#Apply Frequently and Enthusiastically

[moneyearndigital]

How to Become an Amazon Product Tester : 2024

Unbox your dream job! 📦 Learn how to score gigs testing the latest gadgets for Amazon. 💻

How to Become an Amazon Product Tester – Hilarious Journey If someone told me a year ago that I’d be making money testing out the latest gadgets and gizmos, I would have laughed in their face. Me, an Amazon product tester? As if! But after slogging away at my boring desk job day after boring day, I decided I needed to spice up my life. So I set out on a journey to become the coveted product…

[direquail]

I think what bothers me most about how John is talked about in the fandom is the implication that a different (implied: better) person would've done things differently and somehow more right than he did.

When the text goes to lengths to explore how suddenly coming into an incredible amount of power in a fatally constrained situation cannot lead to a good outcome.

If you're putting John in dialogue with the concept of the "magical girl", which Muir has said he is (a little tongue in cheek, but)--these are young, often profoundly unready people, who often get taken advantage of by the people who give them their powers. And like, yes, John is not a teenager, but I think that's part of the point, is that at no point is a person really prepared to become as powerful as he did--even before he merged with Alecto. Even when he was fully in control of his powers, even when they were given with honest intent and trust, even when he used them with the best of intentions and tried to do the right thing, there was no way for him to be prepared, especially given the situation he was in.

And it's funny to talk about how bad John must be in bed, but also, this isn't a scenario where John is some self-deluding Elon Musk-like villain or loser. He is genuinely trying to do the right thing, in terms of rescuing the Earth's population, rescuing the Earth Herself, and doing it ethically (see: M--'s insistence that they perfect the cryo containers until they could transport pregnant women).

I really do think this is something people are blocking out, because it is one of the uncomfortable parts of Muir's message with the series. But ESPECIALLY because the people "critiquing" him as an embodiment of patriarchy and empire are failing to see that part of Muir's critique is of human vulnerability to power: That is, that power corrupts.

And this even has echoes with Gideon & Harrow's story! Harrow begins the series in a deeply unequal dynamic with Gideon! And she does horrible things, not just because she is traumatized, but because she is traumatized and has the power to act her desires out on Gideon. She might have the motive (trauma), but that's not enough without the means (power).

And, yeah, I do have a semi-salty angle on this because people are frequently loath to think critically not just about axes of oppression but individual relationships of power when it applies to them and to people they like. ESPECIALLY when there is a very vocal segment of the fandom that is enthusiastically pro-harassment. It's very convenient to villainize John and actively dis-identify with him, because otherwise, you'd have to face the question of whether you'd do any better in his place. But the thing is, the mission of revenge he embarks on is a lot closer to many peoples' hearts than they'd like to consider.

That's the whole point.

[shinesurge]

Webcomic rings run by people within the community are cool and you should support them

I've been loudly struggling a little bit with corporate webcomic Stuff lately so I want to mention something positive to balance it out: webrings run by small groups of creators earnestly trying to support each other are slowly making a comeback and I for one am delighted.

If you weren't around for them in the before times, webrings were just some folks who hang out a lot who feature each other on their websites. That's literally it lmao. There's generally no money involved and it only really functions the way it's supposed to if people have control over their own websites AND genuinely want to participate and get excited about other folks' work, which means the practice has pretty well fallen by the wayside over the years in webcomic culture given. Everything. In the rare event someone decides to do something like this it's usually in the form of a link list somewhere on their website; this doesn't usually indicate any sort of mutual support, it's just a list of what the creator is reading themselves.

A webring, though, is an official banner or hub that people gather under intentionally where each member is more or less on equal footing. It's essentially the concept of "a rising tide lifts all boats" put into practice, each creator brings their own audience to the table in a passive, opt-in sort of way that's different from working for a publisher since there isn't necessarily a Top Spot or a paycheck everyone's vying for, and individuals retain autonomy over both their own work and how (if) they promote each other. You're all at your own tables in an artist alley rather than fighting over the table in the front of the book store, essentially.

I have two rings and one collective for you today!

Webcomic Ring was brought to my attention AGES ago by Holly, one of the artists featured there, and I might have brought it up at some point but I'm doing it again lmao. This is exactly the kind of thing you ought to be looking for; a small group of enthusiastic folks having a good time making their weird little comics. You probably haven't heard of much in the catalog, that's PERFECT in the context of webcomics that's where the GOOD SHIT is. Finding something like this is A Gift go dig around in the longboxes for a while.

Then a few people have pointed me in the direction of the KNIFEBEETLE collective and that's neat too! Most of the comics there are already fairly well-known, but the vibes are excellent and I haven't seen a lot of talk about the collective /itself/ outside folks already in the know. I think it's important for this sort of thing to be more visible to folks who aren't terminally steeped in webcomic culture already so here I am telling you about it. You were probably reading several of these before I suggested it, but that's how a webring works! For it to do its job you should take those bigger creators' tacit recommendation of the less popular titles as a sign to go read something new and strange. Wild, I know these are practices held over from the old internet, but I think we should try and bring them back.

Lastly, I want to mention Spiderforest, which is a collective (slightly different from a webring) BUT still a very cool project readers starved for new stuff should pay attention to.

You've probably seen Spiderforest kicking around for a long time already; they're wonderful and have always been an overall positive force in the community in my experience. They really focus on building up a community, and especially welcoming newcomers and helping them get their feet under them. Full disclosure, I've been asked to apply by a few different folks over the years and the only reason I never did is I don't have the ability to participate in their forums and such as frequently as they want their creators to; it's a very good system (from my outside perspective) that might contribute to the community staying mostly healthy in ways that art communities usually don't and I appreciate it a lot!

ANYWAYS that's all I got for now, just trying to balance out some bad feelings I've been having by talking about some good stuff. Please go binge an archive this week.

[strwbmei]

i love nerds. they're so cute and hot at the same time when talking about their passions

anyways.

nerd!ei x dom!reader??? reader defends ei from mean comments so ei offers to tutor them, leading to ei's poor cock getting overstimulated and milked dry

Same!!! I could listen to them talk forever. I find it so very adorable how their eyes light up and how enthusiastic they get with how fast they're speaking. It doesn't only apply to nerds, but anyone who's passionate about something.

I feel like Ei wouldn't necessarily care all that much about people saying negative things about her, but you just can't stand hearing people talk bad about such a pretty girl! At first, Ei would be cold towards you and say things like "she didn't need your help," but that was only because she thought you'd be like everyone else and ask her for something in return. Over time, she quickly learns to appreciate you for everything you've done for her and how you've stayed by her side despite how moody and distant she can be. As such, she offered to tutor you.

And you gladly accept, of course! You've had a big crush on her for a while. You thought you've been obvious about your feelings, but Ei is somehow denser than a rock. You're determined to use this chance to make her fall for you. You quickly realize that you never needed to, though. Due to the oversized shirt you wore, Ei could see a bit of your cleavage every time you leaned over the table. You could also very clearly see the red tint on her cheeks whenever you did. It didn't take long before you noticed her avoiding your gaze and readjusting herself in her seat way more frequently than normal.

Eventually, neither of you could handle the tension anymore. It was clear you both wanted each other. Papers are left scattered all over the place while you're straddling Ei, grinding your crotch on her fully erect boner. Her lips land on your neck, your collarbone; anywhere she can reach while her hands trail up and down your waist and hips. She's quiet, but fuck, the small groans and occasional whimper she lets out whenever you rub against a certain spot makes you want to ride her silly. You quickly dismiss that idea when you see her size, though... Maybe next time.

Ei cums a lot. Very quickly, too. Just your hands have her clawing at whatever's beneath her and arching her back into your touch. Stop moving them completely and she'll whine while shyly bucking her hips. However, you quickly learn that blowjobs are her favorite. Saying that she wouldn't last more than a minute in your mouth wouldn't be an exaggeration. There's just something about feeling the warmth of your lips around her shaft while your tongue licks long, teasing stripes from the underside to her tip. Whether she shoots spurts of warm cum down your throat or covers your face with her thick load, she loves everything about it.

That doesn't mean she has the stamina to keep up with you, though. By the time you're finished with her, the poor woman is left breathless and trembling from the overstimulation. She can barely keep herself conscious. You'll definitely make sure to have her tutor you again in the future <3

[insipid-drivel]

What's the general range of endurance for a horse doing the job(s) it's good at? Like, how long can a racing breed sprint/gallop before you start risking injury? Can a Clydesdale pull a plow all day, or do you need to get as much done as you can in the morning? Etc.

It really depends on how intense the work is on the horse's body, as well as the size, age, and breed of the horse itself, and the rider's observations on when the horse is visibly showing signs of exhaustion. A lot of these calls are dependent upon the owner of the horse to make, because it is very possible to command a horse to work itself to death without even intending to. (I know, this isn't a very helpful answer, but it's very hard to answer questions like these with exact details since we're talking about animals and not machines)

Race horses are usually lightweight breeds like Thoroughbreds or Arabian Horses, and were never bred for doing Hard Farm Labor like pulling a plow or working like makeshift tractors on a farm, will often run until their hearts give out if their rider lets them or makes them, especially if the horse has been literally pent up with no opportunities to run around for themselves in a while, or is extremely stressed.

Race horses especially can get so enthusiastic about racing that they develop mental health issues if they don't get to run and gallop frequently. Healthy running horses, like messenger horses, could handle keeping an even pace on a well-maintained road for hundreds of miles, so long as the rider gave the horse opportunities to slow down, cool off, rehydrate (hydration is a big factor, because horses sweat the way people do, and can die of heatstroke or heat exhaustion like we can), and get at least a few hours of rest before continuing to travel. If the terrain is rougher than a well-maintained horse path, then a horse could struggle and tire much sooner, and may even need the rider to get off their backs and walk with them until they hit easier terrain to avoid injury/overtiring the animal.

A Clydesdale or Shire Horse, which are in the family known as Draft Horses, are better at very strength-demanding, slow work (think cardio vs. weight training in humans; professional weight lifters have very different physiques, skill sets, and exercise/diet needs compared to a competitive sprinter), like pulling a plow, and it was often left up to the handler of the horse to judge when their horses are starting to get too tired and need a break. Horses pant, sweat, and generally show a lot of the same symptoms humans do when they're overheated and risking heat exhaustion or stress-based exhaustion. Horses that are given more rest-times tend to stay working longer in their lives than horses that are consistently overworked; again, like professional athletes. Professional athletes retire very young because of the intensity of their athletic life aging their bodies prematurely and making them more vulnerable to injury. The same applies to horses.

For pasture that's already been tilled and cleared of obstacles like buried rocks in the past, a working horse could probably do most of the morning/afternoon pulling a plow through "easy" soil and terrain as long as it's not too hot out (heat is a major cause of stress-related death in work horses), receive break-times to drink water and cool down, regular hoof checks (a sharp object penetrating a horse's foot can very easily result in a horse's death, so a major part of horse care is keeping their hooves clean). However, most farms that could afford draft horses instead of oxen would often own multiple to switch out when one or more of their horses got too tired during the day. Oxen were often the bulldozers-of-choice around most farms for such intense work like plowing rough soil (eg soil will a lot of stones in the way or a ton of clay), and generally did the jobs better than horses at a much lower cost per ox. Draft horses were incorporated into a lot of farming during the Victorian Era in particular as a sign of wealth and affluence on a farm, rather than actually employing the best animal for the job they needed to do. Oxen still tend to be better at a lot of farming-related work, but the horse breeding industry very much pushed the ox-training industry nearly to into extinction in the West.

Seeing draft horses doing the work that oxen used to do is more a product of showing off your wealth as a farmer than actually having the ideal animal for the job that needs doing, and so class perception and classism plays a large part in where and when you see horses doing the jobs that heartier animals like oxen are better suited for. Historically, a lot of farmers would sacrifice the utility and durability of oxen for the flashiness of draft horses, just like how today you'll find more specialized farming equipment on wealthier farms vs. cheaper, still-good-at-what-it-does-but-not-having-a-popular-brand-name equipment you'd find on a family farm.

So... realizing this reply is running incredibly long, the answer is: It depends on the setting, situation, the horse(s), and the care and responsibility of the owner/handler in addressing symptoms of exhaustion in the animal(s). On a cool, breezy day, a draft horse could work most of the morning and part of the afternoon, especially if the work they're being asked to do is fairly low-impact for them (again, depending on the job you're asking it to do and whether it's just one animal or multiple, how quickly a horse becomes exhausted is heavily influenced by outside factors), but may overheat and need to stop by mid-morning on a really hot, sunny day. That's the tricky thing about working with animals: They don't come with exact guarantees for how much mileage or power they can put out every day, and are vulnerable to health and environmental factors when it comes to how hard they can work and how long.

[twstowo]

I didn't see any mention of how many boys are acceptable for a single ask so feel free to do as many or as few as you want, though my favorites are the three fish boys and the two fire boys.

So, the way I show affection is I'll frequently give them small trinkets or snacks from my hoard that I won't miss and I think they'll like. If we're close enough and it's been established that they don't mind drinking after me and they like soda I'll even pass over the rest of a soda that I know I won't finish before it goes flat. Or if I made food like pasta or cheese sticks and I don't end up eating it all but they're nearby and like that kind of food I'd hand it to them. Often I'll let my sister 'steal' clothing I won't miss or borrow clothing I will, though I'd do the same for a close enough friend if they were interested.

(some of these examples are from how I treat friends and some are for people who are close family)

Anyways I'd like to see some of the boys react to a s/o or close friend who shows affection like this

♡︎That's a cool way of showing affection, I'm more into being annoying

♡︎Includes: Octavinelle and Ignihyde

⋆⋅☆Azul

He finds it odd that you're offering him the rest of your soda. After all, as the owner of Monstro Lounge, he could easily access an endless supply of that soda if he desired. The same applies to any snacks or food you offer him, he just can't grasp why you're doing it. However, over time, he comes to understand that this is your way of showing affection. Thus, he learns to appreciate it, albeit he may continue to politely decline. In return, he takes note of your favourite snacks and drinks, occasionally surprising you with them free of charge. Perhaps a couple of kisses in return?

⋆⋅☆Floyd

I feel like he would be similar, but he wouldn’t do it affectionately, he would simply get bored of eating or drinking and nonchalantly, he hands over the remainder to you. He always accepts what you offer unless it's something he dislikes, he might even toss in some Monstro Lounge coupons as a token of gratitude.

⋆⋅☆Jade

Politely declining each time, similar to Azul, he is unable to grasp the appeal of sharing partially consumed food or drinks. If Floyd is in proximity, he's quick to snatch the food from your hand and enjoy it himself. On the flip side, whenever you visit Monstro Lounge, he goes out of his way to bring you your favourite dishes. The gesture is offered generously, with no expectation of payment, as an act of kindness. At least for now.

⋆⋅☆Idia

The first time you did this, he felt a twinge of embarrassment, contemplating the idea of an indirect kiss, as your mouth had just been in contact with the soda bottle. However, as time passed, he found himself engaging in the same gesture. He began to relish sharing snacks and drinks with you whenever you came over to play or watch something together. The two of you enthusiastically explored and ordered new and weird snacks online, savouring the experience of trying them out together.

⋆⋅☆Ortho

He can’t eat or drink, but he does notice that you have this way of being affectionate. In a thoughtful move, he brings you snacks, cleverly sourced from Idia's stash. He memorizes your favourites and the ones you dislike, sharing this information with his brother. The next time you spend time with him and Idia, you find a generous pile of your favourite drinks and snacks, just for you.

[w3r3theli0nshunt]

POV: Task 141 + König finds out that you’re autistic

Task 141 + könig x autistic!reader

Okay okay a little self indulgence here. But this is also to somehow spread a positivity regarding the spectrum and also encourage people who feels insecure about being neurodivergent. This applies to anyone, not a specific gender.

And for people who don’t really relate, it’s fine. It’s normal to be different and it’s okay to be different.

There are some sexual themes here, but mostly wholesome fluff MDNI!!!!!!!!!!! - and sum angst as well

❤︎︎So here’s a lil authors note: You can still be loved and appreciated with or without the diagnosis🫶

★He’s definitely got ADHD or is at least on the spectrum, so he doesn’t judge you at all

★He’s a yapper and can’t help it, so when you tell him to stop talking so you can peacefully gather your own thoughts, he stops with a few whines along

★He’s a very touchy type and he loves touching you, and sometimes he forgets to keep distance when you tell him to stop

“Soap! Not today, please. I’ve been stressed”

“Dinnae worry, luv. I’ll try, but I cannae promise”

★He’ll be a little difficult to process your diagnosis, getting used to new habits, having to break old ones but he doesn’t really complain

★He gets really confused and stressed out not knowing what to do when you get (if) you meltdowns

★When you’re on dates, he makes sure to take you to a place that is less crowded so you don’t get stressed out

★When you feel mentally tired from socialising, he tries his best to keep distance and remain quiet so you can recover peacefully

★(If) sometimes you enjoy feeling pressure on you, it’s your way of stimming, he’ll happily lay above your body and fall asleep

★Gets really happy when you finally give him a peck or a kiss, or even a hug

★Sometimes he lets you squeeze his bicep or thigh as a way to stim, sometimes he even lets you try and braid his short Mohawk

★If you don’t like the consistency or taste of food, he’ll get you your ‘safe meal’ that he knows you like

★Sometimes you’re awfully quiet and distant, he takes it as if you’re mad at him and he tends to get worried

“I’m not mad at you if that’s what you think”

“Still cannae help it, I just dannae want ye ta leave me fer being touchy”

★He’ll steal kisses from you, making them quick so you can’t react

★He’ll miss the frequent sex like he used to have with his exes, but he’ll still love you as much.

★Not really familiar with the diagnosis, but he sure as hell do his research

★He’ll almost act like a dad would with his child, telling you to stop stimming with your hair or picking with your skin and place a fidget toy in your hand instead

★He admires your creativity, always flattered when you show off your drawing/sketches with a proud look on your face and enthusiastically explain it

★He can’t stop looking at you with such admiration when you cuddle with a pillow/squish-mallow while being focused on the tv

★He makes you write a list to him of foods you like and how you like them, just so he knows :)

★He’s a fast learner with you and knows how you work

★When you (if) get meltdowns, he knows exactly what to do. Either give you space or tightly putting pressure on your body to help calm you down

★He knows when you don’t want cuddling or sex, so he’ll back off. Just happy that you’re his

★When the places you go to are crowded, he’ll instantly take you to a calmer place

★You two usually have dates at home, but Price is good at making stuff romantic

★He’ll tell his friends about you a lot, telling them to not be too pushy or touchy

★He knows you don’t enjoy meeting new people so he’ll make sure to spare you from doing so as often as he can, but sometimes you have to and at those times he tells the people about you in first hand

“Your friends are nice, but I didn’t expect them to keep distance. Didn’t you tell me that they could be very nosy and pushy sometimes?”

“Well, this man right here turns out to be completely in love with you. And that also means that his friends are gonna have to accept my darling”

★He’s totally accepting of you and he’ll still love you just as much as before the truth came out

★Gaz is a very accepting and patient man, his feelings still stay as strong

★He also does a lot of research to try and understand you more, but also prefers when you tell him yourself as people are different and work differently

★He gets his friends to set up a romantic place that is private so that you can remain calm and relaxed not having a bunch of strangers stressing you out

★He totally understands if you don’t feel like being touched and he’ll back away until you feel like it again

★His soothing voice and compassion always manages to calm you down when (if again) you get a meltdown

“It’s alright, love. I’m here and it’s gonna be alright. Some days are bad, some are not”

“I-I love you so fucking much, man”

★He knows you love animals so he’ll always takes you to zoos, admiring you from afar as you gaze with such enthusiasm at the animals and your hands shaking by excitement and your small jumps

★When you distance yourself and talk less, he’ll always sit you down to talk because he’s worried that you’re mad at him, you’ll assure him that you just need some space and silence to recover from socialising all day, he’ll feel at ease afterwards and refuses to let you apologise for it

“I’m sorry, but I don’t feel like being intimate today”

“Don’t apologise, dear. Take your time, my arms will always be ready for you”

★He’ll happily stand behind and watch while you’re being ✨creative ✨ and he won’t stop complimenting

★Is always gentle with you, with both tone of voice and his affection, takes it slowly as he gives you time to pull away

★Doesn’t mind rewatching movies/series with you

★He’s aware of the diagnosis, knows a lot about it since he may also be on the spectrum as well

★He’ll also be very accepting, more so because he understand as well

★He’s not a very touchy and kissing, so he doesn’t have any problem with keeping a distance and giving you space

★When you have a meltdown, he just stares at you feeling immense guilt for something he didn’t do and his heart aching seeing you upset and stressed

★He doesn’t like going outside in public spaces a lot, so you usually have a date at home where he heats up your favorite meal in the microwave and pours a glass of your favorite soda

★If he spots you stimming in a way that could damage you, he stares at you with his brown eyes and say “quit it, love” before he lets you squeeze his thicc pectoral instead ;) it’s your own fault if he groans and his huge bulge poking at you

★Feels uneasy when you’re silent and distancing yourself, but he always finds a way to lurk around you, almost tip toeing around after you

★When you tell him that you want space, he gives you, but he’ll still linger around you, merely because he wants to make sure that you’re alright and also because of his own selfish reasons

★Quietly admires you when you show of your art to him, having to grab his chest later to make sure that his heart stays in there

★When you’re asleep and haven’t touched him for the whole day, he’ll indulge in his desire, so he wraps his arms gently around you and hug you for a while and then he’ll let go (after like an hour or so)

★He doesn’t really care for sex, but if you want to initiate, he’ll be a fool to decline

★He loves you way too much to just break up because of you

“How can you still wanna be with me? Don’t you want a partner who can be perfectly affectionate towards you?”

“Y/n, don’t even fuckin’ think that way. I’ll always choose you, with or without the diagnosis. And you know why? Because I fuckin’ love you”

★You say you love animals, he’ll buy you your favorite animal (as a pet, a pet friendly one……I hope)

★He has a huge understanding, mostly about the social stuff as he has the same difficulty

★His whole browser is full of ‘how does autistic people work?’ and ‘how to convince an autistic person to cuddle with me?’

“König, I don’t feel like cuddling today”

“But, liebling, how else will I show my love for you?”

★When you want space, he tries to convince you that he doesn’t wanna let go of you and that he’ll be sad if he won’t be able to see you

★Will literally get an anxiety attack being in crowded spaces, while you have to remain calm and try and drag the both of you away

★Whenever you stim, he’ll tell you to touch/squeeze him instead (sort of using it to his advantage to be touched by you)

★Will wrap his arms around and pull you tight against him in the middle of the night, instantly after you’ve falling asleep and play dumb the next morning when you ask him how you’re in his arms

★You two enthusiastically exchanges hobbies and interests

★If you’re sound sensitive, he’ll cover your ears, if you’re sensitive to specific consistencies, he’ll make mental notes to your preferences, if you’re sensitive to light, he’ll always pack a pair of sunglasses with him to give, if you feel the labels on the inside of your clothes poking your skin uncomfortably, he’ll cut them off.

★He steal kisses from you when you’re distracted or asleep

★When you’re quiet, he’ll stare at you to see every detail of your face and if it changes in the slightest, just to make sure that you’re alright

★Sometimes when you’re neutral (not feeling anything specific) he’ll assume that you’re mad at him and he’ll get extremely anxious

“Liebling, what can I do so you won’t be mad at me?! Please, i can change!”

“König, I’m not mad at you. Why would you assume that when you haven’t done anything?”

꧁✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰꧂

[ari-freeworld]

'*•♡Finding Space In Your Heart ♡•*'

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03 - Two-Wheeled Tension

Pairing - Biker/Roommate!Bakugou x Fem!Reader

An - I'm so glad so many of you guys are enjoying this series!!! Hope you like this one, it took a while. Planning on making a few more parts. Anywayssss enjoy srry it's so long <333

Summary - After Kirishima moves in with his girlfriend, Mina, Bakugou finds himself in need of a new roommate. He’s on the hunt for someone who can tolerate his loud (and expensive) Ducati, his odd hours at the mechanic shop, and who is fairly tidy and able to pay their share of the rent. After having no luck finding the right person, his long-time friends Mina and Kirishima suggest an old friend of Mina's—enter you, a young professional writer looking for a place to live during your partnership with a publishing company.

Notes/warnings - Qurikless AU, aged up characters, Slow burn (eventual smut), cursing (it's bkg duh), drinking mentioned, fem/male masturbating, nsfw

wrds - 2.4k

01 , 02

°。°。°。°。°。° 。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。

The morning of your first day at the publishing company dawned bright and early. Standing in front of the mirror, you meticulously checked your outfit, making sure every detail was perfect. Your nerves buzzed, making it difficult to keep your hands steady as you applied the finishing touches to your makeup. Today was the day you had been waiting for—the start of your dream job—but the anxiety gnawed at you, threatening to unravel your composure.

As you adjusted your blouse for the umpteenth time, there was a knock at your bedroom door. Bakugou’s gruff voice filtered through. “You ready yet, princess?”

Taking a deep breath, you opened the door to find him leaning casually against the frame, his eyes raking over your outfit. His usual intense gaze softened slightly, and a small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

“You look good,” he said simply, but the sincerity in his voice eased some of your tension.

“Thanks,” you replied, managing a smile. “Just... a bit nervous.”

“Don’t be,” he said, stepping closer. “You’re gonna fucking crush it. Don’t stress it.”

His words were reassuring, and you felt a rush of gratitude. “Thanks, Bakugou. I mean it.”

He shrugged as if it was no big deal, but you could see the concern in his eyes. “C’mon, I’ll take you.”

The ride to the publishing company on Bakugou’s Ducati was exhilarating as always. The wind whipped past you, and you held onto him tightly, feeling the solid warmth of his body against yours. It was a short ride, but it was enough to clear your mind and fill you with a renewed sense of determination.

When he finally pulled up in front of the building, he cut the engine and turned to face you. “Knock ‘em dead, princess.”

You smiled, your heart pounding with a mix of excitement and nerves. “I will. Thanks for the ride.”

With one last reassuring look, you headed inside, feeling a surge of confidence. The meeting with the publishing team exceeded your expectations. The room was filled with enthusiastic faces, all eager to hear about your ideas. As you laid out your vision for the book, their nods and smiles fueled your confidence. They were genuinely impressed with your work, offering constructive feedback and expressing excitement about the project's potential. It felt like a collaborative environment, one where your creative input was valued and encouraged.

Throughout the day, as you and your new team mapped out the initial plans and timelines for your book, you found yourself frequently checking your phone, eager to update Bakugou. Each break in the meeting gave you a chance to share a quick text with him. "Meeting's going well—they like it :)" you typed after the first hour, your words measured but conveying your underlying excitement.

Bakugou’s response came swiftly, a mixture of pride and his typical brusqueness: "Knew they would." His text was brief but supportive.

By the end of the day, you were mentally exhausted but filled with a profound sense of accomplishment. The team had outlined a robust plan for your book, and their enthusiasm matched your own. They welcomed your ideas and provided insightful suggestions that enhanced the project's scope and depth.

Returning home, you found the apartment empty. Bakugou was still at his shop, as expected. As you put your things away, your phone buzzed with a message from him.

“Gonna be late tonight. Don’t wait up. Eat dinner without me.”

The bluntness of his message was typical, but there was an undertone that felt almost sorrowful. After spending nearly every day together for the last couple of weeks, the apartment felt strangely empty without him. Each room seemed quieter, the absence of his presence a stark contrast to the energy he brought. The silence was deafening, a void that amplified the loneliness you hadn’t felt in a long time. Even after seeing him earlier that day, his absence weighed heavily on you.

You wandered through the apartment, each step echoing in the emptiness. The living room, which had become a shared space of laughter and companionship, felt hollow. The absence of his teasing comments and reassuring presence was like a physical ache. You couldn't help but worry that you were depending on him too much, that your growing attachment would overwhelm him.

Feeling the weight of the empty apartment pressing down on you, you decided to invite Mina over for some company. Her lively presence would be a welcome distraction from the pervasive sense of isolation.

Mina arrived with her usual energy, carrying a bottle of wine and a bag of groceries. “Let’s cook and get drunk,” she declared with a grin.

The two of you set to work in the kitchen, chopping vegetables and stirring sauces. The wine flowed freely, and soon the apartment was filled with the aroma of delicious food and the sound of laughter. As you chatted about your new job, the conversation inevitably turned to Bakugou.

You chatted about your new job, but inevitably, the conversation turned to Bakugou.

“So, how’s it been living with the hothead?” Mina asked with a mischievous grin, perched on top of the counter.

You laughed, a bit self-consciously. “It’s been... interesting. He’s been really helpful, and we’ve gotten closer. It’s weird not having him around.”

Mina raised an eyebrow, her grin widening. “Closer, huh?” Her tone was dripping with suggestion.

You blushed, trying to brush off her teasing. “It’s not like that. I mean, he’s... He’s Bakugou, you know? One minute he’s flirting just to tease me, the next he’s looking at me with those intense eyes, like he can see right through me.”

Mina chuckled, pouring you another glass of wine. “Well, maybe you should just fuck him and find out.”

Your head snapped up. “What?! Are you crazy? We’re roommates.”

“Exactly,” Mina said, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “That way, you’ll know if there’s something real there or if it’s just sexual tension.”

You shook your head, trying to process her words. “But what if it messes everything up? I don’t want to ruin our friendship.”

Mina shrugged, taking a sip of her wine. “Life’s too short to wonder ‘what if.’ Sometimes you have to take the risk. Plus, I heard Bakugou’s last relationship didn’t end too well. Maybe he needs someone like you.”

For some reason, hearing that Bakugou was with another girl made your heart sting and your stomach turn. The thought of him being with someone else was like a knife twisting in your chest, sharp and relentless. You imagined him holding her, his rough hands caressing her skin, his lips whispering sweet nothings into her ear. The idea of him laughing with her, sharing those private moments you had come to cherish, was unbearable. It was as if every laugh, every fleeting touch you had shared with him was now tainted by the ghost of another woman. You hadn’t thought about it before, and now you wondered if he was interested in anyone now. Each imagined scene felt like a betrayal, making the loneliness you felt all the more suffocating.

“It would be weird…” you responded, but internally, you were asking yourself if it really would be.

After dinner, Mina left, and the apartment felt empty once again. You wrapped up the leftovers and placed them in the fridge, leaving a note for Bakugou: Don’t work too hard. 

The next few days followed a similar pattern. Bakugou was constantly busy, leaving early and coming home late. Each morning, you found a note from him on the coffee pot, usually something simple like Don’t forget your lunch. The notes were a small comfort, but you couldn’t ignore the growing sense of loneliness. You missed his presence, his voice, and even his gruff demeanor. You realized how much you had come to enjoy Bakugou being around. He made you feel taken care of in a way you hadn’t felt before. 

You especially enjoyed the moments when he came home from the shop, his cologne mixed with the faint scent of rubber clinging to him. There was something comforting about that smell, something that made you feel safe. And in the mornings, after his early workout, he would come in panting and sweating, looking out of breath but exhilarated. His intense eyes would soften when they met yours, and you felt a strange mix of admiration and longing.

One night, the loneliness became too much. The apartment was dark and quiet, and you found yourself thinking about Bakugou more than you wanted to admit. You missed his touch, his warmth. The need for him became overwhelming, and you found yourself craving his presence in a way that was both thrilling and frustrating. You worried if he felt the same way about you. Did he miss you when he was away? Did he think about you as much as you thought about him?

Without thinking, you retreated to your room, the need for release consuming you. You lay back on your bed, your mind filled with images of Bakugou. You thought about his strong, muscular body, the way his crimson-colored eyes seemed to pierce right through you. You could almost smell his familiar scent, a mix of cedarwood and something uniquely him. Your hand drifted down your body, fingers slipping beneath your underwear. You gasped softly, the sensation heightened by the thought of him.

Unbeknownst to you, Bakugou had come home early that night. He had planned to surprise you, but as he stepped into the apartment, he heard the soft sounds coming from your room. Curiosity piqued, he moved silently towards your door, which was slightly ajar.

The sight that greeted him made his breath catch. You were sprawled on the bed, your hand between your legs, your eyes closed in pleasure. His name slipped from your lips in a breathless whisper, and he felt a surge of desire so intense it nearly knocked him off his feet.

He knew he should turn away, give you your privacy, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away. He watched, mesmerized, as you brought yourself closer to the edge, your body writhing with need.

In an instant, his pants grew tighter, and his breathing heavy. He looked down, his dick practically trying to free itself. He quietly unzipped his pants, his cock springing out and hitting his stomach with a thud.

He should feel ashamed, like a pervert. All thoughts were out of the window and he could focus on were your pants and the wet noises coming from under your shorts. He wondered what you smelled like, tasted like. God, he wanted to know what you felt like. How you would cling to him, while pounding you into the mattress. He would leave no place unmarked, biting you, sucking on your beautiful skin till it turned purple.

Your movements grew more frantic, and you arched your back, moaning his name louder. The sound sent shivers down his spine, and he couldn't take it anymore. His hand moved to stroke himself, trying to match the rhythm of your movements. He bit his lip, stifling a groan, the pleasure mingling with the forbidden thrill of watching you.

Just as you were about to reach your climax, your eyes fluttered open. You were lost in your own world, oblivious to Bakugou's presence. You gasped, your body convulsing as you called out his name, the waves of your orgasm washing over you.

Bakugou's own release followed almost immediately, his breath hitching as he spilled into his hand. He quickly moved back, retreating to his room before you could notice him.

Slipping into his own bed after cleaning his mess, he stared at the ceiling, his mind racing. The raw desire he felt for you was undeniable, overwhelming. He wanted you under him, wanted to feel your body against his, to hear you moan his name in pleasure as he drove you to the edge and beyond.

But with that desire came a torrent of conflicting emotions. You were his roommate, his friend. He valued your companionship, cherished the bond you had built. He didn't want to risk ruining it by acting on his impulses. Yet, the depth of his longing made it hard to think clearly.

His thoughts swirled, vivid images of you beneath him, your skin flushed, your eyes half-lidded with desire. The thought of your bodies entwined, his name on your lips, consumed him. He ached to make it a reality, to cross the line from fantasy to truth.

He knew you wanted him too, with the way you moaned his name, the way your body responded to your own touch while thinking of him. But was that all you wanted? Just a good fuck? The uncertainty gnawed at him. Did you see him as just a means to satisfy your desires, or was there something more?

There was something deeper, something more than just physical desire in his heart. He realized how much he enjoyed the sound of your laugh, the way your eyes lit up when you talked about your passions. These small things had invaded his mind and life in such a short amount of time, but he couldn’t quite grasp what they meant. He knew he wanted you physically, but he struggled with understanding what he wanted outside of that.

What if you did fuck? Would that be all there was to it? Just sex? The thought made his heart ache in a way he didn’t fully understand. He worried about what would happen to your relationship if he gave in to his desires. Would it ruin the bond you shared? Would it complicate things beyond repair? Would you both be able to go back to being friends, or would it always be different?

He thought back to his last relationship, the pain of betrayal, and the vulnerability he had shown only to be hurt in return. He had vowed never to let himself be that open again, to never let anyone have that kind of power over him. The scars of that betrayal still ached, a constant reminder of why he had built walls around his heart.

But now, lying in the dark, he felt those walls begin to crumble. The thought of you, the way you made him feel, was breaking through his defenses. His heart hurt at the thought of letting someone in again, of risking that kind of pain. But the desire to be with you, to have more than just physical connection, was even stronger. Yet, he couldn't fully grasp the depth of his feelings, remaining blissfully unaware of the feeling that was quietly blooming in his heart.

Sleep didn't come easily for Bakugou that night. He tossed and turned, his thoughts a tangled mess of want and restraint, desire and fear. He wanted you more than he'd ever wanted anything, and the realization only made his resolve waver.

°。°。°。°。°。° 。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。

Tagssss - @sukunasbottomlefteyeball @uhnanix @sweetadonisbutbetter @daniwasnothere @lotusstarr @lainlovelain @sodavrr @juniper-july19 @n30nwrites @imsuperawkward

Lmk if you want to be added!!!

[carionto]

Hyperbrake Racing

Everything in Human ships has a manual override. They love automating all processes and reduce any workload to nothing, but also have this compulsive need to be able to take direct control if so desired.

They also have emergency off switches for everything. Yes, including life support. Don't ask, you'll just get a variant of:

"But What If!?"

Obviously, this applies to things you should never under any circumstances shut down preemptively, such as a Hyperspace Jump.

The earliest space-faring civilizations quickly discovered that if a Hyperdrive has a power interruption even for a nano-second your atoms will get dispersed across a few light months. This is why all Hyperdrives have an internal chargeable uninterruptible power supply unit.

Humanity, however, did not allow "Not having any reason whatsoever" to stop them from figuring out a way. Utilizing their ridiculous quantum computer speed and the ability of their fusion reactors to charge a Hyperdrive mid-jump, and with an injection of a disgusting few million lines of hack code that manipulate all related pieces of hardware in just the most nauseating sequences, they created the Hyperbrake.

Also, not a metaphor - braking literally causes Humans to feel nauseous, sometimes throw up, rarely even pass out. Not a single volunteer crew member aboard joint vessels from any of the other Coalition species has dared to "test" what happens to them.

As with nearly all things Humans come across or invent, they will find a use for it should one not occur normally.

_____________________

Near Neptune

Daniel, Samantha, and Nicholas Schreier were three siblings ages 17, 19, and 20, respectively. Today they had "borrowed" their dad's General FordStar mark 980-MZ HaulerHound, a civilian grade transport typically used by small business owners. Dad, however, was an enthusiast, and had modified the "Hound Dog", as he calls it, with a military grade reactor and computer core. He's always been that guy who knows a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy who can get the thing legally enough.

There is a nearby research station that the kids often visit due to their mom working there, but today she was not. Instead, what they are doing, is racing against each other to set the best record. Well, technically the opposite of racing - coming to a halt.

Using the Hyperbrake, they are competing to see who can stop the closest to the stations outer point-defense range without entering it or you automatically lose. After Samantha's turn, they were suddenly contacted by the station. It was Yakovskii, one of mom's colleagues and a frequent guest at dad's barbecues, so they were on sorta good terms. Not by the tone voice coming through the comms rights now though:

"What in the Hell are you thinking!? At first I thought you were just messing around and accidentally did that, but TWICE now!?! I checked the trajectory, if you had stopped a half-second later, you would've ended up mere meters from Neptune's upper atmosphere! Did you account for the possible sudden gravitational pull? Can you maneuver that lumbering ship fast enough to not get pulled down? Not to mention Hyperbraking severely impairs your cognitive abilities for a moment? A moment that you need to be clearheaded for or risk DEATH!?!"

The three siblings could only hang their heads in shame and mutter out some weak apologies. After a moment of silence and reflection, Yakovskii speaks in a warmer tone:

*sigh* "Look, I understand it's a fancy new toy and you want to see what you can do. I get it, I really do. Me and my brother used to play vertical hockey the first time we got our hands on a surplus gravity field generator. But we first figured out how to make sure we didn't break our bones in case it failed. Seriously, never forget to consider your own safety first before you try out new things in a peaceful environment. You're not being chased by pirates or trying to avoid the law or whatever.

Take your time, pick a starting position that's further away and keeps Neptune and any of its moons to the side of the station, then aim for an area of space that only has the outer range of the defenses and empty space ahead from your point of view. And please set the regular Hyperjump destination within Sol, don't just pick a random place. The Hyperbrake sometimes loops in on itself and never executes the brake and can only be reset once out of Hyperspace. You don't want to get stuck in a pointless jump for hours do you?"

After this admonishment, the siblings apologized more energetically and took his advice to heart. They spent the next hour competing until all three were down to single meter differences and kinda got bored, so they docked at the station and hung out with the off-duty staff, played some poker, but then dad barged in and dragged them all home. They were not invited to the barbecue gatherings for two weeks, but only because mom told him to. Personally he was excited about all the data his kids had unknowingly given him with all their jumping and braking, a real stress test for his beautiful Hound Dog.

[pluralcollector]

it takes two to make a story: one to deliver it and one to receive it

a toh emperor acolyte au fanfic.

(emperor acolyte au by tumblr user pespillo.

warning for allusions to and discussions of child abuse, both physical and psychological / emotional. assuming you're familiar with the emperor acolyte au that this is set in, you can expect similar heavier themes.

king is humanoid in this story.)

“every story has a happy ending if you wait long enough. death is only the end if you assume the story's about you. wouldn't you prefer to escape stories and endings altogether?”

--paraphrased from an episode of “welcome to night vale” by joseph fink and jeffrey cranor (but then we added some inferences)

“i’m the hero of this story, don't need to be saved. (hey, open wide, here comes original sin.)”

--quoted from “hero” by regina spektor

“how does our story end?” king asks, his voice rippling through the previous quiet like the chiming of a bell that signals the termination of one thing while shepherding in the next -- a clear and clean distinction that hazards no space for ambiguous twilight.

king’s been watching the collector read for well over an hour, a habit he indulges in not infrequently (though he prefers to avoid describing it as frequently -- such convoluted employments of language help keep king’s paradoxical state of being just slightly more palatable, and he's never counted with much of that to begin with).

usually, the collector interrupts their reading swiftly anytime king makes his presence known within the same space (the same applies to some instances of the collector noticing king's presence without king intending to, but at other times the collector can prove remarkably adept at discerning when king, like a feral cat or a skittish rabbit, wishes to be in the collector's proximity without directly engaging them), greeting him amicably before inviting him to hear about whatever fabulous and fantastical adventures they're reading through this time around.

king, in turn, tends to promptly acquiesce, though he is usually more interested in just hearing the collector talk than in the content of books themselves. it works out for both of them this way: the collector gets to ramble enthusiastically about something they're really interested in, and king gets to be soothed by the continued production of the voice he's grown simultaneously most familiar with and in most need of hearing.

today, though, there is a slight modification to that routine: the collector has delved into a particularly engrossing escapade, and thus has refrained from immediately reacting to king’s presence. that's fine, king thinks: he'll wait; just being able to see the collector is almost as good as hearing them, and he's in no rush anyway.

king can discern the outward signs of the collector struggling between the gravitational pulls of king's presence and the book in their hands, their gaze periodically flickering towards king for an instant before scrambling back to locate whatever sentence they were in the middle of reading, reminding king of a compass that's been placed by a magnet and thus lost all sense of orientation, floundering in erratic pirouettes as if every direction could somehow be pointed at simultaneously (as if pointing at every direction simultaneously could communicate some secret, meaningful logic, and not merely an unhelpful paradox). this fortifies king's resolve to remain patient, but desires often clash unsettlingly within him, and, as time drags on, king starts feeling like a piece of furniture that has become so old and commonplace that it no longer elicits any reaction from whoever selected it as a suitable addition to their household, and this proves too disconcerting for king to not immediately attempt to dissolve.

hence king’s question: “how does a story like ours end?”

he phrases it differently the second time around, having become embarrassed -- as well as alarmed -- by the potential implications of the question he's rather carelessly blurted out in his haste to entice the collector to pay attention to him. both versions encapsulate feelings he's been mulling over for quite some time now, though he's unfortunately just now figured out how to parse them with deceptively effective concision -- unfortunate because he would have much preferred to have put that question to himself in the privacy of his own mind before alerting the collector to its existence.

at least the collector is paying attention to him now.

the collector sets down the heavy, leather bound tome they've been perusing and quirks a quizzical eyebrow, regarding king with surprise. this has the (presumably) unintended effect of making king feel like a bug that's unwittingly wandered into a glass jar and is now being scrutinized closely by the owner of said jar, which is hardly any improvement on the unnoticed furniture scenario.

king meets the collector’s gaze with steady solemnity, endeavoring to expose none of the loud, messy feelings presently thrashing within him like a shark hauled out of the water by a pair of inexperienced hands that hold on despite understanding viscerally that it will lead to getting bitten and the shark escaping back into the sea anyway (perhaps putting up the appearance of struggling, like refusing a gift before capitulating to the giver’s insistence purely as a pretense of politeness, is important in some interactions, but king does not think this is one of them -- now that he's dropped this load unexpectedly and unceremoniously onto the collector, he'd rather pretend that's always been his intention).

the collector stares at king silently for a handful of seconds, understanding dawning on his complexion with a steady slowness that reminds king of flipping through pages of stop motion illustrations, appreciating both how they must all play out in more rapid conjunction and how distinct and essential each individual snapshot is. king isn't sure if other people also experience this clarity while interacting with the collector or if it is yet another curious quirk of king's special closeness to them.

“i don't know, king,” the collector answers honestly, both eyebrows furrowed with obvious concern now, their pupils darting almost imperceptibly as they take full stock of king’s appearance. they vocalize with a seriousness that mirrors king’s, though king suspects theirs is more genuine. “i’ve never read a story like ours.”

there's a pause in the conversation, the collector raising a thumb and index finger to frame their chin and tilting their head sideways as if to examine a painting from another angle, their mind clearly churning with the effort to provide their best friend with a satisfactory or at least worthwhile answer. but, strive as they might, they have to admit when they're stumped, and they'd rather say so to him than pretend otherwise.

king waits a breath’s length longer for the collector to muster something further -- only once he realizes he's been holding his breath for an uncomfortably long period does he exhale -- another bell ringing to signal a transition.

“you really don't know then,” king remarks, trying not to sound disappointed while also feeling that concealing how he really feels might prove a dire mistake in this situation -- the conflict between not hurting the collector's feelings by exposing his own feelings and not hurting the collector's feelings by withholding his own feelings as present and alive as ever.

“i don't,” the collector confirms, apparently uninjured -- but not unbothered -- by king's disappointment. their eyes are swirling with growing worry, gray clouds gathering into each other’s embrace and steering steadily towards a downpour.

the last thing king wants is to make the collector cry, but perhaps he doesn't deserve to ask a question like this without being punished a little -- it is, he recognizes now, a bit cruel of him to even confront the collector with it.

what other answer could the collector possibly give king without lying? did king just need to hear directly from the collector what he already knew to be true? is this just another one of his petty, ill-mannered attempts at making someone else feel as bad as he does because he's so self-righteously indignant by being completely alone in his grief? or was some part of him -- some awful leech of a part of him -- actually hoping his best friend would lie to him?

if the collector had lied, king is now forced to wonder, would he have been relieved and pretended to believe them? or would that have been exactly the excuse that leech part of himself always seems to be seeking out like warm blood to stage a vicious and melodramatic upending of their entire relationship, claiming -- as he'd surely claim to have been certain of all along, even though he is presently not -- that the collector does not trust him enough to award him the truth, and, adding insult to injury, thinks king could ever fail to slice through such a shallow farce? (this hypothetical scenario somehow coexisting with the one where he is eager to be lied to and to internally gaslighting himself into believing he really does not know he is being lied to and what both of their behaviors suggest about their relationship).

“that's worrisome,” king states flatly, more to avoid saying nothing at all as he feels himself start floundering in his own internal ruminations and dissociating from the reality presently surrounding him, as if he really does believe he can just drop these potentially highly distressing things on the single most important person in his life with neither warning nor explanation, then silently retreat into himself without a care for its potential consequences.

king spent too much time alone with his own thoughts when he was younger, blurting things out aloud because there was no one around who could or would answer, slowly and effectively desensitizing himself to any and all severity that they might carry.

numb to his own feelings then, and, now, also numb to how his feelings make others feel. it's a hard habit to smother.

“more worrisome than feeling yoked to a predetermined destiny?” the collector inquires, smiling slightly in a fashion that clearly conveys that he intends the question in a lighthearted, theoretical, thought experiment sort of way -- not in relation to any specific real world situation.

yoked, king thinks, finding it, for a moment, exceedingly amusing that anyone would use that word in a conversation not about cattle or some other beast of burden type -- an effect of just how much the collector reads, this aspiring literati tendency to season their otherwise perfectly ordinary statements with the occasional poetic lingo.

but then king considers the actual implications of being described as yoked, even in a metaphorical sense, and gets the dreadful sense that maybe he is a beast of burden type -- he's certainly a beast, and he was certainly raised to shoulder burdens, so what really sets him apart from an ox physically yoked to the plough they will someday collapse next to, dead from the exhaustion of doing nothing throughout their life except dragging it along for someone else's benefit?

king tries to muster some compassion for the collector's careless misstep by focusing on how profoundly apologetic they look after quickly realizing the potential implications for him, but, alas, it does not succeed in softening his tone when he next speaks.

“at least back then i knew what to expect, and i could prepare myself,” king snaps sulkily, seeming to shrink into himself as he wrinkles up his dirt smudged nose, but with the careful calculation of a snake that only withdraws to aim better upon lunging. “but a story that doesn't adhere to a formula is sure to be filled with unexpected plot twists, and how am i ever supposed to get comfortable with how things are when i’m always expecting them to change?”

despite the tension boiling between them like a cauldron of soup that's seconds away from spilling over if the heat isn't quickly and dramatically toned down, the collector smiles with pleasure (and a dab of pride) at king’s reference to literary tropes -- proof he's been paying attention during their rambles.

the collector decides to try continuing the conversation through this lens -- perhaps it can help king feel less antagonized if he is not so obviously

being discussed.

“surprises are good in a story! they can lead to something entirely new, which has never been experienced before!” the collector proclaims, perhaps a tad too enthusiastically to be entirely credible, but king does find the ease with which they deflect his animosity without anything like an equally acerbic retort quite the relief (as well as a target of envy).

at times like this, king gets the intoxicating sense that there is no insult, argument, or otherwise hurtful remark either of them could make that their relationship could not somehow survive -- intoxicating because it occasionally tempts him to recklessly test the collector with an egotistical need to prove to himself just how valuable he is to them (too valuable, he hopes, to be permitted to push them away so easily), but also because it might someday actually lull king into a false sense of security.

“besides,” the collector adds, waving one hand in the air with such fluidity that a cornucopia of tiny, prismic stars burst like confetti from the tips of their fingers -- an entirely unconscious and -- to king -- entirely endearing use of magic. “a story with no surprises isn't much fun to read!”

king’s mouth twists sideways to land somewhere on the spectrum of smile to snarl, his upper lip curling back in that characteristically animalistic fashion that he is simultaneously proud of and disturbed by, without quite reaching the point of exposing his fangs any more than they normally protrude from his mouth -- a compromise between the desire to backtrack to explicitly addressing himself and following his best friend into this detached anonymity, as if either of them could ever mistake this conversation for anything other than what it has been from the beginning: king’s -- and now, as king has so selfishly dragged them in, also the collector’s -- anxiety over the future of their relationship.

“it can be… reassuring,” king tries, as cautiously as a hiker that is as noisy as possible in hopes of scaring away any nearby predators, king’s halting words and darting gaze an implicit plea for the collector to gently steer him away if he wanders too close to territory that might prove too treacherous for even the two of them to navigate at this stage in their shared and individual development.

the collector waits quietly for king to continue, patient and expectant as a hound plopped down at the foot of their human companion in anticipation of the occasional, much relished head scratch -- a comparison king instantly detests and chastises himself internally for even conceiving of, certain it's just him who keeps projecting his weird hierarchical complex onto the collector, and any mention of any of this to them would leave them utterly baffled (and serving as further proof of how out of touch with reality king has become that he can not even be friends with another person without constant anxiety over either being exploited or him doing the exploiting).

“to not have to be guessing all of the time. to not have to struggle to understand what is happening and why,” king offers by way of explanation, gripping both of his hips so he can tap his fingers nervously against them, his tail swishing just as restlessly as a dog that thinks there might be a reason to wag happily but isn't quite convinced they won't be disappointed by the complete withdrawal of the hoped for reward. king hates exposing uncertainty, but this, naturally, only heightens the outward signs of it.

“to be able to just go along for the ride, without doing any additional work,” king huffs, sounding -- to himself, at least -- exactly like a child that knows he'll  be told he's correct if he's just petulant enough about it, because no one else wants to deal with arguing with him anymore.

sometimes, it feels simply impossible to turn off the urgent sense -- which instilled in him years ago -- that he has only ever earned anything through coercion and domination, through the bullying of people that would rather give him his way than deal with the wrath and cruelty that they're certain -- that eveb king is certain at times -- would follow any failure to do so. in king’s mind, he is always only ever a tiny emotional flare away from reverting back to his most bestial qualities, a monster whose vision turns red with fury and can no longer distinguish between an acceptable and drastically disproportionate response to any perceived slight. even in a casual conversation between best friends, king does not feel safe to be around.

“as a reader,” king clarifies quickly. “a reader doesn't always want to deal with the emotional whiplash of surprises. it can be pleasant to not be surprised.”

the collector watches king pensively and he can tell that they agree with him, both in a literary sense and, more pressingly, in regards to life itself: there is comfort to be distilled from mundanity, from the repetition of routines and the fulfillment of expectations, from a seed planted in the ground and watered regularly growing into a sprout and following the steps laid out in a manual building a functional radio and eating lunch together with a best friend being filled with fun chatter and laughter and the same sense of revival and renewal that the rare good night’s sleep provides but by far more easily and more reliably.

“besides, king blurts out, continuing with an urgency that suggests if he does not share it now he might quickly forget it forever and then no one will ever know about it, “nothing is ever really new. even the unexpected relies on expectations, which means it also follows a formula, albeit a more hidden one. but it can still be cracked.”

the collector raises their eyes from the spine of a book they had been idly tracing, affixing king with the excited glimmer that he recognizes from invitations to go exploring and play grudgby and dance together. even if the collector’s lips have not moved, king can see that their eyes are already smiling.

“what's your strategy then?” the collector asks eagerly. “do you try reverse predicting outcomes? figure out what the obvious cliché would be and expect the opposite?”

“i’m afraid i may already be doing that.”

there it is: king once again making explicit that he is still thinking -- still talking -- about himself, that this entire conversation, to him, revolves around him (even as he knows an equally critical part of it is entirely about how the collector fits -- and will fit -- into king’s life, choices, future). does it make king seem honest and vulnerable, in that peculiar manner others sometimes find compelling, or is he just coming off as hugely egotistical?

perhaps all deliberate vulnerability is, to a degree, an egotistical act: to expose -- to offer -- one's vulnerability is to assert it is of value, that one’s struggle matters not just to oneself but to someone else, too.

what if this doesn't matter to the collector like it does to king? what if the collector doesn't care about king’s anxiety regarding the future, doesn't deem it worth attention, or -- worst of all -- finds it laughable? has king just lost respect in the mind of the collector, has he been diagnosed as weak, ridiculous, neurotic?

while king is agonizing over the potential disaster he may have deliberately staged, the collector is doing their own calculations, peering at their best friend as if through the wall of a cell, wondering if enough pressure has swelled around them to permit the process of osmosis that might lead the collector straight through the barrier and into the shell of an abode that king has sequestered himself within. too much pressure, and the collector may well be forced back out -- but it might be worth the journey if they can reach king through that distorting blockage for even a brief moment.

the collector decides to try.

“would you prefer to still have everything laid out for you by someone else?” the collector asks at point blank, eliciting such a choking gasp from their best friend that they feel the impulse to take it all back, apologize, and promise to never bring such things up again, but they muscle through their own defensive barrier and determine to endure the stabbing discomfort exuding from both of them. “it might seem like it was easier when you thought you didn't have any options, when you thought no decision you made was your own, but…”

the collector trails off, biting their tongue from the embarrassment of having lost their nerve at the most crucial moment. king, however, has heard enough to draw his own conclusion.

“i’m a coward, then.”

king spits out the words like a bullet he hubristically thought he could catch between his teeth but instead let jam into his tongue, resentful yet matter-of-fact, accepting of something else he has failed to hate into nonexistence.

astonished, the collector’s eyes go wide as he shakes his head, trying and failing to muster any verbal opposition.

as for king, his eyes roll towards the back of his head, an arc as smooth and graceful as it is dismissive. the collector cringes reflexively.

“to miss being controlled, to want to go back to it, to think it's the only way i can be -- i’m a coward for that,” king continues, crossing his arms over his chest and shooting his best friend a defiant glare -- a misdirection of the contempt he feels for himself.

the collector, to king’s surprise, does not answer with any trace whatsoever of anger, instead reaching for king’s hand -- which, upon registering the familiar and coveted warmth of the collector’s skin, immediately releases its grip on his arm and capitulates to being cradled by the collector’s like a wild animal that knows there is no point even trying to swim against the river’s tide, that, wherever it might lead them, they are better off submitting passively to its will.

there can be great comfort in such a giving in, but king is not quite ready for it yet.

“being afraid isn't the same as being a coward,” the collector says softly, taking a step towards king so they can stand closer, so their fingers can thread freely through king’s claws while their equally warm breath sprinkles his face like the misty spray from a waterfall -- gentle, refreshing, and agonizingly ephemeral.

it doesn't have to feel ephemeral, king thinks, then nearly laughs aloud at the notion: like he'd ever have the courage to tell his best friend how intensely he longs to feel that warm breath on his face, those warm fingers cradling his hand, this warm proximity between their bodies -- without having the entire experience dampened by the certainty of its brevity, by not being able to simply say -- with words or otherwise -- please just stay this close to me for a while longer. king really is a coward.

“but it leads to the same,” king contends gruffly, like he's refusing some medicine he knows will help him feel better because he's determined to just weather the symptoms until the illness resolves itself (while also knowing this particular illness can not resolve itself on its own).

“i can't imagine ever thinking of you as a coward, king,” the collector counters, correctly ascertaining that king’s anxiety balances precariously on the collector's perception of him but managing, unknowingly, to set off a different source of said anxiety. “not after everything we've been thr --”

“so you don't have any expectations for me, then?” king challenges with blatant hostility, his upper lip successfully retreating into that dastardly snarl that makes him look and feel like an old and battered beast that just doesn't know how to stop picking fights with everyone and everything. “i’ve already fulfilled my role as poor, sacrificial lamb -- suffered enough to earn eternal adoration, regardless of everything i do after!”

king is shouting and he knows it's alarming the collector, tightening their muscles and quickening that normally pleasant breeze of a breath of theirs, but king has moved squarely into wanting to see the same despair that consumes him reflected in someone else -- it suddenly feels like the only way he can ever come even close to being understood.

the collector, king knows, is highly empathetic, and with none more than king himself. king really is a monster for doing this to them.

“i could do nothing for the rest of my life and you'd keep on loving me just the same, no more and no less than if i’d done any number of other things instead!” king yells. he knows he's gone too far, burdened them both with this terrible experience, but he can't stop, not when every despicable feeling he's ever harbored for himself is suddenly bubbling up his throat and no one but him seems willing to state aloud the veracity of it all -- if his best friend won't condemn him, he can do the work for both of them.

“it's all the same to you, even if i were to - were to - to -!”

king is sharply cut off in the same instant he realizes he is entirely out of breath, his eyes widening with a trickle of panic as his unoccupied hand clutches the area across his chest that guards his heart. he wheezes for a smattering of seconds, gaze lowering to the library floor with a melangé of shame and despair.

the collector remains silent for a spell, which feels as eternal and bewitching as actual magic, their eyebrows furrowing with the agonized consternation that only encountering king’s pain can elicit in them. the collector sucks on their inner cheek, eyes darting across the covers and titles of the various books scattered across the table, as if their recollections of how the stories contained within them were resolved could provide the collector with some answer, with some formula to carry the two of them safely through the trials before and between them.

king stiffens as he feels the collector lean closer, but otherwise restrains himself from reacting. slowly and gently, the collector cups their palm around king’s cheek, and nudges him towards meeting eyes with them.

king’s breath catches in his throat like vomit he refuses to expel, striving with feverish impotence to reverse the process and fill his lungs with enough carbon dioxide to force him to pass out and thus escape this situation altogether.

unfortunately for king, life has honed him into far sturdier material, and he's disappointed by the sharp inhale that parts his lips like a knife prying open the shell of a still living oyster. he's still panting slightly, trying to recover from momentarily depriving himself of oxygen, when the collector speaks.

“i love you, king,” the collector begins simply yet intensely, hitting king quite like he has never heard such words from his best friend or really anyone else before and thus proportionally deluging his nervous system with both ecstasy and terror, the sort of whirlwind thrill that he imagines must keep recreational skydivers hooked to periodically flinging their lives in death’s direction. he wants terribly to hide his face behind his hands and run away, find some niche he can crawl into and expire without ever being found again, but he is even more intensely transfixed by the delectable sound of his best friend’s profession and, like with the echoes of a bell that continue to ring in his ears long after the bell itself has stilled, he can do nothing to rid himself of it.

“loving you doesn't mean i don't expect anything from you,” the collector continues gently. “but it does mean i won't stop loving you just because you diverge from those expectations. you're full of surprises, king, and that's a big part of why i love you!”

the collector’s words taste so sweet to king that he is reminded of those excessively elaborate confections that the collector is so fond of indulging in: whipped cream and meringue and sugar cubes that melt on his tongue the instant they touch it -- so ephemeral he can only continue to enjoy them by eating copious amounts of them, and even then they eventually run out and he is left with a yearning for their return.

it's that kind of yearning that king feels for the collector, a need for company and conversation and closeness and comprehension that is never fully satisfied, that always begs for more. king is like a child that failed to develop object permanence, but with his relationships: anytime the collector isn't actively paying attention to him, the strength and certainty of their friendship might as well never have existed.

“besides,” the collector adds, a suspiciously mischievous sentiment tugging one corner of his mouth into a lopsided smile, like they've just orchestrated a marvelous heist or other such plan to get the two of them into a lot of fun and a lot of trouble. king envies their ability to find such carefree joy in the midst of this situation.

“it's not like there's a limit to loving someone. there's no set amount of love you can either gain or lose forever. i’m constantly finding new reasons to love you. and if there's ever trouble between us, well, we can work it out -- and then maybe our love will be even stronger because we got through that together!” the collector says, seeming quite convinced by this theory.

king wants so profoundly to also believe it that, for a moment, he allows himself to imagine a future where he does -- it's a fleeting vision, like reading an especially fanciful science fiction story, but even implausible stories reveal something of what is plausible.

“love evolves as relationships do,” the collector concludes with an air of satisfaction, as if they have indeed reached the conclusion of a particularly stressful story, one in which, despite the greatest of odds, everyone ends up happy. “it's not quantifiable. it's qualitative.”

king is so shaken by what the collector has said to do much besides stand there, rigid as a mouse that knows moving in any way will give its position away to a nearby predator and thus seal their demise -- though he does manage to lift his gaze when he feels his best friend’s fingers brush against his forehead, watching utterly transfixed as the collector guides a lock of dark, curly hair away from his face and tucks it behind his ear.

“you really are cute when your hair gets all over your face,” the collector murmurs, with such naked tenderness that king thinks they must certainly mean those words only for themself, having only accidentally -- and, judging by the unperturbed serenity that frames their facial features, unconsciously -- uttered them aloud. “you have such gorgeous hair…”

and there it is, king thinks: the possibility of a different kind of love -- a love that makes room for the sort of physical and emotional intimacies that king daydreams of but dares not make known with any sort of declaration or request; a love that can encompass and account for the fervent intensity of king’s feelings for the collector; a love that requires no secrets from either of them and instead demands a radically transformative honesty in all matters; a love that might entail king finally placing his own hand on the collector’s cheek and feel comfortable in the certainty that this gesture can only ever be a welcome and pleasant caress, and not the dangerous proximity of his claws to his best friend's throat. but whether the collector is thinking -- or, indeed, has ever even considered -- this sort of love, king has no way of judging for certain. and so, with a regretful resignation that has become entirely too familiar to him, he lets the moment -- the opportunity -- pass them both by, offering his best friend nothing beyond a steady and attentive gaze.

even if king can not express his true appreciation for the collector’s proclamations, he will, at the very least, ensure they know he's paying attention to each and every word.

the collector smiles with a serenity that king finds himself perplexed to be the target of, fiddling with the strand of his hair and managing to wrap it around their finger -- a sight that elicits a soft chuckle from deep within the collector’s throat and a ricocheting heartbeat from king. it all looks to king like nothing more and nothing less than an excuse to remain this physically close to king, and king, despite his outward guardedness, hopes against hope that the pleading within him for the collector to just continue this way indefinitely somehow permeates through his petrified expression and reaches his best friend.

despite his yearning -- or, perhaps, perversely, because of his yearning -- king can not bring himself to say anything back to the collector, so the moment, once again, goes no further.

king tried not to visualize punching the petulant muscle that is his heart.

“here, why don't i tell you a story?” the collector offers, breaking a spell king is now fairly certain both of them are pretending to not be aware of.

the collector performs a small jump to propel them into the air, pirouetting on their way up until they're hovering next to one of the shelves in the bookcase that are too high to be reached by king. he watches anxiously as his best friend runs their index finger across various spines, considering each title for a moment before moving onto the next.

“i’ve read some pretty fun ones lately!” the collector exclaims, shooting king an amicable grin before seeming to decide none of the books presently within reach will do for their best friend and instead churning up something from memory -- king always prefers when the collector gives stories their own personalized spin, after all.

when king doesn't respond, the collector adds hopefully, “it might help get your mind off what's bothering you. and, if not, well… at least we'll spend some time together, and that's always nice, right?”

the question feels, to king, entirely rhetorical, but he nods his assent anyway, which -- mercifully -- broadens the collector’s smile to the point that the dimples in his cheeks become visible, like beautiful islets that only rise above the water when the tide is at its lowest.

“is it an allegory?” king asks, more to force himself to start using his vocal cords than anything else, though it's also true that he's hoping to dispel the residual anxiety that buzzes around him like a flock of gnats that just won't give up on their quarry.

“every story is an allegory if you're willing to put yourself in it!” the collector answers breezily, sweeping aside the various books scattered across the table with magic so they can take a seat right at the center of it, legs crossed and hand beckoning at their best friend.

king finds himself unsettled by this response, but climbs onto the table anyway, plopping down in front of the collector with a pair of eyebrows that remain stubbornly -- and frustratedly -- scrunched.

“okay,” king concedes. “let's find out what allegory we can find in this story then.”

the collector beams, then reaches for king’s hand again, meeting no more resistance than the first time around. king swallows with noticable difficulty.

“i’m glad you said we,” the collector says, drawing attention to something king had neither consciously intended nor noticed until then.

king thinks, but doesn't say: i’m glad there's a we to speak of, and i keep having to say we aloud just to remind myself we are a real thing.

king stares blankly for a moment, then nods. the collector squeezes king’s hand.

“once upon a time,” the collector begins, swirling their unoccupied hand around to conjure a small bubble of iridescent magic, which projects objects from the scene they describe. “there was a sea, and on that sea there was an island, and within that island there was a jungle, and inside of the jungle there was a temple, and at the heart of the temple there was an egg.”

the collector pauses -- clearly for dramatic effect -- the magic bubble swelling to accommodate a rendition of what this mysterious scene might look like, each couple of words uttered by the collector compelling it to zoom closer and closer, until king can see the white marbled walls and platinum statues and obsidian pedestal where a single egg balances precariously.

king squints at the image, wondering how much of it is due to the collector’s imaginative creative license and how much faithfully adheres to the descriptions they read in whatever book they are now paraphrasing for him.

then the hair on the back of king’s neck starts to stand up and he swats at it reflexively, like it's some kind of bug he can just scare away. unsettled, king turns away from the magic bubble.

the collector, mistaking king’s behavior for disinterest or -- worse -- displeasure with them, tries making the narration more interesting.

“the egg was the last of its kind, and it had waited, for a very long time and all on its lonesome, to be ready to hatch,” the collector continues, nudging the magic bubble towards their best friend so it's once more within his line of sight. king realizes with a start how he's made them feel and opens his mouth to muster something like an apology -- or, at least, a plausible explanation -- but nothing comes out. he briefly considers just fleeing the scene.

“the egg might have well hatched with no one around to witness it,” the collector says solemnly, before adjusting to a far cheerier timbre: “were it not for a young witch that happened upon the mysterious temple and its egg at precisely the right moment!”

watching the peculiar egg in the illusion start to crack, king feels his stomach contract painfully, like he's being warned about having just ingested something poisonous.

“the witch decided to take the egg back with her to her home, where it was able to hatch in her company. and the name of the creature that emerged from that egg was --”

“stop,” king says, the word almost too quiet to be heard by even himself, but with all the telltale alarm of someone trying to stop another person from stepping right in the middle of ongoing traffic.

the collector feels that alarm constrict around their chest like a rubber band snapping back into its smallest size, but their mouth is already open and words are continuing to spill out of it, until --

“stop!” king yells, fury nestled like a cuckoo's egg amidst his every effort to have a nice, normal time with the collector, to not burst with a pyroclastic flow of emotions that suffocate everything before even becoming aware of its approach.

the collector, apprehending the intensity of king’s command, slices through the word they were in the middle of uttering and adds no more from the story, but they can not help sputtering out puzzledly, “what? why?”

“this story could never happen,” king states, firm but with a pleading that he hopes the collector can discern just well enough to heed.

“stories aren't only about what could happen,” the collector counters, still struggling to understand why their best friend’s demeanor has shifted so drastically, what has upset him so clearly and profoundly.

king lowers his gaze in lieu of offering an answer, so the collector also stares down at the ground, as if this could somehow lead them to perceive whatever is troubling king.

after a tense pause, the collector offers hopefully, “it's an allegory, remember? what happens isn't what's import --”

“i don't care about the allegory in this story,” king mumbles. the implication -- that king himself doesn't want to become part of the story -- goes unaddressed, but king has spoken with a finality that the collector knows well enough to respect.

the collector nods in comprehension and contracts the fingers of their hand into a fist to make the magic bubble burst. king expects to only feel relief at its disappearance, yet discovers a strange yearning alongside it, like nostalgia for something he can't be certain he ever experienced.

“where did you even find a story like that?” king huffs angrily, more an admonishment than an inquiry, which he immediately realizes is cruel of him and wishes he had the magic to make disappear like his best friend did with the bubble.

the collector, however, seems less perturbed by king’s acerbity than intrigued by the prospect of answering. their lips twist into a pensive frown as they scratch the back of their head, seemingly genuinely stumped by the task.

shrugging their shoulders, the collector states casually, “somewhere in the restricted section of the library probably! it's a pretty big place, and there are so many old journals from long dead witches and demons in there. i tend to forget what happened in which.”

this information does nothing to assuage king’s unease, but the possibility that everything the collector just told him was an entirely fictional composite of multiple different sources does, on an intellectual level, relieve him: it is truly a story that could never happen, that never has happened.

there's another uncomfortable pause, king trying half-heartedly to come up with an excuse to leave that won't further injure his best friend, the collector fidgeting by running a hand across their forearm while chewing on their lower lip.

then the collector has an idea, and blurts out brightly, “hey, i know! why don't you tell me a story? that way, you can decide what kind of story it is!”

king stares at his best friend perplexedly for a few seconds, as if this has never even crossed his mind as an option -- which, he's equally baffled to realize, it hasn't.

“i,” king stammers, feeling like he's just been pulled onto a stage and told to dance in a style he knows nothing about (a real scenario he has ample experience with, also thanks to the collector). “i don't know any stories… besides the ones you've told me, i mean. and you already know all of those better than me, so…”

king deliberately trails off, hoping that will be the end of it -- but also, mysteriously, delightfully, relieved when it isn't.

the collector can be quite insistent, and, despite the chagrin at being dragged out of his comfort zone, king is glad the collector deems him worth dragging along.

“really?” the collector asks, with a surprise that bears no judgment, only curiosity. “you didn't hear any when you were little?”

a bout of sweat breaks out across king’s temples as he's forced to -- however briefly -- consider a truthful answer to this question -- he arrives at nothing so concrete as images or even words, but there are a lot of feelings that he instantly realizes he can not allow to proliferate for even a nanosecond.

“i don't remember anything from when i was little,” king states decisively, as much for his own ears to hear as the collector’s. he starts repeating it in his mind, like some kind of warding spell (knowledge of what he needs to ward away at all costs being part of what he is warding away), even as he utters different words aloud: “if i ever did hear any stories, they're gone now.”

like everything else from when i was little, king could add, but doesn't. it's not true, anyway: nothing’s gone, not entirely -- he just prefers to believe every recollection he ever has from his childhood, whether merely a vague yet arresting emotional aura or a full-blown, multi sensory hallucination, is some fantastical fabrication, the manic misfirings of his twisted, knotted, broken neurons, and not in any way reflective of any real past experiences.

to the collector, it's like the sound of a door slamming shut in their face before they ever even tried to open it. they sigh wearily, but elect to push no further.

both friends descend into a silence that feels like a scab that's been scraped all over again and bleeding anew, and king thinks maybe the time has finally arrived for this entire interaction to come to an end.

but king just sits there, making no attempt, either verbal or physical, to leave. he's stuck remembering something the collector once said to him, not long enough after the day of unity for him to not feel like it was somehow part of the same, uninterrupted event.

this can be a new beginning, the collector told king. you can start over -- with me!

king wants to believe in that vision more than he can recall ever wanting anything else in his life, to feel that this -- where he is sitting right this moment -- is part of a new beginning, with none of his past attached to it: no preface, epitaph, or prologue -- just the first chapter in what will certainly sprawl into a vast and exciting epic.

with the collector. a new beginning for king’s story, with the collector by his side this time.

the question that keeps tormenting king is whether a new beginning, even with the collector as part of king’s story, is enough for a new ending as well -- it's always possible they are merely rehearsing for the same grand finale that marked the end of his past, violently aborted and still aching life.

king is so deep in the labyrinth of his own ruminations that he doesn't notice the collector’s face brighten.

“so invent one!” the collector exclaims, looking proud to have come up with what seems to them the perfect solution. “make up your own story, one you want to tell!”

king isn't sure about that. the things he comes up with that make it onto his tongue and through his lips are rarely things he wants to tell. and so he can only imagine that any story he could come up with would amount to much of the same, like being betrayed by the inadvertent flushing of his face or poisoned by a beverage he brewed himself.

the collector says every story is an allegory if you are willing to put yourself in it, and king can only hope he would be positively unwilling to put himself in any story he concocted.

yet the collector is staring at king expectantly, full of a love-laced conviction that he is capable and willing to step up to this task, and he feels he has reached the limit of times he can disappoint his best friend in one afternoon.

so, worn down by fatigue and a desperate desire to prove his best friend’s faith in him is not ill-founded, king sucks in a deep breath, and begins.

“there was once… there once was,” king mumbles, uncertain how to even open a story he has not thought out ahead of time, a story he is now determined to somehow improvise in its entirety -- and all it takes is the slight widening of the collector’s smile to muster the foolishness to continue.

“in the beginning… that was not the beginning,” king starts over, enunciating each word slowly and clearly. “there was… a child from the stars… and there was also… a titan.”

king pauses to swallow anxiously, a disruption probably only noticeable to himself.

“they were both very young when they met... and they were both very old when they were still friends… at the end… that was not the end…”

king stops, feeling that the story has reached its natural conclusion after only those couple of lines (isn't it the collector who once said, brevity is the soul of wit?), but the collector is still watching king expectantly, eyes wide and sparkling, lips arched into an enchanted grin, like a child that's being given a special treat for behaving so well all day long -- and, king knows (oh, how he knows), the collector has been very, very good to him, and not just today. it'd feel cruel to withdraw such a prize at this point, and king is willing to believe many things about himself, but cruel… well, cruel is one he certainly doesn't need to be collecting more evidence for, so best to avoid it whenever possible.

so king tells the kind of story he thinks the collector would enjoy -- full of silly characters, ridiculous problems, and absolutely chaotic adventures -- because, as it turns out, the kind of story king wants to tell is one that the collector wants to hear.

[max1461]

It's like, I enjoy history, and there are lots of other history enthusiasts here! Why don't I chat with them about history more? Well sometimes I do, but like... every post about history on here has to including some musings somewhere about like, what we can learn from it. Was this historical event good or bad? Can we implement this historical type of institution in our own society? Does the collapse of the blah-blah empire portend the collapse of America?

And it all just feels so vapid and pointless. These "lessons" are 99% of the time deepities or insight-porn, and they are likewise 99% of the unpleasant. I want to read history to hear about interesting things from the past. The details, the specific events, that's the interesting bit. I think attempts to create natural-science style generalizations or laws about history is probably futile, outside some very basic observations about like, population size and production capacity and stuff. But everyone is always trying to extract these "take aways", these fucking lessons, and figure out how to apply them to the present and to the fucking discourse du jour and whatever.

And I just feel like it makes history discussion unpleasant to engage with, it makes these things all fraught instead of just cool and interesting. And fraught for no epistemically justified reason.

You know those WW2 enthusiasts who just want to talk about all the different models of tank? I wish everyone was more like that, for every different period of history.

I'm like that, but instead of models of tank, it's languages. I like knowing about all the different languages and where and when they were spoken and what's related to what and so on. You can model me quite accurately as a WW2 tank guy but for languages.

But everyone is always trying to look at history and conclude shit, and I'm just like

you probably can't

trying makes the whole thing more unpleasant

I don't know, I think I wouldn't mind the "meta-historical navel gazing" if it was occasional, I might even like it. But it's way more frequent than could possibly be justified on the grounds of its intellectual merits or of its enjoyableness!

[callipraxia]

Lying here at 7am, sneezing my head off because of ragweed, and I had a thought about the novelization of Revenge of the Sith.

Early in said novelization, there’s a retrospective on a couple of important moments in Anakin and Padme’s early marriage, specifically around how, since Anakin, as a Jedi trainee, doesn’t own things or have much ability to acquire them, which is an Issue when it comes to giving his new wife a wedding present…so he ‘gives’ her C-3PO, to be ‘a friend’ while he is, as he frequently is, absent, and there’s a sweet moment where Padme politely invites Threepio to join her staff, because on Naboo, droids as high-functioning as Threepio are considered beings, not property. Anakin also notes that technically, since his builder (Anakin himself) owns nothing, Threepio kind of owned himself even before this. Then later, she gives him R2-D2 as ‘a friend’ in return, at which point Anakin starts modifying him this way and that until Artoo eventually obtains at least as much cognitive function as Threepio, setting the stage for the bond the droids have throughout the series. All very nice…but then jump to the very end of the book, immediately after Padme dies and Bail Organa adopts Leia. Y’know. The moment when he casually orders that Threepio undergo a mind wipe to forget…pretty much everything. Who “the Maker” was, all about his years of service to Senator Amidala, where the Princess came from and the fact she has a brother, etc. Then cut forward about twenty years to the beginning of A New Hope, where Threepio fussily keeps scolding Artoo about how “Master Luke” is his owner now and he should therefore forget the mission from their previous owner. It never seems to occur to Threepio, after his years on Alderaan, that they could think for and own themselves, even though again, in the novelizations, Threepio has technically done so for longer than Artoo has; the only difference is that Artoo still remembers everything, whereas Threepio only remembers, at most, the past twenty years.

Clearly, droids did not enjoy the same legal privileges on Alderaan that they did on Novelization!Naboo…but why is that relevant? Threepio, recall, was said to have legal rights on Naboo as a member of Padme’s staff. At a stretch, since Anakin couldn’t technically own Artoo either, one could make an argument that Artoo was still legally Padme’s property and therefore automatically passed into the ownership of her daughter when Padme died*, since Anakin and Padme and Threepio seem to have been the only ones who realized at that time how sentient the astromech had become, but there was really no doubt about Threepio: if Stover’s writing in the official novelization is taken as on any level canonical, then Threepio, as a high-functioning droid, was an employee; certainly this is the case within the pages of the book in question, where he meets the same ends. Padme no more owned him than she owned Jar-Jar or the Handmaidens who acted as her body doubles or her other Senate aides...at least on Naboo and areas where its laws applied, like the embassy on Coruscant, I suppose. They were not in Naboo space at the time of Padme’s death, and apparently the idea that droids could be autonomous was culturally alien to Alderaanians…but we see in TCW that Bail had worked pretty closely with Padme for years. They were political allies, but also friends. They’d risked their lives together before - in the Committee of 2,000 conspiracy, in that episode of The Clone Wars where they investigated a murder together, and arguably, Padme had put her life in his hands without a second thought again on Empire Day when she made that “how liberty dies” remark in the midst of the rest of the Senate’s enthusiastic endorsement of Palpatine’s announcement. Padme also was shown to have a real Problem with the discovery that slavery still existed in the galaxy when she met Shmi and Anakin as a girl, and considering she later married an ex-slave who had…rather strong feelings about the subject, it’s hard to imagine that she didn’t get personally emotionally invested in the issue as well. Anti-slavery measures would have probably been part of her political platform, especially in that gap between Phantom Menace and Attack of the Clones where there wasn’t a war that depended on slave soldiers to consider. It never, in all that time, came up with Bail? He never said, “It’s strange how you treat that protocol droid of yours - you act as though he were a person,” to which Padme could only reply that “by my planet’s laws, he is”? Padme never voiced any discomfort with the Alderaanian stance on high-functioning droids in all their years of working together? Why would her good friend not think twice about treating one of her staffers as his property before the poor woman’s corpse was even cold? Even if he disagreed, he ought to have at least had the thought “oh wow, I am disrespecting my friend’s memory here,” or even a hesitation about his legal right to give orders about Threepio’s memory, given that there would of necessity have to have been some interstellar agreement on whether Planet A’s laws about droids applied to droids from Planet A when they were on Planet B, especially if Planet B was neutral space like Coruscant, the place where Bail would have been most familiar with Threepio. I’m American and reasonably historically literate; American history was never my favorite branch of history, but I know all about the sort of trouble it causes when people don’t agree about whether laws from one state in a republic apply in another. See also: the American Civil War? And more recently, the issue of gay marriage, back when states determined that individually. Didn’t cause a war that time, but anyone who had the political awareness of a tree branch probably knew of the issue and, however dimly, probably something of why it was such an issue.

It’s now 9am, and yeah, yeah, I know, all this was necessary to protect the Chosen Twins because Threepio is a bit of an idiot, or it would have taken too much time/been too much at the tail end of a plot as dark as that of RotS to have a quick scene where Threepio agreed to become Bail’s property in order to stay with Leia, etc etc. But considering that Bail’s one of the good guys, it’s pretty messed up to realize how casually someone’s rights could just get hand waved away the moment they no longer had anyone politically powerful immediately on hand to defend them. It’s hard not to think…with his memory gone, Threepio doesn’t even know that he was supposed to have rights, and most humans cannot communicate fluently with Artoo. Bit disturbing to put oneself in that position, to wonder, as messy as the world’s getting…who’s the one person standing between us and having our rights almost as casually overwritten? Not quite as casually, I suppose, since mind wipes don’t exist for us (…yet…probably), but almost. Not something Lucas probably meant to put there, given that he didn’t write the official novelization and his apparent failure to think out the droid issue especially well**, but there’s where my brain’s going on this sneezy, sneezy morning.

* Note: this is totally ignoring the issue of whether this is moral and ethical or not. Also ignoring the issue of how that even stacks with the assiduous efforts to conceal that Padme’s child/children hadn’t died with her, in which case, being legally dead/never personified, it’s hard to consider them her legal heirs anyway.

** See also this video essay: https://youtu.be/WD2UrB7zepo?si=HcttHLpZFGnU5bNb

[half-an-hour-hence]

Some random headcanons for the ghosts if they were alive today (part 1)

JAMES

I’m so unoriginal but he works in a war museum as a tour guide. He’s often assigned to showing kids on school trips around because he’s always so excited to answer all of their questions.

People call him ‘Captain’ because of his obsession with war (specifically the events of WW2), not because he’s actually served in the army. He did apply, but failed his medical exam.

His joint pain gets really bad sometimes, so he occasionally carries a cane to help.

James met Havers when he was in a cafe with Humphrey; he caught his eye when they were in line waiting to order and couldn’t stop glancing over at him after he’d sat back down. Humphrey - ever the wingman - caught on immediately and asked Havers to join them in the hopes that James would actually speak to him. It worked, and they’ve been together for two years now.

MARY

Works as an independent artist and sells her abstract art online. She’s had multiple exhibitions as well. She can also sew and crochet, and she sometimes sells what she makes at markets. Most of the time she just gives things away to her friends, though.

She lives in one of those loft apartments with her girlfriend, Annie. Annie runs the cafe that the Captain met Havers in, and they met at one of Mary’s exhibitions. They’ve been together for three years.

Goes out of her way to slag off men on Twitter.

Was internet best friends with Kitty before finding out she lived literally down the road from her. They’ve been inseparable ever since. They go travelling to little villages in the middle of nowhere specifically to spend hours in those quaint antique shops.

ROBIN

He works at the local university as a physics professor. He’s quite an enthusiastic and entertaining teacher, often giving visual demonstrations of how things work to try and make his lessons more interesting and enjoyable.

Co-runs a conspiracy blog on Tumblr with Sophie, Humphrey’s girlfriend.

Robin is obviously very passionate about space, so he owns several telescopes and frequently hikes up hills in the middle of the night to study the stars and the moon. He also runs an astronomy club at the university.

This isn’t necessarily a new thing, but he’s an excellent listener, and wants to include everyone. He’s the only one who’ll stick around when James starts talking about the Second World War. He’s doing a French Duolingo course with Humphrey. He isn’t afraid to try new things, like sewing with Mary or cruising with Julian (although he’s never doing that again).

[vintagehellfire]

All For Show | E.M

musician!Eddie x showgirl!reader

Summary: 1955 New York City, where dreams come true. You get to dance and perform for crowds every night, bringing in good money for yourself and for daddy’s jazz club. The regulars love you, the women envy you, and the musicians are strictly banned from flirting with you (and the other dancers of course). This wasn’t a problem until your father up and coming musician Eddie Munson to perform at his jazz club. Eddie was the first man to catch your eye, and you the first performer to be worth his time, and your fathers wrath.

Warnings: implied female reader, mysoginy, eventual smut, swearing, no use of y/n, nudity, drugs, smoking, slow-burn, alcohol, anger issues, controlling father. 18+ only. mdni

Chapter I: People are Strange | 1.9k words

Next

The rain pelted down on New York City in cold and unrelenting sheets, the traffic bustled, and one would even dare think that the torrential downpour couldn’t sour the mood of any New Yorker on this evening. Although that was far from the truth, the sheets of rain had no effect on those who frequented the jive clubs on 52nd. While traffic was relatively slow, and the constant whoosh of tires, tearing through deep puddles that littered the streets, could be heard, jazz enthusiasts gathered, flocked even, to the clubs along that stretch of road. Broadway by day, seedy little clubs by night, nothing would stop them nor the musicians. 

Dancers would perform in the shoddier bars, singers would accompany jazz legends, crowds would eventually drink enough to let loose and grab their swing partners and bring a new life to the otherwise stuffy and humid rooms. The air would weigh heavy but the mood was light.

Dressing rooms filled up with smoke, cigarettes lined up in ashtrays like cars caught in a traffic jam on the Manhattan Bridge, and yours was no exception. Your cigarette lingered on the dark ashtray your fathers club provided, patting makeup onto your face, your hair in tight pin curls, waiting to be let down for the show. The pretty little number you were going to wear tonight was sure to turn some heads and you knew that it would make the club goers trajectory worthwhile with the downpour and all. Dinner and a show - at least that’s what your father would say, however not much dinner was being had by the time it was your turn to perform. You had a certain magic about you, enchanting the room, making them forget everything, from drug to drink and from drink to smoke. 

You gave yourself a once over, heart hammering into your chest. You black robe bunched up in your lap, the satin keeping you cool in the sweltering humidity of the dressing room. Your eyeliner was defined and sharp, and you even added a small dash of brown eyeshadow under your eyes to create the illusion of sultry eyelashes à la Marilyn Monroe. All you were missing was your rouge. 

“Are you almost ready, dollface?” You heard a familiar and deep voice call from beyond the door. Your father, the club owner, had managed to get you a spot in his reputable little joint. If you were to remember correctly his words were ‘Ain’t no way that my sweet doll is going to be cozying up in some sleazy beaknick club’, and so here you were, safe as can be and under the watchful eye of your father. He paid you generously and made sure that while you were whoring yourself out, as your mother liked to put it, you’d be safe. A man that was admittedly slightly ahead of his time, not by much, but it counted for something especially when you were made in the shade for the club.

“I’ll be right out, sir!” You called out through slightly pursed lips, applying a deep scarlet wax over them. You quickly let your hair down, brushing out your pin curls, giving you that movie star glamor that you adored. It added just that much more class to your performances. With a pucker of your lips, you brought the tip of your right hand ring finger to the corner of your lips and wiped away the small smudge. With one final fluff of your hair, and a deep breath, you stepped out. 

Meanwhile, your  father had been preoccupied with the newest addition to the staff. Edward Munson. Unruly, cynical, rough around the edges, and gifted talent - the things that made musicians of this time. Your father had brought him in for an interview, and you’d maybe seen the back of the man’s head, nothing to give you a solid impression of him. Had you paid him any mind at all well, you would have noticed that his talent was not only in his nimble hands but in his voice too, his hair a bird's nest that he would pull back into a bun, and a smile that routinely had ladies swooning. No, he was no greaser of any sort, nothing but a beatnik in fact. Another thing that would have immediately caught your attention, and would in due time, was his dimpled smile - it was enough to have you real gone. 

Your father made sure Edward was settled onto the stage, piano at his very fingertips. While his usual joint had him either swinging the bass or rocking the guitar, your dad decided that the safest option was to start with an almost melancholy melody - in fact it had been rehearsed many a time, and you too had rehearsed it in your sultriest voice with Victor, you old pianist. You could scat to it, get into that blues swing and with just enough nuance to keep not only the club goers entertained but yourself as well. Edward had the piece memorized as if it were the back of his hand, he could even play it backwards had he wanted to, that of course was not accounting for the pretty little number you hid under your nightgown. 

As soon as the wild haired musician stepped out, the crowd cheered, whistles were heard across the music hall, and anticipation for your appearance only grew. Careful steps lead you to the backstage area where your father gave you a golden smile, “That’s my baby! Give em the old razzle dazzle!” he clapped his hands together eagerly. “Remember, we’re testing out a new musician tonight, He’s the fuckin’ cats pyjamas according to old Mr. Hefler,” Mr. Helfer being the man who passed the club down to your father, “and I expect with your voice it’ll just be a hit, dollface.” Your cheeks heated at the praise your father had given you. 

When the whistles died down into a whisper and you heard the stage light go on, you exited, dropping your nightgown, allowing it to pool around your feet. You were left in a black floor length gown with a sweetheart neckline and black satin gloves that reached your elbows. Your Mary Jane heels snug on your feet. As soon as you emerged, the tobacco filled nightclub erupted in cheers, clapping, and loud wolf whistles. With a delicate movement of your hands you brought them down to earth, allowing a silence to swallow the room, anticipation so thick you could slice through it with a knife. The musician then started playing then tune gracefully, a swing to the notes. You captivated the audience with the first sultry note you sang out into the club, and the same could be said for the poor man attending to the piano keys. Your voice was a siren’s call, and it certainly didn’t help when half way through you started pulling your gloves off, tossing them into the crowd and turning to look at the gorgeous man providing your accompaniment. You shot him a wink and that’s the moment he knew he was a goner. He nearly faltered with his song for the first time in his career. 

From one piece to the next, Edward watched you with hungry eyes, a wolf looking for his prey, but so did the club goers. You weren’t theirs or his for that matter so what did it matter? Nonetheless, a jealousy coursed through his veins at the sight of you wrapping a feather boa around the neck of a regular - Mr. Harrington. It was nothing but empty flirtation and he was a good sport about it. You had rejected him previously as you don’t tangle into affairs with clients, it was known. It didn’t matter either way because you had not eyes for him. For a moment, he wished it was he who would be getting this treatment, alas, your father had strictly forbidden it. 

“Now, son,” Your father warned, “One thing you must know is that we have many tempting women here, that is the business after all, however we do protect them and we take care that they are very well protected, you know what I’m saying?” He warned Edward. 

“I understand, sir, I don’t think I should be stepping out of line in that regard. I’ve played in many a club and frankly it’s not been an issue. Women may be tempting but I won’t find a wife in these clubs, I play em because it makes me feel alive.” With a gentle slap on the back, your father praised Edward Munson, letting out a small “don’t get any wise ideas son” but little did he know he would become his biggest headache. 

Once the show was over and you glistened from the sweat that formed from being under the hot spotlights, you snuck off backstage to cool off. A little glass of water and a lemon tea to help your voice would do. You quickly beelined to your dressing room, slipping off your dress and pulling something much more comfortable on. A little note from your father awaited you in front of your vanity, as it always did – it was a tradition between the both of you dating back to your first performance. A smile overtook your face, red lips stretching wide as you nursed your tea. As you put the mug down, you grabbed a cigarette, tucking it between your lips and lighting it. It remained perched against your plump bottom lip as if it belonged there. Suddenly, a knock at your door broke you out of your trance. 

“Come in!” You called out meekly seconds before the door swung gently open with a creak. The old hinges needing a little tune up if anything. Your dearest father poked his head in between the crack in the door frame. 

“Are you decent?” He called out, a chuckle softly escaping your lips. He knew you’d respond with a cheeky line, you were witty and came up with quick retorts to his questions, no matter how simple they might have been. 

“Me?” You laughed out. “Sure, I’m decent.” That earned a light chuckle from your father and a rather abrupt snort from someone behind him. This piqued your interest and you got up, adjusting the new robe you had slung around yourself. Your delicate hands tied a bow in the front of it and with a smooth and calculated movement, you slipped a pair of slippers on before making your way over to the door to properly invite the party of two - it seremed - in. 

“Sorry to bother you, doll, but you must meet Edward Munson, our new musician.” Your father stepped foot into the foot, revealing the dashing man that hid behind him. You couldn’t help but part your lips, catching the cigarette before it fell and taking a long drag to compensate. Your eyes roamed over the man’s body, tight black dress shirt with the top three buttons undone, messy birds nest hair, a smirk playing on his kissable lips, and yet his eyes as soft as honey. His own cigarette was tucked gently between his ringed index and middle finger on his right hand, and lord what you’d allow those skilled hands to do to you. It seemed that a small amount of ink poked out from under his rolled up sleeve and you desperately wished to reach out and see it for yourself but you couldn’t – you cut yourself off before you could trail your eyes any lower. What was happening? You never found a client attractive, much less the musicians. What about this man has got you wound up?  

“Call me Eddie.”

🖤

A/N: let me know what you think/if you wanna be tagged in this. I don’t really know what I’m doing but here we are. Also this was def not beta read so I’m so sorry for that but I hope you enjoyed it. Likes and reblogs are always appreciated.

I think from here on the chapters will get longer ! Stay tuned.

[angelisgonnastartchangingurls]

annie in paris

on their second night in paris, sophie left them alone -- she was on a date herself. so annie and richard had a lovely day around the city and went back to the apartment to fuck around 11pm. annie excused herself to the bathroom where she put on sophie's underwear and applied sophie's perfume. richard picked up on this, and told her she was a very kinky girl. "yes daddy," annie said demurely, doing her best soft sophie voice. annie asked "daddy" permission for each sexual act, which he quite liked, and then when he was going down on her, panties pulled aside, he told her she tasted "just like her mother." his immersion in the fantasy was enough to make annie cum. when the fucked, annie was needier and louder than usual, and he finished on her panties, which annie then delicately removed and placed on sophie's pillow. they fell asleep on the other pillows, naked, but annie woke up alone. she got up carefully and peaked out the ajar bedroom door, knowing what she'd probably see.

sophie had richard on the couch and was giving him an enthusiastic, tight blowjob. her hands twisted around as they went up and down his shaft, followed by her mouth. she still had a bra and panties on, but annie realized they were the cum-covered panties she'd been wearing earlier. sophie sucked quickly and with a lot of focus, nothing at all like the playful, sloppy blowjob annie had given her own father. richard grunted. he was cumming, but you could barely tell, sophie wasn't stopping at all. then she very abruptly did, threw her hair back and smiled and said, "did she suck you like that?"

"just like that baby, you're just like her," he said. he'd pulled her panties down now and was turning her, bending her over and spreading her ass and looking at her. "your holes are perfect like hers."

"you brought annie here to stop yourself from fucking me didn't you?" she said, a gentle accusation.

he laughed, "no, she'd love that."

"wake her up and tie her to a chair and make her watch me fuck you."

"bad girl," he said. he slapped her ass playfully. she was still bent over, touching herself.

"your cum tastes so good," she said. "will you put your fingers in me?"

richard stuck his fingers in sophie's pussy and she immediately began to thrust herself against him. "oh god," she said, "i'm so wet."

she was, annie could hear it.

annie watched until sophie made herself cum on richard's hand. then she slipped back to bed. she fell asleep before richard got back, but he was there with her in the morning, sophie on his other side.

richard took annie back home in a private jet. they had sex twice on the flight in full view of the two young female flight attendants. the second time, the prettier and younger attendant asked if she could help finish richard. she pulled up her short navy skirt so he could see her bald pussy while she jerked him off and annie watched. after, while richard cleaned up, annie went into the cockpit naked to say thank you to the pilots. one of them told her he'd been flying for richard for years, and she was his favorite girlfriend since richard's wife. "did she ever come in here naked?" she asked.

"yes," the pilot said. "but she didn't have a nice hairy bush like you, she was shaved."

annie asked richard if he was concerned at all about sophie doing heroin. he said he'd warned her about it but didn't think there was any stopping her. but it made annie think twice about her own use -- in the days and weeks that followed she gradually weaned herself off of her frequent coke habit. she gained five pounds, but it was mostly in her ass.

[mistswalker]

Genuine question!! You'd mentioned hating scholar runes and I keep looking for alternatives because they're so UNGODLY expensive (because of how recommended they are for builds). What recommendation would you have for a DPS build instead of Scholars? (@ratasum)

I'm trying to get more into endgame content so I really would love the advice!!

Hey there! I'm happy to help how I can. Unfortunately this is going to be one of those questions that has a longer and more beneficial answer as well as a shorter, more direct but less beneficial answer, so I apologize in advance and thank you for bearing with me lol. The short and direct answer is that there are many instances in which runes of the Eagle, the Pack, Strength, and Rage can perform just as well as Scholar for a fraction of the cost. And even when they don't meet the exact output, whichever one works best for your build will get you pretty darn close. Berserker and Ogre are other very solid DPS runes for condi/power hybrids and power DPS respectively, but they've become frequently recommended alternatives to Scholar and their price has risen nearly as high now.

That said, my longer answer is that there is no general direct substitute rune that will work better for all DPS builds all the time, but this is also part of what is wrong with the way that Scholar runes are ubiquitously recommended on meta build sites.

Every rune in gw2 has a fairly unique set of circumstances in which they function best, just as the different classes and specializations all have different benefits and limitations, and the key to a well optimized (or min-maxed) build is to play into a particular niche of combat as hard as you possibly can. Scholar runes provide a total of 175 power and (now) 225 ferocity in pure stat points, but their main claim to fame is their 6th slot bonus: "Increase strike damage by 5% while your health is above 90%".

For clarity, "strike damage" in gw2 refers specifically to power-based damage or "direct damage". Damage that can critically hit. It does not apply to condition damage. Strike damage is also mitigated by the target's armor and Toughness stat. Condition damage, on the other hand, is not.

Scholar runes became so recommended because of two misguided notions:

That "strike damage" amplifiers increase all outgoing damage dealt by the player, making them the most important "stat" to stack. And,

That the best defense is always killing something dead faster than it can hit you, and that if you ever take damage the answer is always "git gud". (People treating defensive stats as "training wheels" for gaming is certainly not unique to scholar-runes enthusiasts, but nothing displays it quite as potently as tying your stats to how often you can keep your HP at 10k/11k.)

The truth of the matter is that there is no shortcut stat to a solid build in this particular game, and it takes balancing a number of stats and fine-tuning traits and skills to optimize your build.

As an example, I'm going to use this Power Deadeye build copied from a popular raid build website. Full details can be seen at the link, but notably it uses full Berserker armor, Scholar runes, and sigils of Force and Impact. These are the final stats on the Power Deadeye build as given:

This build is noted by its creators as not being beginner friendly, and having a rotation which requires "extreme precision and pristine conditions". I cite this only to better illustrate that this build is intended to be the most optimal thief build for endgame content.

The rotation's main loop is as follows, and the skill screenshots' numbers are based on the attributes of the equipment given assuming the player is above 90% health. It is stated that Malicious Backstab must be used from behind.

This loop provides a maximum total of 15,464 direct damage, plus an additional maximum 5,288 condition damage from one loop. Accounting for the build's perpetual fury bringing critical chance to 99.33%, and the fury-increased critical damage of 270.47%, this increases the total direct damage of this loop to 41,545, and leaves us with a grand total of 46,833 damage per loop. Now, how close can we get to those numbers on that exact rotation without Scholar runes?

For this comparison, I swapped the Scholar runes for Runes of Strength. Also, noting that the Impact sigils were only giving their base 3% strike damage bonus since this build has no stuns or knockbacks to make use of its secondary feature, I exchanged the Sigil of Impact for Sigils of Strength to synergize with the new rune choice. [Rebuild Link] The sigil choice plays on the build's near-100% crit chance by giving a stack of might on each critical hit, and with the runes' increased Might duration, this means you will passively accumulate and maintain 15 stacks of might while in combat. So what do the numbers look like now?

In this version of the loop, we get 16,565 direct damage, and 10,418 bonus condition damage. When we account for critical hit the same way we did before, this amounts to 42,035, giving us a grand total of 52,453 damage dealt per loop. So in this instance, replacing Scholar Runes and Impact Sigils with Strength Runes and Strength Sigils gave this build a DPS increase from the recommended build.

Now, this doesn't mean that every build could be improved by those same changes, but there are often very few changes that would need to be made to adjust a build for the removal of Scholar runes. If nothing else, I hope this helps to illustrate how there is no one-size-fits all answer to runes, let alone to builds as a whole, no matter how popular a specific item is with metagamers.

The key to all builds, DPS or not, is synergy between elements. When equipment, traits, and skills build on each other rather than acting alone, you're going to find way better performance, and usually, have way more fun with your build.