#Father's Little Dividend

[rhera]

"Why do flowers have to be for anything? Isn't it enough that they have colour and form, and that they make you feel good?"

— directed by Vincente Minnelli; THE COBWEB (1955) MEET ME IN ST. LOUIS (1944) FATHER'S LITTLE DIVIDEND (1951) LUST FOR LIFE (1956) CABIN IN THE SKY (1943) AN AMERICAN IN PARIS (1951) THE CLOCK (1945) ON A CLEAR DAY YOU CAN SEE FOREVER (1970) ZIEGFELD FOLLIES (1945) TEA AND SYMPATHY (1956)

[erstwhile-punk-guerito]

[teamkrissy]

I just finished Franz Kafka's The Trial, directed by Orson Welles on DVD and it didn't have subtitles but it did have a gallery of over 50 movie posters. These are my favorites

Also did you know that The Fast and The Furious is a reboot from a 1950s movie?

[judasisgayriot]

- Kid never went to school, never had no friends. You used to hear some weird stories about how Stakowski raised him after his first wife ran off. He just stuck him in a big old moving box. Toss in food, clean it out once a week like he did for his horses and cows. The kid had something else. Hole cut out of the box so he could see the TV. Day and night. One year, about a year before the fire, got a call from the hospital. Stakowski‘s boy, Jim, they were sewing up his hand. Stakowski got drunk, picked up a knife, carved a cross in the back of his hand. Big old cross. Deep and bloody. - The boy who set fire to his father. It’s Jim Profit. (Profit, TV, 1996)

[nextstopwonderland]

Films seen in 2024 (round-up edition since March, part 1)

The cheap detective (1978, Moore)

Challengers (2024, Guadagnino)

Vibes (Kwapis, 1988)

The Mirror Crack’d (1980, Hamilton)

Evil Under the Sun (1982, Hamilton)

Death on the Nile (1978, Guillermin)

Miss Richmond takes grant (1949, Bacon)

The Wrecking Crew (1968, Karlson)

Father’s Little Dividend (1951, Minnelli)

The Reluctant Debutante (1958, Minnelli)

[shrimpybbq]

a missed moment

synopsis: Rafe misses the moment Charlie takes his first steps and is harsh on himself as always.

Charlie was the light of Rafe’s life: anything his son did made him so proud. Every little smile, giggle or ‘dada’ made Rafe grin so widely someone would think he had been possessed. But he wasn’t possessed, instead just so incredibly proud to have his sweet little boy happy and healthy and growing. The love he felt for his son wasn’t something Rafe had ever pictured or believed in, not considering his own father, but now that he had felt it, he never wished to let it go. Rafe did his best to be there for all his son’s milestones, even taking embarrassing photos for when he was older, but it was the one he missed that sent him into a spiral.

Rafe had been spending the day out in Guadeloupe, doing his best to sort out the shit for his dad and spending hours feeling his stress levels rising to a boiling point. All he wanted was to rest in his bed, relax and spend time with his family, and yet he was walking around the island talking about dividends and shares. He wasn’t pleased. Rafe walked through the front door, feeling the tension seep from his body, ready to lie down, only to see his son standing upright, little Charlie’s chunky arms clinging to the side of their couch.

Rafe’s eyes bulged as he watched Charlie turn to him, a large smile overtaking his identical features, the boy letting go of the couch as he took small steps towards his father.

Fuck. He was walking. Walking. He hadn’t been able to do that yesterday.

His girlfriend sat near Charlie, her soft voice encouraging him to ‘keep going to dada’. She gave small claps of encouragement as he moved closer, cheering him on.

Rafe felt his heart squeeze tightly in his chest as his son began to reach his small, chubby arms out to his father, and he could only pick him up, encapsulating the small boy within his own larger arms.

"Good job, buddy," was all Rafe managed to utter, his mind racing at the new development. He turned to his girlfriend, asking quietly "When did he start walking?".

"He started trying yesterday, but this morning he tried to follow you out of the house," his girlfriend responded softly. It was clear to see how Rafe was feeling, him not even bothering to hide the sadness spreading across his features. Rafe had been trying to get Charlie to walk for weeks as his little body grew stronger, but to no avail. And now, he had missed it.

"I should've been here..." Rafe mumbled lowly, "not fucking around doing this shit for my dad." Charlie began to play with the collar on his father's shirt, not sensing the sullen mood of his father. His mother shuffled over towards him, softly stroking his hair as he rested his head against his father's chest. Rafe looked down at his girlfriend before averting his eyes - he felt like she could always see right through him.

"Hey - don't do that. You were doing that to make sure we're going to be safe and looked after. You said that yourself, so don't feel bad about this, ok? This is just one milestone in his life, and he is going to have so many more. You were there when he stood for the first time, and when he said his first word," his girlfriend reassured, her arms now wrapping around Rafe's waist. He let himself embrace her, Charlie joining the hug too.

"I-I know, but what if he remembers this shit and he hat-," Rafe began, only to be quickly cut off.

"Rafe, he's one. He's not going to remember any of this. All he knows is that his parent's love him more than anything, ok?"

Rafe remained tense for a moment longer, before a heaving exhale left his chest. With that, he resolved to let his worries go - his girlfriend was right. He knew his mind was confounding his worries, for he only wanted his son to know he loved him. Rafe never wanted Charlie to question his love for him. Caught up in his thoughts, Rafe didn't notice his girlfriend pulling away from him, her voice redirecting his attention suddenly.

"I need to get his dinner ready. Can you stay with him?"

The blonde nodded, receiving a quick peck on the lips in acknowledgement, before his attention turned to Charlie - his expression brightening as he looked down at his son. "We're gonna practice walking again, aren't we buddy?" he proclaimed, walking them over to the rug again. Rafe watched as his girlfriend laughed as she left the room, her disembodied voice telling them to have fun. Whilst she prepared his dinner, all she could hear were the giggles of a small child and the encouraging statements leaving Rafe. He became a whole new person when he was with his son, and the cheer he let out when Charlie managed to walk towards him again only made the young mother smile to herself, her heart swelling with happiness at the small family the pair had created.

[l0uisebrooks]

Elizabeth Taylor shot for “Father's Little Dividend” by Virgil Apger, 1951.

[louferrignojrofficial]

(from this podcast episode): lou on his dad, therapy and crying:

“You know, in a lot of ways, I want to be different than how my dad was. My dad was, you know, he had his shortcomings as a dad. He was a great father, but as a dad, he wasn't, but you know, he's handicapped. So yeah, and, but through lots and lots and lots of therapy, I've come to realize that it's not him, it's not his fault.

He, according to, based on his history with his father, he, it was a world better. And no matter what I would do, if I was a father, I would get blamed for something anyways. So, you know, we'll see.

I'm not yet half satisfied as where I'm at in my career. I'm just going to keep trudging forward and we'll see what happens, but yeah, hopefully one day.”

“Therapy saved my life, 100%. And it's a lot of money, but it's also like training hamstrings when you're not expecting. Training hamstrings are goods.

You're paying all this money. And as a man, you're like, pay money, get something in return. But you don't get anything tactile in return.

But over time, I mean, I would be in a much, much worse place if it wasn't for the years that I spent in front of a counselor, just basically talking and even thinking days I didn't have anything to talk about. An hour goes by and we talked about so many different things. A huge proponent of therapy, huge proponent of self-help, huge proponent of using the gym as your outlet, and huge proponent also, Sean, here's one for you.”

“I, as an acting exercise, sometimes I cry during programming. A lot of this undercover boss, I watch a lot of Dr. Phil. So when I get teary-eyed, being a jacked dude myself, I really lean into it.

So if I start crying and I get teary-eyed, I just fucking wail, bro. Because it's, first of all, people seeing a grown jacked dude crying, and I was crying at my sister's fu- my sister’s funeral? - my sister's wedding, and I was all dolled up gushing. And people were like, they didn't know what to do.

They're like, whoa, this is weird. It's like a dinosaur, like a crying jacked dude. So when it comes to watching television programming, when I'm feeling that mode of tearing up, I start just fucking heaving, man, and getting it out and crying and feeling those emotions because they're real and they're sparked from something real.

And it really just lets your grip on everything that's hurting you or bothering you or stressing you out. It just eases that grip a little bit and you have no idea. And it pays off in dividends.”

[thepixelelf]

Oh Baby, You Part 42 - Recovery Mission?

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Wonwoo turns the small bundle of forget-me-nots in his hands. He knows flowers alone aren’t enough, but he grazes his fingers over the bit of white ribbon holding the posy together. You’d always loved the little bits and bobs you could collect over time. There was once a red ribbon wrapped around a gift he bought you back before he left for Mongolia — courtesy of the store’s gift wrapping station — which you saved and tied in a cute little bow on one of the drawer handles in your old apartment. While he was gone, he would look forward to seeing it in the background of video calls. Like it was a part of him that he left behind to stay with you.

Shit. He feels like an idiot.

In the elevator mirror, he meets Chan’s eyes. “Are you sure about this?” 

He shrugs. “Are you?”

Looking back down at the flowers, Wonwoo lets out a long breath. “What if they don’t want to hear it?”

“Well…” Chan gives his head a pensive tilt. “Don’t you think you owe it to them to try? Even if they turn you away?”

“You’re…” Wonwoo doesn’t get to finish. The elevator door opens, and even though his apartment — and yours, by association — is around a corner and hidden from sight, he hears your voice. And someone else’s.

Stepping out of the elevator, Wonwoo stops just before rounding the corner and peeks for a half second around it. A vaguely familiar man is standing right in front of you, holding a bouquet of white flowers, while you linger in your doorway. Though Wonwoo quickly ducks back behind the corner, he knows you well enough to tell that you’re tired, and you don’t really want to be talking to that person.

Chan follows a little too quickly. “What’s—”

Arm shooting out, Wonwoo stops Chan from revealing himself in the hallway. “Who is that guy?” he whispers. 

Chan peeks around the corner. “Oh, that’s Choi Seungcheol.”

“Mingyu’s rival?” The corners of Wonwoo’s lips quirk downward. “Why would he be…?”

“Remember when I made you take me to the hospital? They went on a date that day.”

“A date?” Something bitter settles at the bottom of Wonwoo’s stomach. He risks another look around the wall. Damn. The guy does look good in a suit. 

Chan shrugs. “MT didn’t really seem into it. My money is on him trying to dig into the whole baby scandal. He’s totally got that ambitious business villain from the dramas vibe.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“I think he’s trying to get information on them so he can dethrone Kim Mingyu.”

Wonwoo frowns. “By dating them?”

Shrugging again, Chan leans against the wall with his arms crossed. “It’s just a guess. I’m trying to not snoop anymore.” 

Wonwoo gestures a finger between them. “What do you call this, then?”

“Recovery mission?”

“You—”

“Look,” your voice comes from down the hall, slightly louder. “Seungcheol. I already told you. I know what you’re after.”

“I won’t try anything from now on.”

“Sure, sure. And I’m just supposed to think you want me because— what? My dashing just-made-a-microwave-meal-for-dinner-after-not-sleeping-for-twenty-two-hours looks? My abandoned bachelor’s degree? My complete disinterest in diffidence?”

“Dividends.”

“Exactly, Seungcheol. You’d never convince anyone you could want anything from me except for information on my child. Which will get you nowhere, by the way.”

“I’d like a chance to try again. To show my better side.”

“And I should give you that chance because…?”

Wonwoo peeks just in time to see Choi Seungcheol throw you a disarming smile and hold his bouquet out.

“Tulips?”

His feet start moving before he realizes it, and Wonwoo steps between you and Choi without a second thought. “They were saying no,” he asserts.

“What the...” you whisper your surprise.

Choi just furrows his brow. “Who are you?”

“No one,” you answer for him, slightly brushing him aside even as he glares down Choi. “Listen, I think you should—”

“The name’s Wonwoo.” And because he’s stupid, he goes on to say, “I’m Orion’s father.”

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oby tagging 1, 50/50: @shiningstar-byulxx @shuabby-woowoo @90s-belladonna @xavi-in-kpopland @kachren @xmessaroundx @chwevernonlover @kwanisms @dalamjisung @1ntaktak @crazywittysassy @butterfliesinthenightsky @ddaengpotate @dorrysstuff @ckline35 @vanishingboots @potatofrieswithketchup @minhwa @oncecaratorbit @sugacookees @royal9 @doodlelibrary @myjaeyunn @yksthings @jundundun @amosmortese @jaeskz @seungmintree @woozarts @my-chaos-in-stars @yoonychoik @ksywoo @kellesvt @candidupped @sharkipoonis @wooahaeproductions @capsiclesworld @hellodefthings @sunshineshouchan @calumsfringe @caratinluv @pinkysinnerbaby @winterwallacehenderson @jvhoons @woo8hao @sxftiell @wondering-out-loud

[sweetteaanddragons]

Stormlight Archive: Wind and Truth Thoughts and Theories

Lots of spoilers below.

Kaladin - I love the herald thing. I think it retroactively makes @nevertheless-moving's AU of Kaladin being time traveler mistaken for a herald even funnier, and it was already hilarious. I am dying to see fic where Kaladin-as-herald DOES time travel, someone DOES assume this, and they are actually correct, but not in the way they think. They start guessing historical names, and Kaladin has to go, "Well, I guess Jezrien is closest, but it's not quite like - " and everyone runs with it.

I am hoping for SO MANY reveals/interactions when he returns in the next series. I want him to go flying in to save Adolin from something in an 11th hour rescue and Adolin to have that "You're ALIVE?" moment. I want him to reconnect with his baby brother. I want Szeth to try to murder Ishar to avenge Kaladin's death only for Kaladin to have to intervene.

I love it.

Adolin - I love his arc in this book, and I love how his habit of talking to his weapons/armor has paid off such huge dividends. Slightly concerned about the firemoss; having seen what addiction did to his father, I hope he'll resist that path, but it does worry me a little.

Shallan - I'm assuming she won't manage to return in the interim between series, so this is looking like a long separation. At least she can talk to Adolin?

. . . her nausea/hand to her stomach thing is entirely understandable from emotional context, but given *tropes,* I'm kind of thinking she might be pregnant.

Szeth - I enjoyed his arc, and I loved learning he got married; I'm hoping he's very happy.

Gavinor - I'm betting his storyline and Lift's are going to be heavily entertwined in the next series since Lift feels partially responsible for him going through the rift in the first place. I'm also betting his storyline will ultimately end positively, as a counterpart to his father's tragedy.

Odium: You know that cut Hamilton song? "You have invented a new kind of stupid/a let all the animals out of the zoo kind of stupid/a you really did not think this through kind of stupid/Listen?"

Yeah, that's how I feel about his decision to recruit the Blackthorn and I am delighted.

It is 100% in character, given what he tries to do with Dalinar and Jasnah throughout the book. It is also, I think, a fatal mistake.

He has recruited the Blackthorn. A being with all the memories of his other self. A being with all the potential of his other self.

All of it. Including the bits that grew to fight Odium.

Navani is still alive. His sons are still alive. Does Odium really think they'll let this last remainder of Dalinar just . . . trot merrily off to war without trying to stop him?

Retribution ACKNOWLEDGES that the perception of Dalinar is what shapes the Blackthorn. Public perception that largely paints him as Retribution wants, sure . . . but Dalinar, prior to his death, become a tragic hero known for fighting Odium and RELEASED A BOOK WITH HIS WHOLE LIFE STORY.

Does Retribution really think he can keep that public perception pointed in the right direction forever?

The Blackthorn doesn't even make him any promises. He just says that fighting is "what I do."

He is 100% going to turn on Retribution eventually, and it is going to be glorious.

Other thoughts:

Dova is going to be a problem eventually.

I like the time bubble aspect; that'll let the events of Mistborn trilogy three play out before we catch up with Roshar.

I think the next Roshar series is going to be a massive crossover event for the cosmere.

I adored the musical chairs aspect of the final fight in Azir.

Loved the reprise of "Honor is dead, but I'll see what I can do."

(I also love the wind's little "Please don't hate me" to Kaladin.)

Definitely convinced that the overall plot of the cosmere is going to be "So we shouldn't have killed Adonalsium, now we need to put the pieces back together. This is exactly what I wanted, so I'm thrilled!

Oh! And given the emphasis in the book on the dangers of Shards turning their backs on planets and their people for too long, I think Retribution is going to find his distraction is going to cost him. He made a lot of promises in this book . . . and then did huge damage to the ecosystem and the landscape, massive psychological damage by hiding the sun, and vanished, utterly failing to enforce whatever social plans he had.

People are going to be TICKED.

Which of course provides opportunities.

Especially when the two territories NOT affected by Retribution are right there, enjoying the sun.

(Jasnah, returning for round two of debate for Fen: I can guarantee you that neither I nor any of my descendants are going to block out the sun.

Fen: Will you just let us sign the paper already?)

[gatabella]

Elizabeth Taylor at the premiere of her film Father's Little Dividend, 1951

[literary-motif]

Act II — The Clouds

Scene i — The Strain

previous scene // overview // read on ao3 // next scene

Warnings: references to depression, talk of gambling addiction

Asirel fell asleep at his desk, as he so often did. He could not get his mind to quiet, restlessly tossing and turning in bed before he had given up the practice for good, choosing to work through the night instead. 

There was certainly enough to do to keep him busy, and when the exhaustion eventually made his eyelids drop, his body slumping forward until his forehead rested on his folded arms on the hard wood, at least he would be getting a few hours of sleep.

The discomfort of his aching neck and sore body in the morning was a small price to pay for the little rest he got. It was manageable. 

Still, some nights were unendurable. When he sat in his office chair and the words on the page swam together, the light of the screen burning his eyes and the entire room twisted in a wicked way that made him feel like he had slipped into unreality. On those nights, he buckled under the strain of this new life.

The words haunted him, the mountains of information crushing him. When he finally managed to succumb to exhaustion, his dreams were a twisted reenactment of the things he read — the intricate web around real estate, of all things. 

He could not shut his mind off, so he let it spin, calling up a quick fix to his restlessness when he could not take it anymore. Escorts did not ask questions, the good ones anyway. They just showed up, got to work, and left — or fell asleep in his bed while he slipped back into the study to continue working with renewed concentration. 

This night was no different. Old habits die hard.

The method was not failproof, and more times than not the encounter left him feeling more hollow than he had previously. But he endured, pushing through for the slight chance that they would tire him out enough and pull his mind into slumber so he could follow suit.

When he awoke the next morning, arms sprawled over his desk and an ache in his neck that made him groan before he even opened his eyes, Asirel wondered how long he could keep this up. 

Pathetic, considering he had just started.

It hurt knowing there was no driving force behind his actions anymore. They were all done out of a sense of obligation, not passion — something he had told himself he had in abundance. He only needed to live up to his father’s legacy, make his family proud, and fulfill his life’s purpose — but what was that, exactly? 

What was he supposed to do with the position he held, other than simply cling to it like a drowning man?

It all felt so unimportant in the face of death. He wanted to change the world, yes. He wanted to shape it into something better — How did he want to change it? — mold it to fit his vision for it — what vision? — and pull at the strings laid bare before him to get what he wanted — and what was that, exactly?

But memento mori.

What did it matter in the end?

He was reaching for strings to keep himself afloat, but the strings were an illusion and the water below him did not try to drag him under but push him out. Nothing made sense anymore, and he was desperately searching for a nook, a place of respite for his mind until he did not feel like he was floating and drowning and tearing at the seams anymore.  

Asirel buried his face in his hands with a groan, exhaustion weathering him down. The sun was just shy of rising, and his mind was already spinning. Flashes of his dream reappeared before his closed eyelids. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms and going over the information he read about last night, watching the scenes play out in his mind.

The world of real estate was slipping off its axis, and Incessant Inc. had greased the rail.

The company inflated its profit with accounting malpractices, boosting its market value with money that was simply not there. The irregularities in the balance sheet had raised eyebrows over the years, but dividends were good so the shareholders were appeased, and the overseeing authorities had evidently missed the fact that the numbers were not adding up, or they had deftly been paid off. Either way, the elaborate scheme of boosting their numbers was sure to rattle Wall Street once the morning paper broke, and the investigative journalist you had kept on a leash was finally able to share her findings. 

Patricia Kelley had stumbled on the red numbers of the company, finding billions simply missing. The fraud was spectacular, their accounts not adding up for years while they claimed enormous profits to lure in investors. She dug deeper, discovering a whole web of unlikely occurrences and spectacular coincidences that spun a tale of corruption from the secretary shredding dooming pieces of evidence to the mayor having secret meetings with the CEO, Sasha Zilk. 

It would not have mattered much to the Collective — another company pulled into ruin by the greed of its executives. But it did because in the supplemental file you had given Asirel, containing information the journalist had not managed to reach, there was the damning connection to Stockton and its branch of real estate. 

The CEO’s sister, Michelle Zilk, was the deputy head of a real estate company that had been going toe to toe with The Quetza Hotel for nearly a decade. Its chief executive officer had not so much climbed the corporate ladder as being thrust into his ergonomic leather chair without a clue as to what to do.

It was plain who pulled the strings in the company, and it would not be an enigma to figure out what Michelle would do when the story broke, and her brother’s company would crash. 

The question remaining was simply how much the COO would invest in the drowning tech company, and how much the dropping value of her own would shake the market. And Stockton. The city was fragile. Too many twists and the web would get tangled, sending houses of cards collapsing into insolvency and making strings snap all over the world. 

Stockton was the anchor point of real estate, after all.

A tight ball of anxiety churned in Asirel’s chest, and he groaned once more as he remembered Robert Kennedy. Perhaps he would chime in and seize the opportunity to snatch up a crumbling empire to add it to his own. It would fill the market void — if the real estate company should truly stumble over Michelle’s investment. It would boost the Kennedys’influence, and that was a fate better avoided.

There was a slow knock on his door, and Asirel straightened, running a hand through his hair in an effort to look more put-together than he felt. “Come in,” he called, voice rough from disuse. He should get coffee and wake up properly, preparing himself to face the day that lay ahead.

The door creaked open to reveal Morley, her blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun that made her look stricter than he knew her to be. She stepped inside, black heels clicking against the floor, and passed him a steaming cup of coffee Asirel gratefully accepted. 

As he took a sip of the searing drink, he wondered faintly if his father had the same habits as he had, or if Morley was just keenly observant. 

“The morning paper, sir,” she said, laying it on top of the scattered pages on his desk. 

There it was, front page news: CORPORATE FRAUD IN TECH-SECTOR, MARKET CRASH. Kelley had spilled her findings. 

“Your company” — she said the word with such disdain that he could not help but feel shame — “has left.”

Asirel was glad to have left the tip on the nightstand, five-hundred-dollar bills neatly tucked into the signed copy of his favorite author’s new release he had absentmindedly gushed about the last time they had met. Why that information had taken root in his mind, Asirel could not tell, but as the opportunity arose to obtain the book he thought back to the person he had shared a bed with, knowing they would be seeing each other again. The gift felt almost natural, a small act of kindness. 

It slipped his mind a moment later.

“Thank you, Helen,” he muttered, picking up the paper and trying to concentrate as he skimmed through the article. 

His secretary did not retreat, glancing at the files and documents littering his desk with close attention, her eyes darting from one to the other, gathering enough information to fill in the second half of the picture the article had not given her. “These are turbulent times for the market,” she said. “If you were to invest in a real estate company, I’d say it's like Russian roulette.”

Asirel paused, glancing up at her. “Have you been at the Aces Up again?” he asked, staring at her intently. She only mentioned gambling when it was on her mind, and only after she had relapsed into her crippling addiction. 

Morley tensed at the mention of the casino, snapping her mouth shut. It was all the answer he needed. 

“How much did you lose?”

She bristled, remembering her wretched hands at the table game, playing twenty-one and losing round after round. “I am well within my limits,” she snapped, clearing her throat a moment later to calm herself and remember who she was talking to. “Sir,” she added. “I can foot my bill.” 

He looked unimpressed, battling with himself to swallow the words and reminding her that over half of her considerable paycheck still faded into settling the debt she had accumulated over the years of gambling. 

There was a knock on the doorframe. He bit his tongue. 

“Good morning,” you said, arms crossed as you leaned against it, waiting for Asirel’s acknowledgment before walking in. “Hello, Miss Morley,” you said, giving her a nod and ignoring the anger raging in her eyes. It was not directed at you. “A pleasure. Asirel,” you hesitated when you saw the dark shadows under his eyes, exhaustion evident in the way he slumped against his desk. “Slept well?”

“Did you read this?” he asked instead, not deigning to answer. He handed you the morning paper.

Your eyes darted over the page, noting the small corrections that were implemented at your request. “Last night,” you replied, handing it back to him. You turned to Morley expectantly. She understood, quickly excusing herself and closing the door behind her a little harsher than she normally would. “Remember who runs the press? Of course, I read it, even before it went into print.”

“There is no connection to real estate.” 

“There shouldn’t be,” you said, placing your hands on the large desk and leaning against it, tilting your head to look down at him. “We wouldn’t want to cause a scandal before Michelle even had a chance to invest. And you shouldn’t fall asleep at your desk. It makes you look dead on your feet.”

He hummed noncommittally, taking a sip of his coffee as he motioned to the seat across from him, silently inviting you to sit down. 

“No, thank you. We are leaving for Stockton in approximately ten minutes anyway.”

He choked at this new information, coughing. “We?” he asked incredulously. “Did you come to pick me up for a field trip?”

“Intel,” you said in answer. “The Wraiths are worth keeping an eye on, and so is Stockton in general. But I suppose you know that already.” You gestured to the mess of pages on his desk, all of them related to Stockton and the business of real estate. “Found anything of note?”

“Nothing you wouldn’t know about already,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face tiredly. “I’m apprehensive about Kennedy. Do you think The Quetza Hotel can cushion the fall instead?”

“I don’t think it should, truthfully,” you said. “It would tip Stockton too much towards them. Kennedy — as much as I am weary about his intentions — is located elsewhere. If his chain of bars and restaurants gets bigger by expanding into the hotel business, so be it. It’s not as disruptive as it would be if Tara bought Michelle’s wrecked company.”

“Tara?” Asirel asked quizzically.

The frown on his face made you chuckle. You pushed the cup of coffee on his desk further towards him, urging him to finish it. “Loyalty for knowledge. I am giving you connections on top of that. You’ll meet her soon enough. Now come on, and make the most of the hand you’re dealt.”

The hand he was dealt. 

It felt like he was clutching an ace and a ten in a game of blackjack to which he didn’t know the rules.

[shadowqueenjude]

Tamlin's villain origin story part 5

PLEASE go back and read the previous part or better still, read from the first part because otherwise, this won't make sense. Here is part 4: https://www.tumblr.com/lorcanisdabest/734468166027247616/tamlins-villain-origin-story-part-4?source=share For those of you who have read, enjoy!

Lucien’s POV

Helion snorted. “I don’t have a son. Don’t lie; I’ve seen your power. You have fire in your veins.”

Lucien smirked. “I can scent your fear, Helion Spell-Cleaver. You thought I wouldn’t figure out about my mother’s affair? Please, I have more brains that that.”

Helion snorted. “That doesn’t mean you’re mine. Your power is fire.”

Lucien let a small ball of fire appear in his palm before willing it to disappear. “Yes, I have firepower. But it’s not my father’s gift. My mother is very powerful. But you knew that already, didn’t you, Helion? It’s why she was desired by not one, but two High Lords.”

Helion’s eyes were now icy. “You have no proof you’re my son.”

“No?” Lucien said. He let his power simmer to the surface of his body. “You specialize in spells, yes? Put a spell on me. Go on.”

Helion’s eyes narrowed, but he obeyed. He placed a binding spell on Lucien; simple, but quite unbreakable for all those without Day Court powers.

Lucien smirked slowly as he broke the spell in a flash of light as easily as breathing.

Helion stared. “No,” he choked out.

“Oh yes,” Lucien said. “Your little tryst with my mother? It had unexpected consequences. Congratulations, Helion. It’s a boy.”

“I have- a son?” Helion just sat there, stunned, processing the information. “My son was privy to the monstrous torture of Beron.” His voice turned angry, cold.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Tamlin said assuredly, “I already dealt with Beron.” Tamlin’s eyes were completely animal, and Lucien knew he was thinking of every bit of abuse Lucien had ever endured from the male. Lucien had stabbed Beron, but it was Tamlin and Eris who had ripped him to pieces. Lucien had looked away, unable to watch the violence. But he hadn’t stopped Tamlin or his brother.

“So, Sera is free,” Helion said. Lucien stiffened at the intimacy with which Helion said his mother’s name. He had used a nickname; her full name was Seraphina. He had also said it like he had said it countless times while she was…Lucien didn’t let his imagination wander.

Lucien snorted. “Nice to see you’re worried about your stepchildren. And son.”

Helion snapped to attention. His eyes when he stared at Lucien were filled with pain- and something that Lucien could only guess was longing.

Lucien could guess immediately what he was thinking. “Don’t even think about it,” Lucien snarled. “If you cared about her at all, you would realize she’s not ready for such commitments after getting out of an abusive relationship. She waited for you once, but don’t make the mistake of believing she’s been pining after you for centuries. If you want her, you’d better fucking earn it. Starting by giving her space.” Lucien smirked. “But if you offer aid to the Night Court against my mother’s favorite son… no chance whatsoever. And I won’t ever consider having a relationship with you. I’ll have fun destroying you instead. We will.”

Helion’s feet shifted. Lucien read the room and knew he had won.

“Half of my cavalry is yours,” Helion said finally.

Lucien knew he could’ve bargained for more. But he knew showing benevolence now would pay dividends later. “It was a pleasure doing business with you, Helion Spell-Cleaver.”

Tamlin grinned and walked towards Lucien. Lucien then turned his head and together, the pair strode out of the Day Court palace like they owned the place.

Present day- Feyre POV

“So yeah, that’s what happened,” Helion said finally. “So, I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”

“But that means you still have half of your cavalry,” Cassian said.

“Weren’t you listening? I only have half because they didn’t demand more! They could’ve asked for all of it and I would’ve handed it to them. If I offer you any sort of aid, I’m screwed. I can’t risk my court or my people. And I won’t take sides against my son.”

There was a roaring growing louder and louder in Feyre’s head. “You will give us that cavalry, Helion, or else-“

“What will you do, Feyre? Kill me? I’d like to see you fucking try. I’m on my home ground, surrounded by my people, and by the Cauldron, I’m a High Lord. You only have power because males like us gave it to you.”

Cassian snarled at him. Helion smirked at the response. “Lusting after your late High Lord’s mate is low even for you, Lord of Bastards.” He waved his hand to his servants, and they moved to escort them out. A dismissal.

The Spring Court. The Autumn Court. The Day Court. Hybern. Where did that leave the Night Court?

Shit. They were in deep, unending shit.

[70s80sandbeyond]

Elizabeth Taylor - “Father’s Little Dividend”, 1951

[gatutor]

Billie Burke-Moroni Olsen "El padre es abuelo" (Father´s little dividend) 1951, de Vincente Minnelli.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Robert Tait at The Guardian:

Republicans have identified recent college protests against Israel’s war in Gaza as the core of an election campaign narrative of chaos that they hope can be used to sink Joe Biden’s presidency. The approach was bluntly crystallised by Tom Cotton, the Republican senator from Arkansas, in a recent television interview when he mocked the encampments that have sprung up in recent weeks as “little Gazas” and lambasted the president for a perceived failure to unequivocally denounce instances of antisemitism.

“The Democrats have deep philosophical divisions on Israel,” Cotton told ABC’s This Week programme. “That’s why you see all those little Gazas out there on campuses where you see people chanting vile antisemitic slogans … For two weeks, Joe Biden refused to come out and denounce it. That is the 2024 election.” In fact, Biden did condemn antisemitism in a White House statement criticising the protests on 1 May, but also spoke out against Islamophobia and other forms of prejudice. Cotton’s comments followed weeks of turbulence on university campuses across the US that have seen riot police forcibly dismantle pro-Palestinian encampments in widely televised scenes reminiscent of the anti-Vietnam war demonstrations of the 1960s. His labelling of the encampments as “little Gazas” was denounced as dehumanising by some who lauded the protesters for drawing attention to the death toll of Israel’s continuing military offensive in Gaza. While relatively few Americans identify the war in Gaza as a vote-influencer, Republicans are seeking to capitalise on the vocal minority who are expressing discontent over it.

The conservative activist Christopher Rufo spelt out the approach in a recent article on Substack. “This encampment escalation divides the Left, alienates influential supporters, and creates a sense of chaos that will move people against it,” he wrote. “The correct response … is to create the conditions for these protests to flourish in blue [Democratic-run] cities and campuses, while preventing them in red [Republican] cities and campuses.” GOP intent was signalled by the visits of delegations, including Mike Johnson, speaker of the House of Representatives, to Columbia University – centre of the recent protests – and to George Washington University (GWU) in Washington DC, where protesters spray-painted graffiti and draped a Palestinian flag on a statue of the US’s eponymous founding father.

“It’s what the protests say about American political society and culture that the Republicans are trying to pick up on,” said Patrick Murray, director of the polling institute at Monmouth University. “Biden has tried to make this election a referendum on what happened during the Trump administration, with his focus being ‘we don’t want to go back to the chaos of the Trump years.’ That argument can be undercut if people are seeing chaos from college campuses on their TV screens – Republicans are trying to say it’s no more stable and calm under Biden than it was under Trump.” Republicans are also expanding congressional investigations into antisemitism allegations in the protests, an approach that has already reaped political dividends after the presidents of two elite colleges, Harvard and the University of Pennsylvania, were forced to resign following criticism of their testimony in previous hearings.

The right-wing are weaponizing the Gaza Genocide protests on college campuses to create an image that the Democrats are pro-chaos and anti-law and order.