scooted far enough away, maybe nobody would know that they were there together.

Things were mostly calm through the rest of the game, which was as much of a relief as Ruby could get. As much as she wanted to enjoy the game, she had her concentration torn between watching their daughter and whispering to Weiss to try and keep her from embarrassing them in front of all the other parents. Sometimes she could be more childish than their literal seven year old. Not that she'd ever admit to that, of course. To her, vigorously berating the referee was just her way of keeping things honest. Honestly anxiety-inducing.

After the game was over, which ended up as a victory for Autumn's team, Ruby headed down to the field to congratulate her daughter. She hugged her tightly and told her what a good job she'd done. "That was a very good goal you made, sweetie!" She made sure Autumn drank some of her water, then looked up to find her wife. Usually Weiss was right down with her telling their daughter how good she'd done, as any proud parent would. She'd thought the victory would quell her anger, but by the way she was cornering the referee, it would appear that wasn't the case. "Oh dear... Please stay here, sweetie. Mommy will be right back."

"I cannot believe they allow you to referee games of this importance! Do you even have a license to do this? Let me see your refereeing license this instant!" Away from the game and the other parents, Weiss was dressing down the poor ref in no uncertain terms. By the time Ruby got over there, he looked positively terrified of this soccer mom who barely came up to his chin in heels. Ruby didn't blame him: most people's fight or flight mechanics were activated whenever Hurricane Schnee barreled down upon them.

"M-Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to step away, or I'll..." He stammered out what sounded like a threat, but it came across as more of a 'please spare my life' kind of deal. That was a clear sign of weakness, and the great Weiss shark could smell it in the water. She was going to pounce and destroy another referee if Ruby didn't intervene. This was not what she'd expected when she'd promised to stick by Weiss 'for better or worse'.

"Weiss, honey, light of my life..." She slipped behind Weiss and started massaging her shoulders, trying her damnedest to calm her down. From past experiences, she knew it only did so much, but it was the best she could think of outside of knocking her unconscious with a bat and dragging her home. "Our daughter wants to celebrate her team's victory, and she would really appreciate hearing about how good she did from you." Hopefully that would work...

"Alright then." Without missing a beat, Weiss turned around and headed for the bench, leaving both Ruby and the referee in shock. No matter how many times it worked, it was still surprising that just mentioning their kid could make Weiss's emotions change on a dime. Ruby wiped her brow with a sigh of relief, but her troubles weren't over yet. There was still damage control to be done.

"Hey man, uh... I'm sorry about my wife. She gets really... passionate, about soccer. I'm sure she didn't mean anything bad she said to you."

"Like how I got my refereeing degree at clown college?"

"Uhh, yeahhh..." Oh Weiss... "She really didn't mean it and I would really, really appreciate it if you didn't tell the club owners and get my wife banned from the grounds. Our daughter would be crushed if she couldn't come to see her games." She hated to pull out the kid card, but it was the best card she had in her hand to play. Weiss always left her in a tough spot when it came to keeping these venues from having signs put up saying 'Do not let this woman in'. With the way the referee was looking over at Weiss, who was now speaking with their daughter, she felt like it might be working.

"Alright, I won't say anything, but please keep her from yelling at me again. There's only so much I can take." His eyes darted over to Weiss again, a flicker of fear in them. Ruby sighed but smiled through it, thanking him before heading for her family. She wanted to take Weiss to the side and try again to convince her to mellow out, but she stopped when she heard her and their daughter talking.

"I'm proud of you, Autumn. You did so well today!" Weiss hugged Autumn, the love shining in her eyes having completely overtaken any anger she may have had previously. "You wiped the floor with the other team!"

"I did!" Autumn giggled and hugged Weiss back, melting Ruby's heart. How could she have a stern conversation with Weiss now after seeing those two being so loving and adorable together? Maybe she was doing it on purpose to get out of what was certainly to come, but darnit, it was working. "Can we have lunch, mom? I'm hungry!"

"Absolutely. Let's go find your mother and-" She turned and found Ruby staring at them, startling her. "Oh! Well, there she is." Holding Autumn's hand, she walked over to Ruby and smiled at her. "Our daughter would like to have lunch. Are you ready to go?" She looked at Weiss, then down to their equally-happy daughter, and she just couldn't bear to rain on their parade. Even if Weiss's parade was fueled by competitive anger and could use a rainout or two.

"Yes. Yes I am." She smiled and took Autumn's other hand, the three of them heading to the parking lot. The talk about Weiss's behavior could come later. For now, she was going to spend the rest of the day enjoying the good life with her two favorite people in the world. There was honestly nothing better than that.

#White Rose Week #RWBY #White Rose #Ruby Rose #Weiss Schnee #Yang Xiao Long #my writing

72 notes · View notes

lalka-laski · 3 years

Text

SEVEN DEADLY SINS Sin 1: Lust 1. Who was the last person you checked out? Did they check you out too? That'd be Glenn. And he didn't check me out at the same exact time (I was watching him undress) but he sure has his moments. 2. Who was the last person you desired, but they didn’t feel the same? I haven't desired anyone besides Glenn in several years so I can't remember. Maybe the random guy I went on one coffee date with & never heard from again. That feels like ancient history now. 3. Ever cheated on a significant other? If so, have you learned from it? I was a stupid freshman in college. I was literally drunk on booze and metaphorically drunk on all the freedom and available men surrounding me. I learned how much a single, selfish action can hurt another person. I'll never do it again because I'll never be THAT GIRL again. 4. Do you watch porn? Sometimes

5. Do you masturbate? Rarely. If I feel an insatiable urge I'll ask Glenn to come take care of me.

6. Best physical features on your preferred sex? Hands, shoulders, chest 7. Who are some celebrities that you think are totally hot? Idris Elba & Shakira are my top two 8. Did you ever lust after a best friend’s significant other? How did it turn out? Honestly I don't think so. Not to sound like nOt LiKe oThEr gIrLs but I've always had a unique taste in men that differed from most of my friends & peers 9. When was the last time you had sex? It's been a week-ish 10. Ever pursued someone, even though they were taken? Yes, regrettably

Sin 2: Gluttony 1. When did you last eat at a restaurant? What restaurant was it? A local burger joint last night 2. When did you last have fast food? Where did you get it? I guess last night's meal counts as fast food 3. What was the biggest meal you had all day? Today I've had nothing so far although I am about to dip into some pita & hummus in a bit 4. Do you have too many clothes? How often do you go shopping? I have way more clothes than I regularly wear. And I keep adding more and more to my closet with my shopping problem. 5. What’s something you have a LOT of? Coffee mugs, journals, David Bowie memorabilia 6. Do you eat a lot? Probably more than my body actually *needs*, yeah 7. What was the last thing you splurged (spent a lot of money) on? Two tops at the mall that were way outside my budget range. I ended up returning one of 'em though 8. What do you spend most of your money on (besides bills and anything necessary like that)? Clothes, takeout, booze 9. Last time you ate candy? What was it? It's been a little while because I've had a killer canker sore that limits my options. But I'm sure the last candy I had was some kind of sour gummy. I have 3 bags in my pantry as we speak... 10. Last thing you ate too much of? Too many mozz sticks last night Sin 3: Greed 1. Do you share things? How often? Actually, yes. I think because I'm the middle child in a house full of girls, I've accepted that nothing can be solely *mine*. This means that I'm great at sharing but terrible at drawing boundaries or expressing autonomy. 2. Someone asks you for a piece of your cookie. You break it in half, but the pieces aren’t equal. Who gets the bigger piece? It depends what kinda cookie we're talking about... 3. When you see change on the ground, do you pick it up? If it's a dime, yes. Because it's a message from my Grams :) And if it's a penny heads up also yes, for the luck! 4. How often do you lend money to people? Whenever I'm asked. Which isn't often but still 5. Do you loooove money? I mean yeah. And I sure would "looooove" to have more of it. 6. If someone offers to pay for you, do you decline or readily accept? I usually accept but will put up a polite fight. 7. Which of your friends is the wealthiest? That's a gross question 8. Would you take a high-paying job that you didn’t really like just for the money and benefits? There are a lot of other factors I'd have to consider 9. Ever stole from anyone? What about stole from a store? What happened? As a kid I stole from a store unintentionally 10. Do you ever have enough money? I guess in the strictest sense of the word. But I have very little wiggle room. Sin 4: Sloth 1. Last thing you procrastinated on? Dishes, most likely 2. When you’re at a strip mall and the next store you want to go to is at the other side, do you drive over there instead of take a short walk? Usually just walk unless it's snowing or frigid cold 3. What’s a typical day off of school and/or work like for you? They vary wildly but for the sake of this question I'll detail a day where I have no social plans. I'll sleep late then do a little reading while I sip my tea or coffee. Then I usually clean/organize/do whatever chores need doing. Next I'll take a luxurious shower (you know, the kind where you use all the products you don't have time for on a normal day?) And after that, it's anyone's guess. Maybe a walk, maybe more reading or some cooking. 4. What’s one talent you have that you don’t really work on, even though you have the ability to be good at it? Well, writing. I need to do more of it. I'm also pretty good at arts & crafts but I've never stuck with one medium long enough to really excel. 5. How many hours of television do you watch a day? At most 1-2. And that's only on nights I have a specific show to watch. 6. What about the amount of time you spend on the internet a day? Oh that number couldn't even be quantified... 7. How many hours of sleep do you get a day? Do you sleep in late? On worknights it's usually about 6 maybe 7? And on off days that number varies

like crazy. 8. Do you drive to places that are less than three blocks away? Well I don't drive at all, so 9. When was the last time you exercised? Does my walk to work this morning count? 10. Ever copied and pasted your homework from a website on the internet? Nah Sin 5: Wrath 1. If you could kill one person and get away with it, would you do it? Absolutely not 2. Is there anyone you honestly and truly can say that you hate? I don't know about that... 3. Is there anyone you want revenge on, whether you want to get them back big-time or just play a little prank on them for hurting your feelings? Again, I don't know 4. Are you fighting with any friends right now? Why? Nah, we're a bit too old to be playing those games. 5. Last time you were really angry? What happened? It's hard to explain... well, it's not really that hard. I just don't want to. 6. When you’re angry, what do you do to calm yourself down? I'm more of a shutdown and suffer in silence type of person. I try to write my feelings out in a journal too whenever I can 7. “Hate is just the fear of loving someone.” true or false? That makes zero sense 8. What’s the best revenge you ever got on someone? 9. Was there any hard feelings after your last break-up? On whose end was it on? Moreso on my end because he is devoid of feelings! 10. Ever been cheated on? How did that make you feel? Yes and it's one of the ickiest, most destructive feelings ever Sin 6: Envy 1. Is there anyone you’re jealous of? Name a person and tell us why. Pretty much every single person I've ever met 2. List three physical features some other people have that you’re envious of (no need to get specific and name people; you can just say something like “brown eyes” or “having perfect eyebrows”). Thin arms/narrow shoulders (really just a more slender frame in general), thick hair, slimmer calves 3. List three personality features that other people have that you’re envious of. Drive/ambition, self-control, common sense 4. Are you a jealous significant other? Yeah 5. Could you date someone who was really jealous? Not in a possessive or controlling way. But Glenn and I both have our jealousies when it comes to each other and our relationship. We can get a little protective. 6. What celebrity’s looks do you envy the most? That could be any number of women. I'm gonna go with Yvonne Strahovski though 7. Do you think anyone is envious of you? In your opinion, what characteristics (physical and mental) do you possess that you think someone might be envious of? I feel weird answering this 8. What are a few things you wish you were good at? I wish I just had more drive overall to pursue and build on my existing skills. I'd also love the ability to sing and play an instrument 9. Did you ever date someone, break up, and then see them dating someone very attractive a few days later? Were you jealous of that person? That's crazy specific and no. 10. When looking at a love interest’s exes, do you often find yourself jealous of their good-looking exes? I'm jealous of even the NON good-looking ones. It's a whole problem. Sin 7: Pride 1. What’s something you brag about a lot (be honest–we all brag sometimes)? I find myself bragging about how good Glenn is to me. At least it FEELS like bragging... 2. What physical features do you take the most pride in? My collarbones 3. Are you satisfied with what you have? Yes 4. Be honest… when someone is telling you something, do you often change the subject so it’s about you and your accomplishments instead? Oh no, and that's such a repulsive quality in people! 5. Do you like talking about your achievements? No, it makes me quite uncomfortable 6. Do your parents tend to brag about how well you came out? They don't "brag" about any of us. They're just not the type. Though they are very proud of our accomplishments and sing our praises when appropriate. 7. Do you strive to be better than others? Do you think competing with others is healthy? I'm not competitive in the least 8. What do you do better than most people? Making others feel

comfortable 9. Do you believe in taking pride in things you can’t control (ex. being proud of your heritage, being proud of your skin color, being proud of your natural artistic ability)? Certainly 10. Who are you competing with right now (it could be anything–classmates for a grade, co-workers for a position, other girl for a guy, etc.)? ......

0 notes

allenmendezsr · 4 years

Text

Deal Poker At Casino Standards & Make Money

New Post has been published on https://autotraffixpro.app/allenmendezsr/deal-poker-at-casino-standards-make-money/

Deal Poker At Casino Standards & Make Money

Buy Now

What about the economy? I know poker was hot when Chris Moneymaker won the World Series… but are people still playing cards today?

In short, yes.

Historically, gambling has always been extremely popular and people will always find money to do a little gambling with.

Live tournament poker fields are having record entries, and poker leagues like the Atlanta Poker Club are springing up all around the country and growing in volume.

People love to gamble, plain and simple.

Regardless of how the economy is doing people find money to play poker with.

Dealing texas holdem is a great part time job opportunity. You can quickly make some “pocket money” so next time it’s your turn to buy your friends a round of drinks at the bar you do not have to put it on the Visa or stress out about if the card is going to clear.

Lean how to deal texas holdem like a pro and you will have a skill you can use to make money virtually on demand.

Every city, town, suburb and neighborhood across the USA and growing around the world are running poker games every night of the week and the players crave professional dealers!

Plus, most dealers say they enjoy dealing poker! Wouldn’t it be cool if you actually had fun, or improved your own poker game, while going to work?

It does not matter whether you’re looking to deal for your friends, local tournaments, or under the bright lights of Vegas or Atlantic City, our home based poker dealing course has provided results time and time again for many hundreds (if not thousands) of poker dealers, and it will do this for you.

Let Me Share a Secret With You . . .

If you are already a poker player and are looking for a way to supplement your bank roll then there is hardly any better time spent than that of the poker dealer. Aside from the fantastic income potential that poker dealing offers, it’s drop dead effective for improving your own poker play because you get to see so many hands from an impartial, unbiased view point. And you can use that information to improve your own game, as well.

Not many people know that two-time World Series of Poker champion Johnny Chan, or Layne Flack (who has total winnings of over $4.2 million dollars as of 2008) were professional poker dealers before going pro in the poker leagues.

In fact, in the 2004 WSOP No-Limit Event, all three players were former dealers! Scott Fischman, a player in that game, even admitted to learning to deal strictly for the sake of improving his poker play (I’m thinking he didn’t mind the extra bulk in his wallet, either).

What Gives These Guys Such an Unfair Advantage at the Tables?

Look, it doesn’t matter how many books, charts, theories, and other technical poker knowledge that you consume; there is no substitute for table experience.

Imagine getting paid several hundred dollars a night to be right in the middle of the action, discovering how to spot tells, put players on hands, and fine-tune your reads to an almost psychic ability – all without risking a dime from your pocket . . .

And of course maybe there’s the possibility that you have no interest in playing poker, and are just looking for a fast-paced, high-paying work experience – and there’s nothing wrong with that.

Discover Poker Dealer Secrets From One of the World’s Best

Back in April of 2004, when we were just about to open the doors on the Atlanta Poker Club, we needed to score top-notch dealer training.

Anyone on the Strip knows that the Bellagio has some of the absolute top-of-the-line dealers in Vegas, or anywhere else in the world for that matter…

And so we tracked down one of the Bellagio’s top dealers, Tami D., and were able to enlist her services to create our one of a kind home based poker dealing school.

We put together 10 chapters, 70 lessons, over 400 photos, and 35 videos, uncovering every last technique and tactic used by Tami, and other professional dealers, and we Tami packaged it into a course called Dealer Training.

Needless to say, the Atlanta Poker Club has become a raging success, thanks to the professional caliber of our poker dealers, and we’re proud to say that the exact same course is now available to you.

Why pay the thousands of dollars it takes to go to a land based poker dealing school?

Packed full of videos, professional photo’s and comprehensive chapters covering in detail everything you need to know to deal poker as a professional. We designed the course to quickly you teach you the casino poker dealing standards, techniques and how to’s.

“Can I really make $250 bucks dealing poker?”

It’s a fair question, so I would like to break it down for you.

A professional poker dealer can average roughly 35 hands per hour depending on the game they are dealing. Limit games go faster while no-limit games generally take a little longer per hand on average.

Most dealers are paid via tips, usually from each hand dealtl. Dealing 35 hands per hour at $1 tip per hand then it is going to take roughly three hours to earn $100 dollars.

Earning $100 for three hours of work is not bad at all in todays job market…

If you deal a big pot, you will see bigger tips…

Bigger tips increase your earnings exponentially. Now we are talking sometimes up to $50, $60 or even $70 more per hour in your pocket.

In an average $1/2 game many dealers make over $250 of cold hard cash for an evenings worth of work.

Money in your pocket money, too. And you do not have to live near a casino to make this kind of money dealing poker!

Here’s just a taste of what’s included in Dealer Training . . .

Professional Instruction. Professional Casino Dealer (Tami D.) guides you every single step of the way …

35 Poker Dealing Videos that you can watch as many times as you’d like. Need to see something again, or brush up on your skills? No problem …

Poker Dealer Tricks of the Trade – Devestatingly simple tips and strategies to make dealing poker easy and efficient. dealer training product image 400 + Photo’s Every technique, captured in painstaking detail. Perfect form laid bare before your eyes.

10 Chapters covering the entire poker dealing process. Running the gamut from start to finish on dealing a hand of poker.

70 lessons – Each lesson is step-by-step and easy-to-implement, allowing you to go at your own pace …

10 Practice Lessons to hone your skills – Simple and entertaining ways to commit your new-found poker dealing skills to muscle memory.

A Certificate of Completion – Get your foot in the door and gain credibility for table auditions …

List of quality poker dealing supplies – What you need to deal poker, and where to find it.

How to find a job in or out of a casino – No matter your desire, we’ll show you how to uncover the best opportunities and get the work you want.

Bonus chapter on making extra money while you deal. Battle-tested techniques that will have your players singing your praises, while also lining your pockets.

Here’s What Dealer Training Will Do For You . . .

How to shuffle the right way. The exact process for a true random shuffle that is not only devastatingly efficient and effective, but most importantly, to actual casino standards.

How to sort side pots accurately and quickly. A fast and easy technique that lets you calculate multiple side pots quickly and easily and it is 100% accurate. Even if you almost failed math, you can do this!

How to calculate and take a rake. An easy way to calculate the rake, and examples of casino rake schedules.

How to pitch the cards. Pitch quickly and accurately with this casino method.

How to cut, count and manage chips. Handle and count cheques like a champ once you learn the easy-to-follow process.

How to manage your table. Run your table with the efficiency of a well-oiled machine – The players will thank you for it, and so will your wallet …

Where to put the pot, the muck, the burn cards, the flop, turn and river. The casino standard layout, and why it makes your job so much easier …

Where to put side pots, and how to award them. A no-brainer method to ensure that your side pots are awarded to the right person every time.

How to handle misdeals and what causes a misdeal. What constitues a misdeal, how to declare a misdeal and more importantly when to not declare a misdeal.

How to handle a hand from start to finish. Follow the professional poker dealer process to efficiently deal poker and you will make more money. And so much more…

Want to see an example? Check out this video sample!

“So What Makes Dealer Training Different From a Land-Based School?”

Good question. One of the most unique aspects of Dealer Training is that it’s a 100% online course.

What that means: No matter if it’s 2pm or 2am, you can order Dealer Training at any time and you’ll receive immediate access.

What’s even better is that because of this 100% online nature, you’re able to complete the course at your own leisure.

Compare that to a land-based school, where not only do you have to figure in travel and accomodations, but you’re also having to take 6-8 weeks off of work, and you can see just how much more convenient the Dealer Training program really is.

In addition to training at your own schedule, our program allows you to repeat any training modules as many times as you may want or need; something that’s just not an option with land-based training.

No hidden or additional fees . . . EVER. You see, not only is Dealer Training available for 1/6th of the cost of tuition at a land-based school, you’ll never have to worry about paying a single additional cent outside of the original cost. No monthly fees, no “upgrade charges,” nothing.

And speaking of upgrades . . . Any future upgrades to the Dealer Training course will be provided to you absolutely free of charge!

“Ok, This Sounds Great, But What’s it Gonna Cost Me?”

Considering that tuition for the average dealer training school starts at $1200 (then add on travel expenses, accomodations, and time spent away from work), surely offering you a program led by one of the top dealers in Vegas… one that you can follow along with at home, at your own pace… could easily sell for as much.

Add to that the fact that we invested over $30,000 in production cost in order to bring this program to life… And not to mention just how lucrative just a single night of dealing at a professional level can be…

But we didn’t want to make this something only for the rich… No, we wanted to make Dealer Training available to anyone who truly wanted to get the skills necessary to deal professionally…

We’ve decide to offer Dealer Training for only $197 only $97! That’s $120 off of the price we’ve sold it for since 2004!

Here, let me break it down for you . . .

Earlier I mentioned how a professionally trained dealer can deal an average of about 35 hours an hour, can expect a minimum of a $1-2 tip per hand, and to work around a 4 hour shift . . .

Using those numbers, we’re talking about $175-$350… In other words, it is possible to cover the cost of this program in your first night of dealing!

Not Sure? Let Me Shoulder All of The Risk . . .

Here’s What You Need To Do Next …

If you’re ready to start dealing poker like a true pro, then click on the button below to secure your access to Dealer Training!

Risk-Free Acceptance Form

Yes! I’m ready to receive immediate access to the Dealer Training program for only $ 97 (limited time only, normal price is $197).

I understand that I have 8 full weeks to review the course and if at any time I decide that it is not right for me, I may simply request a refund, for any reason whatsoever (or for no reason at all).

My order will be processed by ClickBank, the world’s largest payment processor of online goods.

ClickBank’s secure ordering process is tested by McAfee, as well as Verisign, to ensure total privacy of my information.

It is on this basis that I’m ready to order Dealer Training now!

Internet Security Note: Your order form will look like this:

0 notes

actualhumancryptid · 7 years

Text

Those Few Moments - Mirandy fic. Part 1. about 2k.

——-

Andy wondered, sometimes, about what became of the cellphone in the fountain. Feared she tossed it into the water in the same casual way that you would throw in a dime—now make a wish. She couldn’t recall making a wish of any kind at the time, but she doubted it would have been anything to be proud of. Her heart had been beating so fast, her face reddening from the audacity of her own behavior. Perhaps she had slipped up, made the wrong sort of wish in the end. But then, she got what she wanted, didn’t she?

The first time it happened, it had been an accident. She had been in bed, exhausted from pushing herself to meet a late deadline at The Mirror. She had no reason to think of Miranda that night. But she still did. It went back to those last few moments in Paris; it always did. Feeling the regret down to her fingertips, she closed her eyes and let out a deep breath,

She opened them.

And God, the light was sudden. She squinted. Then she flinched, because she was moving. She held her hands out to balance herself and realized she was in a moving car. That car.

No.

But here she was, sitting in the backseat on the way to the last event of the day. Miranda was staring at her. Andy blinked a few times and realized Miranda was expecting her to answer. That there had been a question. Here they were, in that car in Paris. This was a dream; it had to be. Or perhaps everything that had come after was the dream.

“Andréa ,” Miranda’s voice wavered a little. “Are you quite alright?”

Andy opened her mouth, closed it.

“Am I…?”

Miranda was close, closer than she had been that first time in the car. She looked concerned.

“You just went completely white,” she sniffed, like Andy’s condition was some kind of affront. “Please don’t drop on me now, I couldn’t bear dealing with an onslaught of French doctors this late in the week.”

“No…” Andy found it hard to speak. Her voice wouldn’t come. It was almost like pushing through a heavy fog. Miranda didn’t look convinced.

“You didn’t hear a word of what I said before, did you?”

Andy blinked again. She struggled desperately to remember back that far, but it was a blur.

“Miranda…” she managed. And then everything went dark.

She woke up in bed, alone.

It was a little pathetic that she spent her nights lying in the dark thinking of Miranda Priestly. She was fairly certain Miranda didn’t waste any time thinking about her. Andy had crossed paths with her enough times in the last few years; launches, benefits and once at a party. Miranda stared right through her as if she wasn’t there. On some occasions she’d even receive that familiar, insincere smile. Predators are known to show their teeth when they are preparing you for an oncoming attack.

She hadn’t been attacked, though. It had been six months since Paris. She had received a recommendation, albeit delivered with an insult. But it had gotten her a job. The job. She’d survived the Devil’s wrath. And much like the Boy Who Lived, the gossip about her dramatic exit was legendary. Though no one could verify the details. She even heard whispers around The Mirror that Andy had, in fact, slapped Miranda in the face before fleeing into the Paris traffic. A slap wasn’t much worse than what she had really done. Perhaps that was why it still kept her up at night. She played the last few moments of that car trip over and over in her mind. How she had been shaken by the events at the luncheon. How she’d listened as Miranda quietly talked to her as they rode together in the backseat. The way Miranda’s face was flushed with victory, how she hadn’t sounded the least bit remorseful. She remembered the sudden feeling of fury, the indignation. But she still willed herself not to do it, like a child yelling at a movie screen. Don’t leave. Don’t. Stay in the car. You are better than this. Of course, she didn’t truly regret quitting. Didn’t regret being free of the couture-clad world of Runway. But still—in the middle of Paris, Andy? Just like that. The busiest, most stressful week of the year. No assistant to support her, while she was suffering the blow of another divorce? Alone. Nobody deserved that.

A few times she saw Miranda leaving the Elias Clark building in the dead of the night, swooping out into the street like a witch descending from a high tower. Andy was careful not to draw any attention to herself, knowing as she did that no smile or wave would draw a positive reaction from the woman. And as far as Andy’s punishment for Paris was concerned, there was still time.

She tried to go back to that car on purpose, tried to will the dream to come. She spent days long trying to catch Miranda leaving work again; not to say anything. Just to see her, if only for a moment. She decided not to investigate why this felt so necessary.

She tried. But she failed to dream it. Andy closed her eyes, trying to picture the car. The way it felt, the smell of Miranda’s perfume that made the space feel closed-in, but simultaneously warmed her. But all she managed to do was fall asleep, and if she dreamed at all she didn’t remember it.

People at work were beginning to notice. That she was tired, or perhaps distracted. Phoning it in, but managing to stay a few feet from truly failing at her job. Nobody said anything, not yet at least. But she saw the way they looked at her, knew the disapproving or concerned expressions. It was only a matter of time before her editor would call her into his office. She was still a new recruit, there was no excuse. She didn’t have anything to give say if he asked. Couldn’t really explain that she was hung up on five minutes in Paris.

Another night, and she was too tired to try to reach Miranda. And that was when she managed to do it again. Closed her eyes, and suddenly she was back there. Asleep or awake; dreaming or deluded — she was there. It jolted her, the way she found herself suddenly sitting there. Her skin tingled, her breath leaving her. She turned to stare, and there she was. Miranda. The same outfit, the slight smirk to her lips. The light behind her eyes as she looked over at Andy. That expression had pissed Andy off so much the first time, after the luncheon. After Nigel. After everything. But this time, with the space between them suddenly evaporating, she could only gape at the woman.

“What on Earth are you gawking at?”

“I…” Andy had the same problem speaking as she’d had before. She must have looked despairing, for Miranda frowned at her. And, much to Andy’s shock, Miranda shifted closer. Reached out and touched her, softly. Her fingers against Andy’s neck briefly, before she pulled away and stared Andy down.

“Your heart is racing.”

Andy swallowed. She felt her face heat up. Miranda continued to stare at her like she couldn’t for the life of her figure Andy out and—why was the car taking so long?

“Dream logic, I’m afraid,” Miranda answered with a roll of her eyes, which made Andy wonder if she had asked that out loud. And if that was the case, why wasn’t she able to speak when she actually tried to?

“I can see this is going to be another useless guessing game,” Miranda said, frowning. “I assure you this is more annoying for me than it is for you.”

Andy tried, really tried to speak this time. She stared at Miranda plaintively, gasping a little as she failed to find the words.

“How…” she swallowed. “Why…”

“Oh for Godssake,” Miranda snapped. “Why must I be subjected to this? If you have something to say, ask me already.”

Andy slumped back, tempted to just stare out the window until they arrived. Though she was starting to believe that would never happen. Miranda seemed incredibly annoyed, which was nothing new. But there was an edge of hysteria to her, something Andy had no experience of.

“If you’re not going to say anything,” Miranda said, giving her a sharp once-over. “Why am I even here?”

Andy must have looked as confused as she felt, for Miranda let out a breath.

“For the love of— I don’t mean in Paris,” Miranda said, her voice a little too loud, not a shout but certainly not the measured tone she was known for. “Are you completely useless?”

Andy glared at her. Miranda glared back.

“Stay out of my dreams,” Miranda said. “If you refuse to manage a simple conversation.”

“What?” Andy blinked a few times, more confused than ever. “No.”

Miranda gritted her teeth, but she didn’t snap at her. Didn’t do anything but huff a breath and stare out the window again.

“We never get there.” She sounded almost wistful. “No matter how many times I dream it, we never do arrive.”

“We did,” Andy said slowly, and with great effort. “The first time.”

Miranda turned back to her.

“Oh, so you’re deigning to speak to me now?”

Andy forced herself to concentrate, feeling her vision grow a little white.

“It’s hard.” She took in a deep breath, and was suddenly aware of Miranda’s hand, cupping her face. A look of concern, which felt strange but comforting at the same time. Miranda reached for a bottle of water, offering it with an eyeroll.

“Not that it’s real. But I suppose it’s all mind over matter here.”

Andy took it, and managed to swallow a few mouthfuls. But it didn’t feel like much, not the same cool feeling water usually had as it filled you. This water felt more like air. But she still felt calmer, more present in the car. She looked at Miranda then, and found she was able to take her in with more detail. The way the light from the Paris afternoon played off her skin, the startling blue of her eyes as she stared back.

“I’ve only had this dream once before,’ Andy said then.

“No,” Miranda dismissed her words with a wave. “I have these almost every night.”

“This is my dream, Miranda.”

“How nice of you to actually form a few sentences for me,” Miranda said. “Much better than usual.”

“Are you really here?” Andy asked, feeling a little breathless again. But she wasn’t sure the cause had anything to do with speaking in a strange dream. It seemed to be the presence of Miranda herself. The way she always made Andy feel a little too giddy. Like she changed the air itself with her presence.

“Of course not,” Miranda said. “I haven’t been back to Paris since you abandoned me.”

“I meant…”

“I know what you meant, Andréa,” she said.

“I am sorry,” Andy said, gesturing out the window. “I never stop thinking about it. About what I did. Why else would I be here?”

“I have no idea.”

“Miranda, please. You have to believe me.”

“I believe nothing of the sort,” Miranda sniffed. “In any case, you’re not actually here. And it’s not like you have done anything remotely close to reaching out to me, in real life.”

Andy smiled, and reached out to grab hold of Miranda’s wrist. Miranda rolled her eyes, but allowed Andy to trail down until they were holding hands. It was bizarre, and yet it somehow felt utterly natural.

“That doesn’t count,” Miranda scoffed, but she didn’t pull away. She tightened her grip.

“You would never allow me to talk to you, if this were really you,” Andy said. “And you know it.”

“That is an absurd sentence to say to someone you’re sitting next to.”

“I thought I wasn’t really here.”

“I am beginning to miss your silence,” Miranda said, though she didn’t look annoyed.

“Yeah, right.”

“This is more proof that you’re not real,” Miranda sighed. “I can’t recall a single time where you got this cheeky.”

Andy smiled a little at her word use.

“Probably because I didn’t want to be fired.”

“More cheek.”

“I am real, you know.”

“Forgive me for not taking your word for it,” Miranda said, a smile playing on her lips.

They grew silent again as the car continued to make its way through Paris. Andy stared out the window, but she had no idea where they were, if they were anywhere at all.

“Do you think we’ll ever get there?” she asked.

Miranda looked a little sad all of a sudden.

“I’m not sure either of us really wants that, Andréa.” She didn’t meet Andy’s eye, she simply stared at the passing scenery like it filled her with dread. “After all, the only thing we have to look forward to there is you leaving me.”

———————

a/n: as you can see, I’m experimenting with reality a bit. so I’ll probably post the whole finished thing on ao3 after I’m done being a perfectionist. I swear it’s a coincidence that I am writing a decently-sized Mirandy right when Supergirl is getting progressively less enjoyable. I may rarely write Mirandy but it is still my one true love.

#mirandy #mirandy fic #miranda priestly #devil wears prada

152 notes · View notes

trustafarian-theserialfiction · 4 years

Text

“trustafarian” part 15: guess who’s back March 27, 2016 4:16pm

The next few days he listened carefully before leaving his room, wishing for the first time in a while that he could just leave from the second floor. He made music throughout the day whenever something inspired him to sample it, but everything he made sounded over-worked off of way too little, to his ear. He was starting to think about collapsing everything he’d made since the weird living room thing, into one cacophonous track and throw some 808s on top. It’d be a kind of mean fuck-you to Bruce and everyone in general, but Bruce would probably thank him all the same and then he’d feel bad.

Finally hungry and wanting to see if the bakery haul box was still turning out prizes (it had a lot of variety to unearth, in fact. Many delectable almondy and eggy things had delighted him by surprised each time he’d opened it. All slightly smashed together and getting staler, of course) he crept up in the late afternoon sunbeams cutting through the window into his cavernous pit of solitude. The beams were really warm, he felt the difference on his face instantly when he stepped through them for the first time that day on his way up the ladder.

The box was missing from the kitchen, and he mourned its parting, faintly. His coat was on the second floor, and he decided to take himself coatward and from there, maybe to a can of tuna and some mayo from the dollar store. There was bread in the cupboard, Jean-Paul had made bread when he and Andre baked their big, dented, aluminum steam-pan of mixed-fruit crumble. The pan was still in the drying rack from whenever it had been washed in the recent days. While he walked e wondered if they’d met up with anyone besides Andreah, maybe they’d had a standing tea-party with a bunch of people they knew and whoever else joined in, somewhere he hadn’t been to. Which could be just about anywhere in town. They’d said “the ravine,” but he had no idea what that meant. Andreah had told him she’d been visiting someone named Whichwould Barns and was in the area of the serve. He didn’t know what to take away from that. It sort of seemed like something she’d said because Andre was hovering around behind her, listening from the kitchen or somewhere.

When he came back from his mini-quest Bruce was sucking mist out of the big clear bag, through a black nozzle, sitting cross-legged on the foam at the distant end of the half-pipe, one foot dangling level with the roof of the metal shack. Dan noticed for the first time, his vape tower was a characteristically-robust shape that he recognized, a volcano. Dan wondered again about where money was coming from, or had come from. He’d seen volcanos in people’s apartments, at parties, but never in use. No one at the parties he went to had demonstrated the patience to sit around a vaporizer, or the patience for weed. He’d heard the ‘pothead/dealer roommate’ brushoff a few times, when someone had queried the presence of the appliance. Usually the tone was, yeah-yeah-I-moved-in-with-my-stoner-friend-I’m-stuck-in-highschool-cut-another-line-who-cares.

“Nice vape,” he said casually, entering the kitchen, can of minestrone (not tuna or mayo) hanging low in the lining of his coat. He set the can on the counter by the sink and turned on the stove before starting to look for a can opener or saucepan. After half a minute he turned off the burner, still going through drawers.

“Mt. Fuji,” Bruce told him. Right. “Can opener is on top of the silver minifridge.”

Dan felt like not saying anything but felt unfriendly and instead told Bruce thanks.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bruce sat on his foam getting baked while Dan cooked and ate, and they regaled each other briefly with reviews of the Portuguese bakery haul. Bruce asked if he wanted to get baked, but he declined. It reminded him of when he’d been high a few weeks back, feeling that Magic The Gathering circle feeling, though, and he wanted to do something that felt like communion since it seemed like that was what Bruce was offering. He realized he could finally get Bruce to listen to what he’d made of the Victory Garden music, and Bruce seemed gratifyingly excited once he’d heard it. He seemed to legitimately think it was interesting listening. “I love it, dude,” he’d said. No one had ever praised him so succinctly or highly before, for anything. He sort of doubted Bruce’s taste, despite being relieved to’ve satisfied it. Bruce told him that recently Toi had made some stuff too and they “should do a long distance collab maybe, at some point.” He said he played co-op xbox with Toi “all the time, duh! That’s like, where I always am all day, in the TV shrine,” which was in the greenhouse, on the roof, because of course it was. He thought about nesting dolls again, that image from back at the start of the month when he’d been sick, reoccurring to him. There was an old Alice who borrowed an xbox to put in a shrine, to hide in the greenhouse, on top of the Maison, in the junction, etc. Dan was surprised to learn that Bruce hung out up there with Alice a lot, and the roof had been a good place to hide stuff from the oogles when they were on the way out, so that was where things like the 360 had gone, with its TV: next to her TV. And they just hadn’t moved it back down because it hadn’t been an issue all winter. Because of how warm and dry it had been it had appealed more to Bruce to leave it there “next to all the plants.”

Dan put Bruce off dragging him up to the roof to see if Alice was in (and play some party game he’d never heard of that Bruce said was like being on PCP), by explaining honestly that he was scared of the ladder like the oogles had been. This was when Bruce let him in on a secret, and showed him; in the ceiling in the alcove inside Bruce’s bedroom’s door there was a small slide door into the insulation-filled space between the roof and the garden, and the Maisonites had cleared a space and made a hole through to the roof. Alice’s greenhouse-house itself sat within this indentation in the roof, surrounded by insulation. There was a cupboard door in the corner of it that abutted the opening above Bruce’s door. Bruce explained that they’d roofed it last with big corrugated awnings that collected runoff in rain barrels for the plants and Alice to filter directly for herself if she wanted. This was after they’d spent part of a summer day (a week) tarping and caulking it all off, and it had worked, because there’d never been any leaks. He seemed particularly proud of this project and Dan congratulated him on the lack of leaks, because it seemed appropriate to. He was kind of interested in seeing the greenhouse, after all that. It was never, ever on his mind because, while it was large enough to keep yet-another roommate in, and sturdy enough that it kept both her and the plants warm, the structure was, as he’d now been told, more sunken in to the roof behind the lip of the street-side façade than he might have anticipated if he had had the rooftop garden on his mind. But Bruce told him the view was amazing and the plants were “life giving” and that Alice was a real hoot to drink fourlokos with all night and watch the sun up with, over a cigarette break on a lawnchair at the crown of Rokkoku. Bruce made Alice sound like Dan might have made Bruce sound, if he’d been trying to tell someone about Bruce. He supposed someday he would be trying to tell someone about Bruce, and suspected they’d never really believe he wasn’t exaggerating just a bit. Dan tried to picture it, the rooftop session with their secret gardener, in her secret garden, where she liked to play videogames all night with Bruce, and thought maybe it’d be tempting in the summer, when it was warmer. He didn’t really want to go through the crawlspace hidden-door entrance, it seemed like a lot of scrambling just to get up to it. Safer than the fire escape, but not worth it just for an awkward hello and look-round. Bruce seemed slightly put out but accepted being declined cheerfully enough that Dan didn’t feel bad, and went back to his own part of the house to decompress. He’d been half-afraid Mouse was home and would appear any second while Bruce was showing him this new wormhole.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next day, he found himself feeling stupid and belatedly antisocial for being worried he’d see Mouse in the house, the previous day. He decided to go back to acting like he had before the outburst. It probably hadn’t had anything to do with Mouse secretly wanting an excuse to yell at him, at all. In fact it was probably more like Mouse had wanted to yell at Andre for talking down to him through Bruce, but couldn’t. That had been what it looked like, now that he’d finally turned it over in his head enough times like a snowglobe of a squabble.

He went and hung out in the kitchen for a while, eating a sandwich he made with some of the cupboard bread, which was nearly gone, and some colourful looking tapas-y stuff he found in containers in the fridge, unlabelled. He assumed they’d been binned near a deli or something. It was weird on the bread, but it was food and he was hungry. He kind of wanted Bruce to cook something so he could eat a heartier meal for the day; it was a stormy day and he wanted to stay inside, not go out for more soup. The weather had turned on a dime from yesterday, like some kind of omen or chastisement for his lack of adventurousness about the roof, or maybe about Brucey-sitting solo, intensively. He thought about how much work it had seemed like, just to dive one cartload of stuff with him on Bloor the week before. High energy, high maintenance, low demands, clicked. He hadn’t really thought of it before but Bruce needed endless attention. And he knew how to get it, like it was his job, because it was. He even knew how to get people to want to give it to him: by being Bruce. Dan couldn’t even resent him for it. He liked Bruce, too. Bruce was lovable, like it was his job. Dan couldn’t remember how many siblings he’d said he had. A bunch. But he was good people. He gave maybe more than he got, at least, that was Dan’s experience of him, for sure. And Toichiro seemed to think keeping Bruce happy was worthwhile, otherwise the Maison probably wouldn’t have existed at all. They were all really lucky, how it all fit together for them, as a group. Everyone living at the Maison seemed to be in a pretty good place, in the big life-is-a-ratrace-love-is-a-battlefield sense.

Wanting to do something that felt like it’d cancel out his hovering impression of being ungrateful, he went and knocked on Bruce’s door, dat-dat-dat-datdat. “One minute,” came the muffled reply. Dan worried for a second that that was the muffled reply of someone who was otherwise engaged in eating out a potential suicide girl model they both knew. The worry went away because a second later Bruce was at the door with an inane open-mouthed expression of extreme herbal insobriety. He didn’t look or smell like he’d been eating out anyone, unless there was a weed version of the jolly green giant.

“You uh,” he wasn’t sure where he wanted to go with this, “you wanna teach me how to make mashed potatoes?” Sure, that worked. “Rainy day potato-thon?” he tried in Bruce-talk.

Bruce was overjoyed to teach him how to make mashed potatoes, it turned out. While they peeled side by side at the sink, Bruce told him about his podcast community’s 420 thru May The Fourth “long holiday.” He didn’t want Dan to stress it, he said, but there was a lot of events and parties and dates to meet up on and there would be people staying with them from out of town—in fact Bruce had it on good authority that if Dan didn’t mind loaning out the second floor room, he could use the couch at Jean-Paul’s for the duration of the long holiday. He seemed to be deep in preplanning considerations and Dan didn’t want to be a hitch, so he said the room thing was no problem. It even seemed like it could be nice to sleep somewhere less...moody, for a change. Bruce showed him a dicing technique so the potatoes didn’t roll around everywhere while he was cutting them up so they’d boil faster (of course. Why hadn’t he remembered anything he’d ever learned about cooking? He had no idea; it wasn’t super complicated, even if he hadn’t done it in over ten years).

While the potatoes boiled away in their huge deep stockpot, Bruce told him highlight stories about past long holidays and it seemed like it was quite the tradition. It even sounded like it could be fun, for Dan. “And it’s like, it’s gonna be a real festival sort of a scene, we have a big presence at the May Day rally every year. It’s like, the fair in Charlotte’s Web? If you saw that in third grade?” He seemed to actually expect an answer, it had been a while since the flow of chatter had paused for outside input and Dan had kind of liked not having to do anything but listen.

“We read it,” they hadn’t watched a movie of it. “Was that one of the ones like Babe?”

Bruce laughed, “that was a remake--and it was recent! More recent than me or you being in grade-school anyway. My teachers were like, acoustic guitar hippies; its a really commune-away-from-the-city part of Manitoba, we didn’t get a lot of glossy new-release stuff on snowed out recesses.” Dan smiled—well, that makes sense.

Once the knife Bruce told him to stick in the potatoes felt like it was going through nothing when he stuck it in a potato, they drained the water and Bruce dumped in a bunch of white and black pepper, salt, and garlic powder. Like an unreasonable-seeming amount of garlic powder. Then he hummed and hawed over the best sub for cream and butter available in the kitchen right then, debating about the last dollops of plain yoghurt from a recent find, before deciding the only good option was the remaining half of a small bottle of truffle oil, which he held aloft like it was the holy grail before explaining that it had been a Kensington bin-night find. After exclaiming over the rightness of the oil choice once they’d tried their sample spoons for the spice balance check, he asked Dan if he was interested in coming down to the market with him Tuesday night and, intrigued for the first time by the possibility—in light of how the potatoes with the truffle oil had turned out—he said sure. Apparently there were true treasures in the trash after all. He hadn’t eaten something that hit him so hard with how good it tasted since the yam soup Bruce had made ages ago. And besides, the café was in Kensington. He could thank Andreah for the blanket, since he’d be down there anyway; that seemed like her kind of style, so he figured it would be the right style to go with.

Bruce said they should watch cartoons in his room with their big bowls of potato and Dan went along, glad to be of use as company. Not really watching what Bruce put on, Dan noticed the shelf of pipes and things, and saw what he guessed must be Bad Cauldron in the middle, based off Andreah’s description of it and her own, matching bubbler. He wondered what she’d think of his music for Thuh Dope Show, whenever it ended up on it. It seemed like Bruce’s daily release schedule as of a few years ago had imploded about the time Toichiro left, or had been gone for however long it took Bruce to run down without a sitter. He put out an episode a week now on the fanpage for it, if that. Andre seemed to fill in the feed gaps with news posts and event promos that were apparently on-topic, like maybe they were old guests or big name community members, he didn’t know. She seemed to keep the ballbusting about which demos were do or die, down to what he guessed was her idea of a bare minimum. Probably so people don’t unsubscribe, he figured. It was actually kind of tragic to look at the dates on the site and track it all. Although, Bruce looked happy enough right then, shovelling surprisingly-heavenly mashed starch into his gullet in between massive bong rips and yattering about the show. It was some 80’s toy ad fantasy thing with super-Scooby-Doo-stonerific background paintings. It was obvious why Bruce liked it, but the stilted animation drove Dan nuts and the audio was terrible in a way he found unfunny. Bruce seemed to love it, though, this terrible old show for kids. Dan felt a fond feeling press up against his insides, swelling up from somewhere in the middle of them. It was kind of uncomfortable and he felt like it showed, somehow, that he seemed to be getting some kind of friendship boner over the big baby. He coughed to try to puncture the bubbled-up feeling, then gave up and ate.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That night, noodling around on his laptop with the theme from the show they’d been watching, trying it out with different layers of shittier material from his fail-tracks over the week, he got a facebook ping. Jean-Paul had sent him a link to an event his ex was listed on. An event in Toronto, in April. In a few days, even. Dan wasn’t happy with the discovery, although he messaged a thanks, for the looking out. The event was on 4/4 because of course it was. What better time to drop a nu disco-dreampop single. He suspected that she knew where he was, somehow, in the sense that she knew he was in Toronto. Maybe one of his sisters had ratted on him after running into her somewhere, that was possible. There weren’t many options. Of course, he reminded himself, Toronto was also a place people just came to, to have release parties, because it made whatever was being released seem more official or hype or buzzworthy or something. A career-move, it seemed. Maybe she was getting better advice than they’d been able to give one another, finally. The thought “good for her” did not cross his mind. He felt pretty angry and territorial about the idea of her in Toronto, actually.

Feeling kind of seethed-up, he was at loose ends suddenly. His mind drew a blank of what he’d been about to do with the track he was warping around. Staring at the chat, he felt like saying something, having another one of those reassuring conversations like they’d had in January, about how she was a bitch. He thought about saying, too bad you left Vic when you did—meaning if he hadn’t maybe Dan wouldn’t have ended up in that relationship, but then he wasn’t sure why that made sense. Jean-Paul didn’t like his ex, never had. And she very specifically hadn’t swooped in until after Jean-Paul was gone, although she’d been paying attention well before that, Dan later found out. She had gone to see Quothnevermore once too, with her own crowd of mainly-older scenester friends, because it was a guy from school and she wanted to judge him. Whatever she’d thought of the band she had never told Dan, she didn’t have much to say about Jean-Paul in general other than a kind of begrudging inability to truly tear his image apart like she subtly seemed to want to. He hadn’t remembered seeing her at any of the shows he’d been at, at the time, but he hadn’t really looked at anyone closely in those days, he’d just focused on the music. After disbanding the group to focus on MTG, Jean-Paul hadn’t seemed so cool to her, she’d said, and the way she’d said it made it sound like he had died. But MTG was when Dan and he had become friends at school, and Dan still suspected that it was residual social credit from being friends with Jean-Paul, that had attracted his ex in the first place. And maybe that was why he’d always kind of prided himself on how Jean-Paul had never been her friend on facebook, and had stayed Dan’s friend this whole time. It felt petty but he didn’t really care, now. You were allowed to be petty about your exes. That was just something everyone knew, and something everyone also did.

Jean-Paul must have known the news would rile him up and he was a little hurt, in a way, that he hadn’t been protected by his friend softening the blow somehow, but that seemed kind of whiny. It occurred to him from the wording in Jean-Paul’s initial message, that Jean-Paul wasn’t just warning him in passing, but was actually also angry that she was going to be in town. It made him think of a mostly-blackout-wiped thing Jean-Paul had said back in January, right around the time Dan had apparently started ranting about his hemorrhoids. Jean-Paul had said something about Wishelle wanting to feel like she took something from Jean-Paul, because she had wanted to be friends with him in highschool but he had ignored her, because he was looking more for hookups than friends—knowing he’d move again in less than three years—and because he just didn't like her. Dan smiled at the memory of Jean-Paul primly saying “I just didn’t like her.”

The single she was releasing was called "witsh bitsh" and she wasn’t headlining, even, she was opening some other grimes-ripoff’s set at some venue he didn’t know. Dan messaged Jean-Paul and said, “love her release title, truth in advertising. So who’s the main act, I don’t know the name.” Mean but causal. Appropriate, it felt like.

Jean-Paul messaged back immediately and suggested “we should squad up and go to her show and stand there staring at her. The other one I know third-hand, not interested. But I could be wrong, it could be she’s a genuine, spooky, spirit-medium, avantguard savant. Could be she’s the next Kate Bush. We should definitely go.” Dan hadn’t been expecting that response at all, and didn't really want to see his ex at all but, he was tempted by the word squad. How many people were in a squad? Who all would be agreeable to going to a bar to stand around trying to make his ex uncomfortable? 8-11 , the event said. It was the convenience chain logo with the 7 swapped. On Spadina. Somewhere really close to where he’d met Jean-Paul in January. Small city after all. Was there going to be cover?

“The others would never go if we have to pay to be there,” he messaged back. He had no idea why they’d go anyway, but it was a practical hitch that avoided the issue of whether he wanted to squad up at all. He couldn’t make up his mind, finding the idea appealing for some reason but also concerned he'd end up in another bad article. “Besides that slackjaw guy might be there, then he’d have all the ammo he could ask for.” He sent another message that said “making himself look good ammo” to clarify and because the salt compelled him to be saltier.

“Slackjaw is fucking irrelevant,” Jean-Paul replied, and Dan saw it and blinked. Slackjaw was pretty big, actually, even he knew that, and they covered everything, including music that often blew up off their article when it wouldn’t have otherwise. People ended up showcasing on SNL and Letterman off a good mention from a Slackjawer. A bad mention on Slackjaw was kind of an even bigger deal; they kept doing exposés about the patriarch of Ford Nation that Dan saw photocopied printouts of, wheatpasted on newspaper boxes around the neighbourhood. More negative press wasn’t really on his bucketlist. Let alone, negative press about stalking his ex who he had been so, so terrible to, apparently. So terrible the whole world had deserved to know. According to the guy who wrote for Slackjaw anyway. Why Jean-Paul didn’t do the math on that part of it the same way he did, confused him. Maybe it was because only this scene, the scene his old Dead Cow Couch bobbleheads were--or had been--part of, mattered to him. Maybe it was part of his cultivated angle of social immunity, that nothing else was real to him; and, it would mean that the double edged sword was, what was real had killed him to lose it. Which all fit, so Dan took it in as his working understanding of Jean-Paul’s side of the situation. Maybe he was projecting some kind of band-breakup grief onto this breakup...technically also a music group split. So ordinarily, beef occurring outside The One Scene That Was Real, even directed into it at them (the way this out-of-town invasion seemed like it could be), would be a total nonissue. But this seemed like an issue for Jean-Paul.

“I find it kind of relevant, given,” everything. Given everything.

There was a pause before Jean-Paul said “I’m going either way.” He seemed to be taking it too seriously, frankly. Dan wanted to tell him to leave it but realized that Jean-Paul might go anyway and he wouldn’t know what exactly happened and it would somehow end up on his plate all the same.

“You know the organizer right? Like you know someone involved.”

“Someone I know knows someone involved. Why? ...I can’t get it cancelled.”

“I’ll go. But I want to have the all-clear. In writing from someone. Like, if you get a hall-pass for me.” He hoped Jean-Paul wouldn’t just say tough luck and go make a mess on his own, anyway. He suddenly got the sense that Jean-Paul had been drinking before going on chat. He wondered if Jean-Paul was at chimneyfish right now, on his phone at the bar maybe. The bar he never took dates to. Just friends. He saw the appeal in having one meaningful reputation and it being shuttered from outsiders. Wasn’t that what being in a couple was for? Hadn’t that been part of his job as a boyfriend, to make that closed circle so small nothing could stop either of you? But apparently breaking the circle had meant shitting directly on that element of it. He kind of wanted to go, underneath not wanting to be in the same city that day.

“I can probably do that.”

Dan assumed he was clear to bail on the conversation and closed the browser entirely, opening audacity and glaring at it. He felt a phantom of the opera moment coming on and tried to focus instead on what he’d been brainstorming over the month with Bruce. Getting wrapped up in his feelings was probably inevitable, but at least it could be something that didn’t outwardly smack of personal grievances. He could do a themed set, for the trash-quality livestreams Bruce’d be doing by bluetooth headset calling-in to his hub page’s autopost service from his weird dumbphone. All he’d have to do was make sure Bruce had a portable speaker, and hand over his ipod and aux cable. Or ask if Bruce had something to put the files on.

He spent the rest of the time he was awake—through the evening and most of the night—looking up old start-of-summer event episodes of Bruce’s show and finding old fan tweets of the hashtags he shouted-out, and from there looking up whatever videos he could find of the events themselves to get an idea of what people wanted, or at least, were expecting. It seemed like it wasn’t all kumbahyas and cola bottles, which was something. In fact, it seemed kind of like there were juggalos in the mix, which was perfect. Opened up the whole rap angle he’d never gotten to bring into his work with his ex. He’d decided he wanted to make something Bruce’s audience would really vibe with, that his ex couldn’t possibly. That was how people churned milk into butter or spun straw into gold or whatever, right? Using it as motivation? He’d never felt very motivated before and it was almost freaking him out. Turned out he was really productive, when he put his ire to it.

When he shut his laptop just before it seemed like the sun might come up any second, he felt a lot like he had after running several miles in gym class in high-school, when he’d been in good enough shape that running several miles made him feel great instead of painfully winding him like he had every reason to assume it would now. The major difference between his present feeling and that feeling was his eyes drifting shut anyway. Just as he was drifting off after a gently shameless fleece-appreciation wiggle, he wondered if Jean-Paul had set him up on purpose by facebooking him.

0 notes

topicprinter · 5 years

Link

I started at McDonald's when I was 17 years old in the hopes of saving up and buying a car. Sadly, this was just about my only significant financial goal for the next 10 years of my life outside of trying to save up for an ounce to save on weed money. I did what most a lot people seem to do today, live life by the minute. I watched tons of shows and put thousands of hours into video games. I worked as little as possible. I'd snicker at everyone and have my stupid little lines when people would point out my lack of career progress. "I work to live, not live to work, man!" In my entire 10 years at McDonald's, I had a surprising amount of opportunity for advancement. I met my best friend here, we started the same week and forged our friendship on the heat of the grease traps, side by side. The difference was, he actually had a little bit of ambition.Within a year, he was technically my boss as a crew chief. Not much responsibility, not much of a pay raise either, but he proved himself. Within another year he was a shift manager. I was making $7.35 because minimum wage had just gone up. So, after 2 years, I was still only making minimum wage. He had a $2 an hour raise and was up to $9.50 or so. No big deal I told myself, it's not worth the hassle and who wants to work 40 hours a week at a bullshit job anyway?This would continue to be a pattern. Every year or other year he would get some sort of promotion, and I would stay exactly where I was. He was an assistant manager making $36k annually, then a store manager making $50k after bonuses. He had finally made it I thought. He'd come in and everyone would try to look busy, and I'd just watch him walk back to the office while scraping the grease off the grill for the millionth time. I still continued to delude myself into thinking I was happy as I raced home as soon as possible after a 3-hour shift so I could get back to doing pretend work in my virtual escape.We still got along great, even hung out after work sometimes still. But his next promotion brought him out of the store and we lost touch around this time. As an area supervisor his pay went up considerably, I never asked what exactly, but he had a company car, and all the benefits you can shake a stick at. Meanwhile, it'd been 8 years or so and I was barely making $8.50 an hour and working 20 hours a week still.The Bitcoin BubbleThen I got my first break seemingly on a whim in mid-2017. I had been following Bitcoin off and on for years and noticed somewhat early on it was taking off. I started working a few more hours just so I could buy more bitcoin. I bought a total of about $1,000 and made over 10x that. Then I invested in some smaller alt-coins at the right time and made another 10x. For the first time in my life, I experienced financial success. Video games no longer mattered; I had found a new game and it was a lot more rewarding. I spent all my free time researching investment strategies for cryptocurrency. Then it all came crashing down.So I had made capital gains of over $100,000. Awesome right? Well, it would have been if I hadn't lost half of it thinking the market would pick back up. And you owe taxes on the full gains even if you lose half of it. You might think still have about $50k, and I would have if I hadn't spent all but about $5,000 on renting a nice house, weed, prostitutes (I'm not even proud of this, if you'd seen the quality in my area you wouldn't be either), clothes, and the beefiest home computer money could buy. I had made $100,000 in the matter of a couple of months, I went a little nuts okay? So $5,000, that's plenty to pay your taxes right? At my current financial status, I'd be homeless in 3 months because my rent was way more than I could afford.I had some work to do. Making money on cryptocurrency investments was seemingly over, so I looked to traditional investments. I opened a Robinhood account and was doing okay. It's very different from the wild days of Bitcoin though, no 1,000% gains in a matter of weeks. I was lucky to get 5%, and my McDonald's wages were laughable as always. This just wasn't going to cut it, at this rate I'd be in jail in a couple of years for not paying taxes…So I had a new set of skills, maybe I could take advantage of it. I was actively making money on investments and I had learned so much in the last year about investing. I was much more familiar with the jargon and I could actually hold a conversation about the subject. I knew more about investing than anyone else I knew personally, at least. Then I took these skills and did some research for jobs in my area on this job search site. I was amazed to see the kind of salary I could get with some of the skills I had been working on.Senior investment support specialist $120k salaryWealth management client service leader $95kAssociate Wealth Management Advisor $80k-$100k.Digging My Way Out of this HoleIt took me a few weeks to put this together in my head. At first, I thought "Okay, I'll go to Community College and then transfer to the university and in a few years I can get one of these trainee positions at Wells Fargo." Then I remembered Uncle Sam was lingering overhead with the $20k that I owed him. I didn't have time to do things the right way. So I did things a different… way.I planned it all out. I got my Master of Finance degree in about 2 weeks for $180 from this company that prints diplomas. I was actually really impressed by the quality and customization options. They pretty much put whatever you tell them you want on it, so I made sure to do some research and put something that will hold up to a little scrutiny. I really considered just making a website for a private university, so I put together a limited budget and a list of things I'd need and went to have a few web designers bid on it. I was informed by a really nice team that this wasn't really a possibility since getting a .edu site isn't going to work. I was pleasantly surprised because if the tables were turned, I can't say I wouldn't have tried to milk me for every dime I had.I spent all my free time taking courses on Skillshare and read some highly recommended books from Charlie Munger that I found on /r/investing. I was absolutely determined to pass myself off as someone who had years of education and experience in the field. I even watched the movie "Catch Me If You Can".Then I shifted my focus, I was sure I had the basic know how to pass myself off as an "expert". Now I needed to just wow them into not digging too deep. I needed to have a stellar resume, knock their socks off in the interview, and the part I hadn't figured out yet believable references. I used this site to make a really nice looking resume. I didn't hold back on my qualifications either. I was going all out and presenting myself as the perfect candidate, well deserving of the position and the salary it commands.The professional references problem was actually the biggest wall I hit. At first, I thought I could have my friends do it, but they're all a bunch of McDonald's lifers like me and it would be immediately obvious they weren't the executives they were supposed to be. I thought about having my area supervisor friend help, but he'd only be 1 guy and we weren't as close anymore. It's actually asking a lot of people. Then I found a site that does exactly this as a service. I was skeptical at first, thinking they probably weren't native English speakers, or wouldn't sound any more professional than my friends would. So I reached out and asked if we could do a call to get a feel for them. They gave me the number, a US number I might add, and I called. A young woman picked up and answered "Office of Mr. Suchandsuch, how can I help you?" I smiled ear to ear, I knew then and there I might just be able to pull this thing off!I finally felt confident about it all and I really needed this confidence boost, because I was about to be sitting in a room with lifelong professional investors and convince them to give me a hundred grand a year when I spent the night before cleaning puke in the bathroom at the McDonald's across town.So to give myself the best chance, I knew I was going to have to apply to a lot of places. I submitted my resume for over 50 different positions and I got interviewed at well over half of them. I halfway expected to not get any calls at all, I thought "Surely it can't be this easy to become an executive investment consultant." So I rented a nice suit for all the days I was interviewing, I actually had a hard time keeping track of which places I had to be at and when. One day I went to 4 different interviews. I rented a nice suit and hoped no one would see me get out of my 20-year-old beater car. I interviewed at banks, investment firms in tall buildings, and even remotely for smaller angel investment groups.Then it happened. I got my first conditional job offer. I was already thinking about how I could negotiate the salary while I was reading the offer then it hit me like a sack of bricks. "This conditional job offer is extended to Gary Newman, it's contingent upon the candidate successfully passing the background check. Background information such as criminal and driving history, plus credit reports for some jobs will help to determine if the candidate is qualified to do the work." My stomach sank, I'm going to jail, "There's no way I'm going to get a job or pay all these taxes." I told myself. My first thought was to run, the guy from Catch Me If You Can managed to stay on the run for years and years, no that's stupid. Don't fold your hand just yet. Only one so far has said anything about a background check.So I called them and withdrew my application explaining I had taken another offer that I couldn't pass up. They understood, and I hoped they wouldn't take it any further. So for every place that said anything about a background check, I just withdrew my application and thanked them for their time. It was far from a perfect solution, but my back had been against the wall for so long now I was starting to get used to it. I wondered if all this effort was for nothing, I was so stupid for not thinking about background checks. Surely all of them would do them, right? They're cheap and it weeds out little scumballs like me.Laziness Creeps Up Even the Tallest TowersLucky for me I was wrong. Not even half of the companies I applied for did background checks or if they did, they didn't do it very thoroughly. I was flabbergasted. So I negotiated with the 6 job offers I ended up with, out of over 50 that I applied to. I was very happy with the numbers, especially with the salary I was being offered. I negotiated up to $105,000. Not bad considering the year before I had pulled in a whopping $7,000.I saved as much as I could and worked as hard as I could. This whole experience had taught me so much. With enough effort, it's pretty incredible the kinds of things you can pull off. I still sweat every day thinking someone is going to find out and I'm going to lose it all even though it's been over a year. I just tell myself all I can do is work hard and try to be so valuable that they won't care if they ever do find out. And who knows? Maybe this writing thing will help me write a book while I'm in prison. For now though, when the couple of closest friends who know the story of how I went from a burger flipper to an investment executive overnight ask me how Vandelay Industries is? I tell them in my best Costanza impression: "I can't complain!"

#/r/entrepreneur #reddit

0 notes

bountyofbeads · 5 years

Text

https://www.washingtonpost.com/amphtml/politics/trump-two-years-in-the-dealmaker-who-cant-seem-to-make-a-deal/2019/01/20/ecdede96-1bf9-11e9-88fe-f9f77a3bcb6c_story.html?__twitter_impression=true

He’s carrying out #Putin’s orders to sow discord. Why isn’t this obvious to anyone else?

Also remember #Republicans love shutting down the government, they've never liked the big federal government. This is a dream come true for the #GOP

He is doing deals, but the real deals they’re making are selling off public lands and mineral and oil rights and gutting all the departments. The normal oversight people are furloughed. No telling the amount of harm they are doing.

Trump two years in: The dealmaker who can’t seem to make a deal

By Philip Rucker, Josh Dawsey | Published January 20, 2019 at 6:24 PM | The Washington Post | Posted January 20, 2019 |

Donald Trump was elected president partly by assuring the American people that “I alone can fix it.”

But precisely two years into his presidency, the government is not simply broken — it is in crisis, and Trump is grappling with the reality that he cannot fix it alone.

Trump’s management of the partial government shutdown — his first foray in divided government — has exposed as never before his shortcomings as a dealmaker. The president has been adamant about securing $5.7 billion in public money to construct his long-promised border wall, but has not won over congressional Democrats, who consider the wall immoral and have refused to negotiate over border security until the government reopens.

The 30-day shutdown — the impacts of which have begun rippling beyond the federal workforce into everyday lives of millions of Americans — is defining the second half of Trump’s term and has set a foundation for the nascent 2020 presidential campaign.

The shutdown also has accentuated several fundamental traits of Trump’s presidency: His apparent shortage of empathy, in this case for furloughed workers; his difficulty accepting responsibility for a crisis he had said he would be proud to instigate; his tendency for revenge when it comes to one-upping political foes; and his seeming misunderstanding of Democrats’ motivations.

Trump on Saturday made a new offer to end the shutdown, proposing three years of deportation protections for some immigrants, including young people known as “Dreamers,” in exchange for border wall funding.

But before Trump even made it to the presidential lectern in the White House’s stately Diplomatic Reception Room to announce what he called a “straightforward, fair, reasonable, and common sense” proposal, Democrats rejected it as a non-starter.

“What the president presented yesterday really is an effort to bring together ideas from both political parties,” Vice President Pence said Sunday on CBS’s “Face the Nation.” “I think it is an act of statesmanship on the president’s part to say, ‘Here is what I’m for. It includes my priorities, it includes priorities that Democrats have advanced for some period of time,’ and we believe it provides a framework for ending this impasse.”

Such an accord has proven elusive, however, in part because Democrats believe they have the upper hand politically in opposing Trump’s wall and feel no imperative to give ground.

“What really drove him was ‘Art of the Deal,’ that he could get stuff done in D.C. and deal with the knuckleheads,” said Republican strategist Mike Murphy, a sharp Trump critic. “People saw him as some sort of business wizard. That’s all disintegrating. It’s like McDonald’s not being able to make a hamburger.”

Trump has approached the shutdown primarily as a public relations challenge. He has used nearly every tool of his office — including a prime-time Oval Office address as well as a high-profile visit to the U.S.-Mexico border — to convince voters that the situation at the souther border has reached crisis levels and can only be solved by constructing a physical barrier.

Trump’s advisers argue the president has been successful at educating and persuading Americans even though his efforts have not led to a bipartisan deal. “You can’t turn an aircraft carrier on a dime,” said one White House official who, like some others interviewed, spoke on the condition of anonymity to be candid.

But the data tell a more troubling story for the president. One month into the shutdown, the longest in U.S. history, a preponderance of public polls show Trump is losing the political fight. For instance, a Jan. 13 Washington Post-ABC News survey found that many more Americans blame him than blame Democrats for the shutdown, 53 percent to 29 percent. And the president’s job approval ratings continue to be decidedly negative.

“Even though he thinks he’s doing a great job for his core, it’s ripping the nation apart,” said one Trump friend, who spoke only on the condition of anonymity. “I don’t think there is a plan. He’s not listening to anybody because he thinks that if he folds on this he loses whatever constituency he thinks he has.”

Behind the scenes at the White House, some aides acknowledge the difficulties.

“The president is very much aware he’s losing the public opinion war on this one,” one senior administration official said. “He looks at the numbers.”

Other Trump advisers insist that the president is not driven by political considerations and is focused entirely on protecting the American people and finding a solution to illegal immigration.

John McLaughlin, a pollster on Trump’s 2016 campaign, said Trump’s suggestion to temporarily extend the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals program, which grants protections for some people brought to the United States illegally as children, is key to increasing his popularity.

“The White House needs to press that button and more often dangle that out there,” McLaughlin said. “We need to remind the voters every day that the president is willing to compromise and give legal status to DACA recipients in exchange for increased border security, but the Democrats are too intense about trying to defeat Trump right now.”

Some political professionals cautioned against rushing to judgment about the shutdown’s impact on Trump’s reelection, saying that November 2020 is a virtual eternity from now.

“This could all be forgotten in a week if and when we come to an agreement, the government opens and the wall is built,” Republican pollster Neil Newhouse said. “Nobody knows how this is going to turn out until we get a resolution. So it’s a national game of chicken.”

Trump has long seen his stewardship of the economy as his political calling card. Yet the instability in Washington is threatening to wreak havoc, with fresh gyrations in the stock market amid concerns about Trump’s trade war with China and fears of a prolonged shutdown.

Trump’s management of the impasse has also drawn criticism about his competence as an executive. The administration this past month has been playing a game of Whack-a-Mole, with West Wing aides saying they did no contingency planning for a shutdown this long and have been learning of problems from agencies and press reports in real time. Officials have scrambled to try to respond as best they can and keep key services operating, but they fear they may soon run out of so-called Band-Aid solutions and temporary pots of money may run dry in February, one official said.

Inside the West Wing, morale has been low in recent weeks. Mick Mulvaney, the acting White House chief of staff, has not sought to impose the same level of discipline as his predecessor, John F. Kelly, so aides flow in and out of the Oval Office, reminiscent of the early months of Trump’s presidency.

Jared Kushner, the president’s son-in-law and senior adviser, is an increasingly powerful figure who has asserted himself, along with Pence and Mulvaney, in negotiations with lawmakers and believes there is a “big deal” to be had.

Two senior Republican aides said senators are skeptical that Pence speaks for the president, after Trump undercut him early in the shutdown.

Trump has been preoccupied by the political messaging and stagecraft of the shutdown showdown. He has personally met with outside allies to ask them to go on cable television to defend his position, and he has spent time calling those who have praised him.

The president has also gone days without speaking to House Speaker Nancy Pelosi (D-Calif.) and Senate Minority Leader Charles E. Schumer (D-N.Y.), leaving negotiations effectively at a standstill despite Trump’s latest offer Saturday.

“The shutdown has turned into a test of strength between the president and Washington Democrats, particularly the speaker, and how it ends and when will tell us a lot about whether they can forge a relationship over the next two years,” said Michael Steel, a GOP strategist who has been a top aide to former Republican House speakers John A. Boehner and Paul D. Ryan.

In private conversations with advisers, Trump alternately complains that nobody has presented him a deal to end to shutdown, complains about Pelosi and Schumer and asks how the fight affects his reelection chances. Aides said they have shown him polling that he is losing the shutdown battle and that most Americans do not think the situation at the border is a crisis, as he and his administration have termed it.

House Minority Leader Kevin McCarthy (R-Calif.) repeatedly has told Trump that he believes Pelosi is trying to embarrass him, two people familiar with the conversations said.

Trump has accused Democrats of being insensitive to the dangers of illegal immigration. “They don’t see crime & drugs, they only see 2020 — which they are not going to win,” he tweeted on Sunday. He went on to single out Pelosi for behaving “irrationally” and acting as “a Radical Democrat.”

Pelosi and other Democrats, meanwhile, say Trump is immune to the hardships of federal workers who are going without paychecks.

“I don’t think that he understands the real-life impacts,” said Sen. Jon Tester (D), whose home state of Montana has one of the highest concentrations of federal workers. “Look, the guy was born with a lot of money, and that’s great. I wish I was born with a lot of money, too. I was born with great parents, okay? And so I don’t think he really can relate with people who live paycheck to paycheck. That’s why I don’t think there’s urgency on his part.”

#donald trump #u.s. news #politics #trump administration #republican politics #president donald trump #trump #republican party #politics and government #white house #national security

0 notes

iota-news · 6 years

Link

At 17, he earned his first half million. Today, Dominik Schiener is one of the most experienced Blockchain entrepreneurs at the age of 22 and causes a sensation with his digital currency.

Dominik Schiener has arrived in the business world. Corporations like Bosch or Daimler want to work with him, major German media report on him. What makes the 22-year-old so much in demand: With Iota, he has developed a technology that seriously competes with the heavily hyped digital currency Bitcoin.

In the interview, Schiener repeatedly mixes German and English words. The South Tyrolean dialect is no longer his word. It all started in the 800-soul village of Lajen in the Eisacktal. There, Schiener learned how to program at the age of ten and spent his days and nights in front of the computer. Even as a teenager, he dealt with the technology of Blockchain and recognized their potential. Today, he is one of the most experienced Blockchain entrepreneurs.

How do you explain to your grandparents how you earn your money? With iota we enable machines to pay each other. The best example is driving a car. With Iota, I no longer have to worry about a parking ticket as a consumer. The car automatically and autonomously pays the parking fee for me. These and other services can be used by machines for consumers.

You come from a small South Tyrolean village. Was the internet always your gateway to the world? Normal life has always bored me. On the Internet you can teach yourself anything and do really cool things. The Internet has made my career possible. It also changes your way of thinking. In South Tyrol there are many conservative, narrow-minded people. The internet opens you.

You’ve earned your money online as a teenager. How did your parents react? At the age of 17 I already had more money than my parents and at the time I also founded my first company in Switzerland. My parents could never really believe it all – that you can sit at the computer all day and earn money at the same time. They always wanted me to do physical labor and become a bricklayer, because they thought that it was the only way to make money. I was also a bricklayer for a summer. But I have shown them that there are other ways.

How do you think about what you are doing today? They are very proud because they are realizing the scale now. I’m in the big media like in the mirror or the FAZ. They understand that what I do creates interest.

Schiener grew up as the son of a bricklayer and a cook and earned his money early on the Internet. As a 14-year-old, he hacked down to No. 1 in the world ranking list of the popular computer game “Call of Duty”. His knowledge of it he sold to other players. Even with Bitcoin mining he earned money. Mining is the process by which virtual money is mined using computing power and units of digital currencies are created – so-called tokens.

When and how did you get into contact with cryptocurrencies for the first time? That was 2011, when I was 16 years old. My English was not that good at the time, so I barely understood the Bitcoin concept paper. In 2012, for the first time, I realized the potential of Bitcoin. I had customers who paid me money through the Paypal service, but I should not have used Paypal at all – I was too young. I was already fascinated by Bitcoin and Blockchain at the time that everyone could use the technology and create added value. With Bitcoin, for the first time I was able to pay my developers around the world. At the time, I also started bitcoin mining. Because I realized how big the potential is, and I wanted to develop a concrete product, I went to Zug with half a million euros to Switzerland. That’s where I founded my first startup.

Then came the Bitcoin crash and I lost all my money.

What did you want to work on there? I wanted to make a lot of money as soon as possible, because I had a bigger vision and needed a lot of money to realize it. Most of the money was made at the time with the stock exchanges – that is, with the purchase and sale of cryptocurrencies. I wanted to develop such a stock market, but the banks did not play along. Every time I went to a bank and said I was a blockchain startup, I was turned down. For banks, Blockchain was only for drug trafficking and money laundering. That’s why I’m in Switzerland and became one of the founding members of the cryptovalleys in Zug, which is now quite popular. I tried to develop my start-up there. Then came the Bitcoin crash and I lost all my money, half a million euros.

What is going through your head as an 18-year-old who loses so much money? I was always very distant from money. Although I had a lot of money, I did not say: Now I buy a Lamborghini. During my time in Switzerland I was a bit naive. I had a big apartment and thought my business would continue to grow. Suddenly I had lost all my money and all these obligations – I had to pay all these bills. Then I sold the company to an Iranian and handed over the apartment. So luckily I’m out of train without debt. I had to do all this during my school days. My parents insisted that I finish the Matura.

Were you an outsider as a teenager? I’ve always been an outsider, I’m not very social either. I am focused on problem solving and constantly need dopamine in my head because I am very bored very quickly. My environment has already understood what I do and that I am entrepreneurial. But people never really took that seriously.

You became a young entrepreneur – but rather unusual in Europe. Did your age often get in your way? At first already. People see an 18-year-old boy and think, what does he know. The Internet has the great advantage that I hardly have any physical meetings and I’m not someone who says: Hey, I’m 18 years old. I’m just having a meeting. Age has become less and less a problem. Meanwhile, it does not care anymore.

How did you come to found Iota? We four founders of Iota had already made another cryptocurrency and have known each other since 2013. In 2015, we wanted to go to the Internet of Things. We’ve tried to figure out where blockchain technology can add the most value and then focused on the Internet of Things because it has the most potential. Not only did we want to automate the machine, so make it smarter, but really make it independent. If the machines are independent, they can autonomously carry out transactions and exchange values, ie resources. For this we needed a completely new technology because the blockchain is not scalable. That’s how we developed iota in 2015.

In the Internet of Things, IoT for short, machines, devices or vehicles are networked together. But this requires a unified technology that allows machines to pay each other with very small amounts. The Iota payment system is intended to enable this new machine economy and become the industry standard, according to the idea.

What makes iota different and better than the blockchain? Iota is scalable and there are no transaction fees. If I send a cent in Iota, the other party gets a dime. With it Iota I can pay the smallest amounts I need for the machine economy and the Internet of Things. There are, of course, other benefits, for example, there are no miners left. Miners, like Bitcoin’s, are a systemic risk because they are the decision makers. So Bitcoin is not a completely decentralized network, because that’s where the miners are. This makes Bitcoin a very fragmented ecosystem. The biggest drawback of Bitcoin is that there is no leader who sets the vision. At Iota, we are the leaders. We have founded the charitable Iota Foundation, which aims to develop and standardize the technology so that it is truly accepted.

IOTA should become the standard for machines to pay each other.

The Internet of Things and the world of cryptocurrencies is very abstract for Laion. Which concrete applications of Iota do you find particularly exciting? The simplest is probably that the car is really equipped with a wallet. It can pay for parking, charging or tolls. What’s also exciting is how consumers can sell data using iota. For example, a consumer has a weather station at home and a large energy company wants to make weather forecasts. The energy company can now obtain the data of my weather station directly and pay me. Thus, normal consumers can create added value and earn money with their own data. This is only possible with Blockchain and Iota.

Where should the journey with Iota go in the long term? We want to raise this very big with the Iota Foundation. We open offices in Shanghai, Tokyo, Seoul and Taiwan and become globally active. Iota should become the standard for machines to pay each other. In addition, as individuals in this ecosystem, we make our own businesses and commercialize projects. The biggest goal for the next few years is to bring products to market, where Iota runs in the background, but solves concrete problems.

Recently, there was a hype about cryptocurrencies. People invest in Bitcoin and Co because they promise quick wealth. How do you perceive this hype? This development is both positive and negative. As we evolve technology, we can create a new economy and people derive the added value from the tokens and their value. On the other hand, people do not understand what technology can and can not do. They only know that they can earn money with it. That is completely wrong. When the price suddenly goes down, they worry that they have invested too much. Many of them are very inexperienced. You should read the matter and only then decide whether an investment makes sense or not. Crypot currencies are currently the most highly speculative assets available.

Have you always had the desire to be entrepreneurial? I have always strived for independence and financial independence is the start. What fascinates me about entrepreneurship is that you solve problems. You wake up and have new problems and challenges every day. This is extremely exciting. I could never work for someone else, for people who tell me what to do.

How many people are currently working for you? Fifty. But we are in the process of setting much more. We have a lot of capital through the foundation and want to have 100 to 150 employees by the end of the year.

You founded Iota in Berlin and you live there too. What else connects you with South Tyrol? My family and my nieces. I’m in South Tyrol maybe two or three times a year. South Tyrol is very beautiful, but also a bit backward when it comes to innovation and progress. I did not buy a house in South Tyrol, but in Berlin. Berlin is the city where I really feel at home. Berlin is open, there is: Nobody gives a fuck.

Do you think it would be different today if you had not grown up in South Tyrol but in Berlin? Who knows, maybe I would not have sat in front of the computer for so long. (Laughs)

Der Goldjunge was originally published on barfuss.it. It was translated by the IOTA-News Community. The Community curates, examines, and summarizes news from external services while producing its own original material. Copyrights from external sources will be credited as they pertain to their corresponding owners. IOTA-News.com´s purpose is to make use of partial 3rd party content or pictures as either allusion or promotional endorsement of mentioned sites.

The post The golden boy Dominik Schiener / IOTA appeared first on IOTA News.

via IOTA News

#IFTTT #IOTA News

0 notes

gamehackercheats-blog · 7 years

Text

Clash Royale hack game guardian

Clash Royale Hack For Iphone

Never attack first. Wait for your opponent to make the first move while your elixir is charging. Plus depending on what warriors he has released upon you, you will be able to plan out the best defense mechanism.Once you are at level 3, join a certain clan. You can donate or request cards and develop unique strategies with your fellow members.Given the limitation of only 8 cards that you can bring to a battle, you must choose carefully. Try to always have a plan or a strategy for combining and bringing the best cards in battles.Always drop a spell if you think that you won't be able to defeat your enemy towards the end of the battle. Aim directly to their castle for guaranteed victory.And last but not least, don't be afraid to engage in battles. The more you practice, the better you get, plus when you add up to that the unlimited resources which our Clash Royale gem hack will generate you, chances are that you will practically be invincible at this game.

It's all about the server signals and connections. Our code that deals with the game servers is packed into a nice algorithm which gives signals and tricks the game servers every time a request is made from our users that a purchase has been completed and the server automatically transfers the resources to the user's account. When in fact there was no valid transaction made. In other words, you haven't spent a dime and yet you get a lot of Gold and Gems. Additionally, SLL and the private proxy support/ anti-ban system will make sure you pass undetected or under the radar of the game administrators, thus there is practically no chance for you to get caught or banned. Please remember, that this tool does not generate gold, you can exchange your gems inside the game. There is also no need to download or install any hacked or modded APK or IPA files on your phone.

The"How to Get 500 Gems Free "is one of the most shared tutorials that we provide. It really helps, boosting you with a nice start. And the best thing is, it works perfectly well with both Android and iOS. On top of all, you don't have to pay anything to obtain those gems.

Clash Royale Hacked Version

There are lots of useful resources on the internet about Clash Royale that you can use to your advantage. Most players think the only way you can get ahead in the game is by buying gems or somehow obtain free unlimited gems, gold or chests with a hack tool, apk mod or cheat. You will be astonished to find that how many don't bother to read the enormous useful advice there is already present online on other Clash Royale fan websites. Just head over to a site like Clash Royale Wiki and start reading. There are many strategies described, winning decks, guides, tips, and tricks which can help you beat anyone! For example, there is the hog cycle deck or the hog mini pekka deck which are unbeatable! Then there is a great guide on how to buy legendaries from the shop. If for some reason, however, you don't have the time to read that kind of guides, you can keep reading to learn how to hack Clash Royale with an apk mod tool and get free unlimited gems.

Clash Royale Hack For Chests

While playing this game would be exciting, it really tiring and time-consuming to upgrade and collect card of your characters. For example you must pay with gems only to get unique special cards, with greatly limiting to getting gems, this is major pain in the butt, or it will spend you real money. Most people use cr hack or cr cheats to avoid this loophole system.

Clash Royale is an online dual-challenge and real-time mobile game. Throughout the game you collect and unlock new cards, that can later be included in your deck. The main focus is to collect cards and upgrade them respectively, in order to build a more powerful deck. The objective is to defeat your opponent by knocking out their towers, thus gaining trophies.

Clash Royale Hack With Download

CR gamers come here and looking for a good CR cheats Mod that give them real gems. We have developing this online cr hack system that work on all device like iOS iPhone/ Android/ Mac/ PC to solve most of cR players problem. If you are a CR player who wants to enjoy playing this game and search for cheats or hack gems without the difficulty then you are in correct place! Our online based system is safe and very effective, it will give you unlimited amount of gold, elixir, even real gems. You just enter your username of CR and put the amount of gems you want then it all set.

You will be glad to know that this online hack tool also accompanies user friendly cheats so that beginners can also beat in game challenges with ease. If you are at learning stage of Royale then you will definitely need some expert tricks to move ahead safely. These clash royale cheats can help you to step ahead carefully into each level and will make your journey full of fun and adventure. It will also help you to generate more in game resources and your powers will be naturally boosted. It becomes much easier to ensure right deployment of characters and troops using cheats and your clan can stay safe from enemy attacks. It is right time to go online and use your cloud based hack tool for fast access to cheats and free gems.

Clash Royale Hack Without Human Verification And Survey

What this Clash Royale hack tool does is it decodes the encrypted programming code of the game to give you any amount(or at least a REALLY large amount) of gold or gems that you want for free. I'm sure you've already searched online, "how to get free gems in Clash Royale?". And let me tell you, this is the way to do it. It doesn't matter whether you're looking some hack that works on iOS or Android mobile phone. Either way, you will have no troubles whatsoever running our hack tool because it works universally and that's without a survey getting in the way of the process. It was intentionally developed in a way to work online just by opening the address in your phone browser and use it that way. Our dedicated team worked in number of programming languages including php, ruby and python in order to make this work. It is made of sophisticated first class code and rest assured this will be kept updated day by day to keep it working no matter what changes are being made to the original game by its developer. You will be able to cheat with 99.9% guarantee.

Clash Royale Hack To Get Unlimited Gems

A lot of APK Mods have been offered by various self-proclaimed hackers. We advise you to stay away from such mods because as you may know, Android is a very fragile OS and can be easily infected. Maybe there was a working APK hack mod at some point, but it is very tough to find. Besides there aren't any no root clash royale apk mod hacks. And rooting your android phone is definitely dangerous especially when done for installing a hack tool apk mod from an untrusted source. Just stay away from APKs and enjoy the game. It will be much easier on your phone and in your life. Now, you may be wondering why it is I'm telling you all about this Clash Royale gold hack, even more so if you think of me as a selfish individual who wants all of this to myself. Well, that is where you're wrong! I devised the Clash Royale hacks to be spread amongst any and all players who want them. Why? Because I'm sick of seeing these hacks show up everywhere, and yet they scream out, "no survey", then you get there, and low and behold, a survey. I said no to such things and founded my own little personal exploit and Clash Royale hack tool to give me and any other player who wishes to use it an unlimited amount of both gold and gems, all at the click of a button. My particular hack allows you to do these Clash Royale hacks with no survey whatsoever, and even better yet; these hacks are all done online for Clash Royale. No dodgy downloads, no torrents, just quick and easy ways to get free gold and free gems.

There are other cheats and hacks for Clash Royale, but we guarantee you that this is the only working and safest one. Given the fact that it works completely online, this cheat is totally safe for your device - meaning that there is no need for you to download certain files which might put your device at risk. Plus, the newest and sophisticated proxy support we've incorporated within will make sure that your account is safe and you don't get banned from the game. It has been tested a lot of times on different devices and we are proud to say that it worked flawlessly on each of them. No matter the type of your device or operating system - Windows, Android or iOS, our online hack works on all of them. The interface couldn't be simpler, basically anyone can use it. Just insert your username and select the amount of Gems and Gold you want to generate and that's it. Within a few seconds/minutes the resources will be transferred to your account.

Clash Royale Hack

-- Download >> Clash Royale Cheats 2017

Being the game premium resource, gems are the ultimate weapon for gaining trophies and advancing further into higher arenas. They are needed for purchasing gold, so you can upgrade your cards. Or you can speed the chests unlocking process as well, speeding your game progress overall. Gems are mainly obtained through in-app purchases and cost really a lot. There are some strategies how to obtain free gems. Even the use of Clash Royale hack. Some of them highly more effective than others though.

Clash Royale Hack For Ipad

Before we answer let me tell you a bit more about the game. Clash Royale is a multiplayer focused tower defense game, where the games last as little as 3 minutes per round. Instead of your typical tower defense, where you must place towers in strategic locations, you are in fact going on the offensive. It is your job as the player to spawn in ongoing troops to take over the enemy towers and prove yourself the best around when it comes to PVP. Graphically the game is incredibly similar to Clash of Clans, and when you consider just how popular that graphics style has been for Supercell in the past, it comes as no surprise that they would stick to that style. So Clash Royale is essentially free to play, but that's only until you hit a wall and that's when you will need gems which are not free(hence this hack for Clash Royale).

Clash Royale hack how to get free gems

Clash Royale Hack no human verification or survey or download

0 notes

vrheadsets · 7 years

Text

Me Vs. A Decade

Today’s VR vs. story isn’t really about virtual reality. It’s more a story about the writer, as today marks a very important day for me. Let’s begin 24 hours ago though.

It was Monday. My phone was ringing. It was ringing and it was over on the other side of the flat.

Bugger.

Groaning I drop the speaker I’m trying to repair with one hand and break away from the Twitter post I’m writing with the other, to sprint across the flat. Dodging the overly long and overly patched up internet cable, hurdling the two steps up to the, weirdly, slightly higher level which that side of the flat is at. Before pouncing on the phone lying on my bed before it rings off. I knew who it was of course, if they are still there on the other end. Or, more precisely I know what type of call it would be. Someone from Manchester, or Liverpool, or Dublin or Abergavenny – that was a recent one – who wanted to talk to me about either:

a) The amount of money I could claim from the car accident I had. Which I’m reasonably confident is £0.00 since I don’t drive.

b) Have I thought about pensions and life insurance? Answer: Yes, but do they think about me?

or c) Whether or not I had heard about Payment Protection Insurance (PPI) from mortgages or home-buying or something. How it had been mis-sold or misused and how I was due funds worth hundreds of pounds. Have I checked? To which the answer is I have never done anything financially that involved PPI. The last caller on that demanded to know how I would magically know this.They were told forcefully that I think I would remember such a transfer. Also since I rent the likelihood of any of this is rather on the low side.

I was surprised as it was not actually any of these but a number I recognise from an employment agency. I picked up, and a somewhat more masculine voice than I expected wheezed “Hello it’s Derek from Kitten Whisperers!” The names have been changed to protect the guilty. “I was wondering if we could have a chat.” Turned out Derek was after a catch-up on things since the CV they had from me was a bit out of date, and since you never know and its always good to have such companies thinking of you, I agreed.

I ‘hmm’-ed and we went through some run of the mill questions. “Are you doing okay?” “Are you still living here?” “Are you still working for VRFocus?” Yes. “What do they do?” Well… Then Derek asked, “So, do you have much experience in Community Management?” And for a brief moment I was stumped. I mean, presumably he had my “kinda out of date” CV in front of him. What was he expecting? That I’d suddenly go ‘well actually I made it all up’ and fill him in with a completely different work history? ‘No, in truth from 2008-2009 I was a matchstick-seller and part-time snowboarding clown and from 2011-13 I lectured at Harvard in Esperanto.’

I pursed my lips together. “Actually it’s ten years on Tuesday.”

“Oh.” He said, a bit bored. I slumped because I was actually telling the truth .On the 28th of March 2007 I was bundled though into an office at SEGA Europe and quickly made to sign an NDA. It was all a bit hectic in the office and I wondered what was going on. I was then told that in about five minutes they were going to announce the fact that Mario and Sonic were going to be in a game together for the first time. and I was hurled into a chair and signed up to the official forum with full on mod powers.

“Track what they say.” Said my new line-boss as the press release for what was Mario & Sonic At The Olympic Games rolled out to the press. “If they start getting worked up.” He paused and pursed his lips together. “Well we’ll come to that.” He shrugged and patted my shoulder.

Ten years ago…

After the call ended I thought for a while about that ten years. I’d accomplished quite a lot in that time, not that you’d know it. But the truth of it is most people don’t know what I do, what any of us do. But that’s my career. A ten year stretch during which I had several years at SEGA setting up and managing their social media and working hard to rebuild community trust from the ground up. Which is mighty impressive considering I’ve never had a day’s worth of proper training in any of it before then – or indeed, astoundingly, since. I co-created an world record owning international convention with that community. Wrote blogs every day. Was the first one in and the last one out, and did my damnedest to fix an impossible to fix situation (and took a lot of flack for caring enough to do so) before I left several years later with my head held high despite being left exhausted in every sense of the word by the whole thing. Still, I’d left my mark.

Of course they then erased everything I ever wrote after I left because they were too lazy to keep the European branch’s blogs when they merged them. Which was nice of them.

Whilst I wasn’t well known by name, (I didn’t exactly promote myself as a ‘figure’ during that time) for those in the know I had gained a reputation for hard work (to the point of exhaustion), dedication and became known for my ability to conjure up miracles from essentially nothing. A social media MacGuyver able to put together content plans with nothing but half a screenshot and a second-hand paperclip. I was hired in the short term at Square Enix to essentially rescue a project after the previous Community Manager (CM) disappeared straight after it was announced. I ended up writing a bunch of game lore and cobbling together the foundation of something that could be built on. From there, after some disappointment, I ended up in Belgium where I led a tight-nit multinational team of newcomers to the role, as we dealt with all manner of projects. Instructing them as mentor/teacher.

I worked on multiple projects; I turned my hand to advertising campaigns having never previously been given a dime except for the convention and essentially doubled the revenue being made and halved the cost. In time one project was announced to be wound up and, again with nothing, I took over the reigns to somehow get a social game people had spent money on to conclusion and salvage the situation for the creators. I became de facto Producer and with nothing in my resources and a product announced to be closing I grew the English community by 50,000 in one and a half months. Sent session numbers through the roof and actually brought the game to a resolution which didn’t involve people screaming for blood. They had their money’s worth and they were happy. I still get messages asking if I can somehow bring it back.

After the Belgian firm turned heel on its own employees, I left and my team joined me as soon as they were able. Unemployment was better than staying at a time when there was a global recession going on. That says more than anything else I could. But that team was good, very good. Two have gone on to work with big companies within the games industry and I’m beyond proud of them.

Life took me back to the UK and I ended up working here at VRFocus. Did you know I’ve been here over two years now? It doesn’t feel it. But I have. I’m still a CM, albeit “Community Manager & Writer” now, I do what I can and that reputation I have is still very much in effect. Although the person behind it is rather more tired and worn looking than his 2007 equivalent.

True story: After Square I applied for a job at a major UK studio and during the interview was surprised to be asked if I wasn’t too old to be a Community Manager. I was then told, dumbfounded, in a phone call that I wouldn’t be progressing further and one of the reasons given was “we think you’re too old for the role”. I also didn’t have “the look we are going for”, apparently. Which made no real sense. Apart from the fact discriminating on the grounds of age (as well as apparently, my face) is illegal, I was 28. They made me sound like Methuselah. They’d probably have a coronary to discover I’m still one at 34! (Before anyone asks I was so shocked at what I was hearing it took some considerable time before I’d really realised what had been said, and by then it was too late to suddenly go “hey, hang on a minute!”.)

It all evolves. Much like VR – which we will come back to, I promise.

In fact this reminiscing is partly due to reading an excellent article on what the job entails by my opposite number (I… guess? Although she has a much better title than me – and she has a electronic fancy follower clock/counter that I desperately want to steal.) from Upload VR, Elizabeth Scott. Who got me thinking about what it is I do here and have done previously. But if you’re unsure what it is I do, I write this and Life in 360 and a number of other posts/features as required. Sort out most of the graphics, the moderation, and am the person you talk to on Twitter, or Facebook or Reddit if you see VRFocus being chatty there. I sort the social media in general when I’m in. I work with various partners and the guests writers we have to produce content, I work on the website itself – now with the new site’s designer. I’m HR, I run the time sheets. I edit videos when required. I run events when we run them but you’ll probably never see me at a main one. I search for stories and allocate them to the writers, with whom I work on their stories as I need. I’m, as my author description says, the unofficial Deputy Editor.

I fix.

I’m basically a cross between an online janitor and a hatstand.

But the core of the job is you help, and whilst I’m presently more on social than anything else. It’s kind of ironic that a guy who is heavy on the social anxiety made this his career. But hey, I never said I was smart. Ten years, four companies and a lot of projects have passed. The job has changed and evolved throughout those years and some point in the future it will change again – and it might be VR that changes it.

Community Management is part of that family of Customer Relations-type roles in business. It sort-of-kinda sits between everything. It’s marketing, it’s public relations, it’s creative and design, it’s finance and even legal (sometimes) and several of those are already being touched on and altered by other types of technology. The most obvious one being Artificial Intelligence (A.I.). In the same way will there come a time where a CM’s role will also be to respond to discussions on an article using such a system? Will a young wide-eyed fan be thrust into a virtual forum room to monitor reactions to Mario & Sonic At The Lunar 2028 Olympic Games? Appearing as a cartoony Avatar holding up the announcement trailer for you to then step into. All care of Oculus and Facebook’s Rooms system. Perhaps they’ll appear in your office or classroom as a virtual projection, displayed by Microsoft HoloLens to discuss a news story.

Will my career be supplanted by something else, all travel and interaction made virtual? I’m not sure I’d like that, if I’m honest. But that’s a question to be answered by the future – and the future is coming fast. For now I’ll continue to evolve as best as I can. Will I be doing the same role in 10 years? Who is to say.

Here’s to a decade.

from VRFocus http://ift.tt/2nvWqkp

#VRFocus #vr #virtual reality #canada

0 notes

allenmendezsr · 4 years

Text

Deal Poker At Casino Standards & Make Money

New Post has been published on https://autotraffixpro.app/allenmendezsr/deal-poker-at-casino-standards-make-money/

Deal Poker At Casino Standards & Make Money

Buy Now

What about the economy? I know poker was hot when Chris Moneymaker won the World Series… but are people still playing cards today?

In short, yes.

Historically, gambling has always been extremely popular and people will always find money to do a little gambling with.

Live tournament poker fields are having record entries, and poker leagues like the Atlanta Poker Club are springing up all around the country and growing in volume.

People love to gamble, plain and simple.

Regardless of how the economy is doing people find money to play poker with.

Lean how to deal texas holdem like a pro and you will have a skill you can use to make money virtually on demand.

Every city, town, suburb and neighborhood across the USA and growing around the world are running poker games every night of the week and the players crave professional dealers!

Plus, most dealers say they enjoy dealing poker! Wouldn’t it be cool if you actually had fun, or improved your own poker game, while going to work?

Let Me Share a Secret With You . . .

What Gives These Guys Such an Unfair Advantage at the Tables?

Look, it doesn’t matter how many books, charts, theories, and other technical poker knowledge that you consume; there is no substitute for table experience.

And of course maybe there’s the possibility that you have no interest in playing poker, and are just looking for a fast-paced, high-paying work experience – and there’s nothing wrong with that.