#Sid does writing

[my-name-is-siduri]

What I think ocean imagery means for a bunch of different bands

Pet Shop Boys: The ocean is unknowable, and that's what's scary about it. Who knows what's going on in there? What's going on beyond it? But that scariness is also alluring, and that's why everyone is obsessed with the beach. The beach is the cusp between known and unknown. Maybe we'll sail out...

Erasure: The ocean is unknowable, and that's what's fun about it! Who knows what kind of wonders are out there for us to discover? Maybe we'll find love out there! Let's dive in!

New Order: The ocean is freedom. No one can tell you what to do out there, but no one will give you guidance, either. You have to forge your own path, which is rewarding if you succeed, and fatal if you fail. Let's sail out.

Depeche Mode: The ocean is oppressive. It is merciless and uncaring, it suffocates and drowns you without a single thought. There are only horrors and darkness. But we're the type that likes horror and darkness, so let's dive in.

[my-name-is-siduri]

I hope you don't mind me expanding on this, OP. I have a few thoughts about this.

Like you said, the earliest sources we have about valravns* have different tones. I'll go over the three you've listed as well as one of my own:

1) The creature specifically referred to as 'valravn' does not appear until Valravnen, at least according to this source I found online. This is not to say that there weren't valravns before then (see point 4 below for some speculation about that), but we have no surviving records of them.

As I can glean from the internet, the earliest forms of Valravnen were created at some point during the 16th or 17th century, though I can't find the exact date anywhere. The first solid date I can find online is 1803, which is quite a bit later. In any case, in Valravnen we see a tragic figure that's been transformed into a valravn by a troll woman, a curse that has to be broken for him to regain human form. In some versions, the curse is simply broken by him helping out his sister and making a wish. In others, he has to eat either the eye of his infant niece or drink her heart's blood, in both cases killing her (although she is later revived). And in yet others, he remains cursed and never becomes human again.

While no doubt the audience feels sympathy towards this cursed valravn, we can already see that valravns are capable of very dark acts.

2) If you don't mind me asking, which noble family are you referring to? I've never heard anything about this and I am very interested in finding out more about them.

While I don't know what the context of this valravn coat of arms is, it should be noted that heraldic beasts have a wide variety of meanings and reasons for their depictions. Sometimes it's because the family wants to channel what the animal represents: a lion is used to show ferocity and nobility, for example. Other times, the depiction has a more practical reason. Perhaps someone's land is known for having many deer, so a deer is put on their coat of arms to represent 'we have a lot of deer on our land.' And in some cases, the heraldic animal is actually depicted negatively. Saint George's dragon, for example, is depicted on coats of arms as a representation of triumph over evil.

As such, it is not guaranteed that the usage of a valravn means the family is saying "we approve of this animal and think it's great." There are many possibly reasons for its inclusion and we'd need more context to understand why the family used it.

3) Danske Sagn: Som De Har Lyd I Folkemunde was first published in 1892, 99 years after the Valravnen date I listed above. You can read it online here. I assume this is what you meant by the third source you listed, even though it's from the late 1800s and not early. (If you meant a different text, please let me know and I'll take a look!) This is the book where we get the most used quote about valravns and the very one I have pinned to my valravn sideblog. Here's a translation:

If a raven eats the heart of an unburied king or chieftain that died in battle, the raven transforms into a valravn. This transformation gives the valravn great intelligence and superhuman strength, but it often turns them evil and manipulative as well. They are terrible creatures.

"They are terrible creatures." The passage does not say it's guaranteed they will become evil and manipulative, but I have to imagine that the use of 'often' implies it's fairly common occurrence.

4) We know that the themes and symbolism of intelligent ravens feasting on the bodies of fallen kings can be found throughout history. For example, the 9th century skaldic poem Hrafnsmál depicts a valkyrie speaking with a talking raven that has done just that. If we assume that Hrafnsmál is depicting some sort of proto-valravn, it's worth analyzing the poem:

[The valkyrie asks,] "What is the matter with you, ravens? From where have you come with gory beaks at break of day? Flesh hangs from your claws; the stench of carrion comes from your mouths; I think you lodged last night near where you knew corpses were lying." The grey-feathered sworn-brother of the eagle [raven] gloated and wiped its bill, and gave thought to an answer: "We have followed Haraldr son of Hálfdan, the young king, since we emerged from the egg."

The tone taken on here seems to be that the valkyrie is scolding the raven for its behavior ("What is the matter with you") while the raven seems to enjoy what it's doing ("gloated"). What the raven is doing is not something completely hated, it would appear to be something that the valkyrie does not entirely approve of. The raven feels no shame in what it's doing.

Now I do want to say this interpretation might be inaccurate. Another translation I found of this poem depicts the interaction more neutrally. I don't know what tone the original text takes on since I can't read it. But if the first source has held on to the original tone, it's worth including.

Now onto the point I'm trying to make here...

I fully understand the frustration with the way valravns are interpreted in the modern day. Believe me, I have some very choice things to say about the way that pop culture has interpreted for a lot of different folklores. Have you seen what people have done to Greek mythology? And don't even get me started on the treatment of indigenous folklore, it's outright disrespectful.

With that said, I do think there is a place for antagonistic valravns just as much as there is for sympathetic and neutral ones. I agree that making them 'evil' is grossly glossing over a far more nuanced tradition, but let us not forget that in several versions the Valravnen killed his own infant niece (even if he later revived her and it all worked out) and that our 1892 source called them "evil and manipulative" and "terrible creatures."

I think it's safe to assume that it was always established that valravns are dangerous creatures that are not necessarily on humanity's side. Does being at odds with humanity make them evil? Well that's a philosophical question far outside of the scope of this essay, so I'll just settle on saying it's fair for them to serve the role of antagonist in stories just as much as anything else.

(Full disclaimer, I will admit I've fallen victim to this in my own story. I do my best to depict the 'bad guy' valravn as having more of an alien, bestial mindset rather than just being pure evil, but I fear he comes across as just evil anyway oops.)

In conclusion: I completely agree that it's inaccurate to depict valravns as straight up evil bird bad guys, and I have full sympathy for your frustration with it. But, it is valid to use them as antagonists to stories and/or have them do less-than-savory things. Several sources from the 1800s and possibly much earlier depict them behaving as such.

*On the internet in English, anyway. It's entirely possible that there's more information out there, be it written or in someone's oral history. But I wouldn't even know how to begin to seek that out, and it would probably be impossible for me to do so anyway, as I only know English and am located in the US. I do my best, but I have limited resources. For all I know there's some Danish book that hasn't been digitally scanned out there that explains in detail how everything I've written above is wrong.

Hooooowww did people 1) hear the folksong Valravnen about a knight who's been transformed into a bird (likely an eagle, not a raven) and can only break the curse by killing a baby, 2) see that one (1) now-extinct noble family referred to their heraldic beast, a wolf/bird, as a 'valravn', and 3) read one single 1800s countryboy's explanation that valravnen is like an evil valkyrie, and SOMEHOW extrapolate from those three wildly unrelated sources that "The Valravn" (because it's never a folkloric concept with different interpretations, it's always a single specific creature) is a were-wolf/raven who haunts battlefields to drink the blood of slain warriors????

Please stop depicting 'the' valravn when you don't even know what it is, I'm begging on my fucking knees, I hate the way recent Danish folklore-inspired popculture has latched onto this figure and keeps depicting it in wilder and wilder ways😭😭

If you want a folkloric evil bird creature in your story please just use a fucking dragon or gammen. Use a damn cockatrice or vættehane, idgaf. Please just stop muddying the already-confusing lore of valravnen. The figure has been abused enough already and you are making my hobby as a folklorist very difficult😥

[malk1ns]

took this at practice yesterday. geno spent a lot of time down on one knee. would like to use this for inspo for something but not sure what yet…if you have ideas please send them in!!!

[frogeyedape]

I am so unbelievably pissed off. FUCK HOAs

Oh, my trash/recycling bin can't be visible except on pickup day? Ok whatever fine I hate you but I can deal with this

Weekly inspections?????? FU FU FU FU FU

SECOND NOTICE ALSO WE'RE CHARGING YOU MONEY TO SEND YOU CERTIFIED MAIL OF THIS TOTALLY LEGIT TOTALLY SECOND NOTICE OF WHAT IS ACTUALLY A VIOLATION cue me: checks notes. Hmm. My recycling bin was. on the curb. on recycling pickup day. You know. The day it has to be out. The day it is motherfucking ALLOWED TO BE FUCKING OUT AND VISIBLE.

so. 1) not a violation

I have sent them the trash AND recycling pickup schedules, which are DIFFERENT, btw

I have disputed the fact of the violation

I have disputed the linking of this "violation" to a previous violation MONTHS AGO--their "first notice" in this case was a "Courtesy Notice" LITERALLY 5 MONTHS AGO and they've done so many inspections since then and my bin CLEARLY WASN'T OUT IN THOSE INTERVENING MONTHS so WTMFH

So I am posting like a crazy person here instead of sending the absolutely deranged email I almost sent (I did send a slightly less deranged version with the disputes, and requesting a hearing)

OMG. It has been. Less than one hour since I learned this fun fun news. My bin was out YESTERDAY, y'all. YESTERDAY. I am going to blow a gasket

[mlmgaze]

daniel waking up to marius kinda starting to press into him and, after getting his bearings, his first move is to ask sleepily if marius had another dream about daniel getting hurt. marius says no, and after a second daniel asks if marius had a dream about armand getting hurt. and marius just freezes (because of course obviously that's what it is because marius dreamed again about armand going into the sun and he wants to feel comforted and reassured but armand isn't here and daniel is and daniel is still blood of his blood and *i am dragged away by the guards)

[my-name-is-siduri]

Sense of Time - Cricket Wife connection?

While they don't sound too similar musically, Sense of Time and Cricket Wife seem to have similar lyrical themes. I'd go as far as to say Sense of Time is a companion piece to Cricket Wife in some ways.

"Time has stopped / The air is still / Nothing moves / or ever will / Present tense / is future past" to "No sense of time / Not even night and day" and "No sense of time / No perfect tense" Both of these songs call attention to grammatical tense when describing distortions in time. (I wonder if a stealth pun is going on there, that time not working properly for the narrator is making them feel tense?)

"I can't remember / why or when / they brought me here" to "but I couldn’t remember where I was / or if we’d said goodbye" The memories of the songs' narrators have also been distorted. They've both forgotten how they ended up in the situations they found themselves in.

"Bones and blood / and anxious anger / replaced in space / by girlish laughter" to "In these imminent dark ages / if you find it too bizarre / and nothing / seems to make sense any more / just remember who you are" Not exactly one to one, but both of these sections invoke a similar image: the bleak present gets swept away by happy memories of the past.

"He packs his bat / They're off together / And that was that / and is forever" to "I wondered if I’d died / and found a world / where living and dead / were walking side by side" Again not entirely one to one, but depending on your interpretation of what the cricket wife and husband's situations are (such as if the cricket wife is alive but dreaming of being with her dead husband or if she's in the process of dying and is being greeted by him), you could describe the married couple going off together as the living and dead walking side by side.

I don't think these songs are narratively connected per se. But they have so much in common that I feel like they could thematically connected somehow. Or something. This song has taken over my personality for the next few days

[my-name-is-siduri]

Today's noodlepigeon post: the pre-Red Vox days!

Red Vox Before Red Vox

Vinny started playing guitar in 2003, and started writing music in 2004. He and Mike met in college and bonded over a mutual taste in music, including rock bands of many styles and eras, but especially classic rock and grunge.

Vinny was part of a few small bands at this time. He often played guitar for and with his high school friend Bill, even playing bass for Bill as his first gig. Eventually, Vinny and Mike formed a band of their own: Davy’s Grey. Mike was on drums, and Vinny took the role of vocalist, guitarist, and primary songwriter. A mutual college friend of theirs, Phil, played bass.

Davy’s Grey was primarily a live band, performing sporadic shows before recording seven of their best live songs and compiling them into the 2009 EP No Cigar.

Davy’s Grey was a formative time for the future Red Vox members. Several songs written during this period would make their way onto Red Vox’s earliest releases, including Trolls and Goblins, which was later recorded as a charity incentive in 2015, and Long Lonely Night, the penultimate track on Red Vox’s first full-length album. Several songs off the Red Vox EP Blood Bagel also came from this era; its Bandcamp page credits Phil with “witnessing the real Blood Bagel playing some of these songs with us back in the day.”

Davy's Grey disbanded shortly after the release of No Cigar, beginning a five year period of little musical activity from its former members. Mike took on various drumming gigs, though little came of these ventures. Phil became a solo musician and producer. Vinny primarily focused on his YouTube channel and streaming on Justin.tv, later Twitch.tv – he would, however, release his solo album Sibilants in January 2011, and Odds and Ends, a short collection of Davy’s Grey demos and solo demos, in December 2011.

All the while, Bill – a pianist/keyboardist, vocalist, bassist, guitarist, and probably some other things – was busy playing and writing music. In 2008, he joined the Seconds along with Joe Pecora. The Seconds released their first album Slip Away in 2010 and their second, final album Monstro in 2013. Bill released his solo album Villain in 2010 as well. All three of these albums were recorded, mixed, and produced by Joe. Joe himself played in quite a few local bands – notably, the Sweathogs, which would later evolve into Happy Anarchy (for which he also recorded, mixed, and produced). All of these projects took place at his studio, the Red Room, in Staten Island, NY. Vinny has described him as “a local legend,” a well-earned moniker.

Bill and Joe with the Seconds. First image: Bill on far left and Joe on far right; Second image: Bill on far right, Joe immediately to his left.

Joe (second from left) with Happy Anarchy at Red Room Studio, SINY.

Vinny and Mike reconvened around 2014, deciding to dust off some of their old songs to record. Bill introduced them to Joe, and this simple idea would soon balloon into an album taking a year of their lives to record and costing thousands of dollars to make. What could go wrong?

[bisexualdinahlance]

Trying to get my thoughts together to make a post about rivals jackparse in a world where Jack went to the draft after his 1-2 years in recovery and their messy not break up that becomes a real break up turns into a legendary rivalry until they are forced to make nice during some international event or asg or a trade. Maybe Grilled cheesby shit talking to the press and blaming each other for injuries shit -> becoming friends/friendly at worlds type of narrative.

[ahogedetective]

[ CALM ]: sender tackles the receiver to the ground in an effort to both restrain and calm them down. @91cmspoilers shuichi deserves to rage.... as treat and izuru would calm him down uwu

{ Reasons To Tackle! }

@91cmspoilers !!!

Now... as a detective, Shuichi was naturally going to have people who dislike him: mostly close friends or family of people who were suspects in the cases he's handled. They didn't care about the fact that they deserved to be in jail: rather, would want to take their anger out on Shuichi. This would unfortunately be the case, when he was stopped by this guy slightly older than him, who happened to be the younger brother of a man who was guilty of aggravated assault against a food service worker.

He felt his older brother 'didn't deserve it', as that worker 'started it, first'. But that hadn't matter, as Shuichi was trying to explain to him: that the man could have simply walked away, but he instead, came back and attacked the worker with a heavy glass bottle. This angered the guy, who started slinging even worse insults at Shuichi. Insisting that 'detectives like him', only care about 'making themselves look good', that he's only 'useful' for 'ruining innocent people's lives with no remorse'. Those words, were especially a knife to his stomach. Reminding him of the awful things he used to think of himself, back when he solved 'that case before the police did.' Those horrible thoughts of feeling he was the monster like this guy was making him out to be.

"S-Shut...shut up..." And then he took it even further: mentioning Izuru. Or rather, "that boyfriend of his": mockingly stating how maybe one day, he'll have to arrest him for some kind of crime. How Shuichi will have 'no remorse' doing so. How his 'precious boyfriend' will see him for the kind of person he "truly is".

"Shut up, shut up, shut UP-" And it wasn't as if Shuichi could even get away from this guy, as he practically had the detective backed up against the wall, furiously gripping his collar. Not even the malice in that man's eyes, could compare to the sheer anger in Shuichi's. And before he can even dare to threaten him, Shuichi finally snaps, yanking that man's hand away and shoving him back.

"SHUT UP!!! Shut the fuck up! You don't... know SHIT about me, nor Izuru!! So don't you DARE speak ill of him!!"

He couldn't remember the last time he's ever been this angry. But he couldn't stand it any more: having his skills as a detective mocked, these assumptions about his character, and worst of all: having his loved one talked about like this. But before he could be the one that grabs the guy's collar-

"?!" He finds himself tackled to the ground. "Ah?!" Finding his wrists pinned to the ground, his eyes were still clouded in anger while he squirmed around, until he finally realized: it was Izuru who tackled him to the ground, restraining him. "I...Izuru....!!!" His body was still shaking from fury, and panting heavily and shakily. But seeing that it was him, seeing his face: "........." Was a relieving presence, and was helping him calm down. Some of the anger in him dissipated, and he wasn't trying to squirm anymore. Oh how he wished he didn't have to see him like this... "Izu...ru..I-I....th-this isn't..." This isn't usually me, he wanted to say...

[void-botanist]

sid & avis or sid & horatio?

Help me with my boy lol

Sid & Avis part 2 :3

I did part 1 over here but these two have a lot going on:

She knows way more about him than he does about her, because her policy has long been to be beholden to no one. If he asked, she'd probably tell him, but he rarely asks (he's caught up in his own stuff for sure but also if Avis doesn't feel like telling him stuff that's her business). She was also there for his teen years and got to experience firsthand parts of his life that in hers she'd rather forget. I guess the only time she's more communicative is when she's sailing with someone, because not only are they in the same space for days or weeks at a time, they have to coordinate what they're doing. Sid doesn't know the first thing about sailing, though, so she also has her work cut out for her. She struggles a little bit with him not being like her and not approaching his parents as a couple of emotional freeloaders who should be thrown out on their asses. But when he says jump ("help me figure out how they've been lying to me") she says how high ("get in the boat we're going to Diobos"). Unfortunately, if he doesn't say jump, she's not always around. She never has been, but he low key thought that when they got back to Rade she wouldn't just keep sailing off whenever, because she wouldn't be avoiding Emma and Donovan. Isn't she supposed to be his emotional support? Whereas she knows he has that handled with his whole weird friend's family.

Sid & Horatio

Horatio adores Sid, and this is only somewhat because he's had 16 years of non-contact to build him into a concept of the ideal friend. Sid surprise coming to live with him is THE most exciting thing that has happened to him, maybe ever. While he considers Marcus equally as much a best friend as Sid, he and Sid have a much longer history, given that they went to school together until Sid moved to Ensaum. Sid finds Horatio comforting, but in his current exhausted state, also tiring as fuck. As he uncovers things about his parents he also slightly resents Horatio for having perfectly good parents (and an extra bonus dad??) because why couldn't he have some too? Aside from being constantly distracted by work, Horatio also isn't really sure how to help Sid, because of a lack of personal experience and because he doesn't want it to come through that he's a little disappointed that Sid is not the same upbeat person he was even in his letters. Unfortunately what he feels is a minor disappointment in the situation Sid easily magnifies into a broad personal attack, and neither of them realize they are not on the same page. He also feels like Horatio does not truly grasp the tragedy of him having lost all of Horatio's letters. Still, despite all of the challenges, Sid feels that being here with Horatio & family is the most like being home he's felt in a long time.

[my-name-is-siduri]

Genuine answer: You should get into the Pet Shop Boys because their music is good, not because of any label attached to them. Neil has expressed some dismay before at the fact that they've been typecast as "gay music," as he believes that music should just be considered good by its own merits. After all, they've written several songs from the point of view of a woman in a heterosexual relationship, and many more are written with ambiguous gender. They've also written many, many songs are not about homosexuality at all, instead commenting on the politics of the era or historic topics. They have a rich discography and history as a music group, and I invite you to listen to it all, not just their gay songs, and find a love and appreciation for the full myriad of topics they have poured into their 40 year legacy.

Meme answer: yes you should be obsessed for the gay come join us

I've seen things™

[arttheclown]

i don’t know if i want to main-tag this because i have no interest in fighting with disney adults or rabid shippers or w/e but since i’m on the topic, fidget is just… really treated badly by the GMD fandom in general. his presence is just Erased or he’s reduced to being a non-person who doesn’t get to say or do much beyond lingering in the background in fics. when he IS involved, i’ll sometimes see people infantilizing him (as if he isn’t shown drinking, going to burlesque shows or implied to be a hired killer). it would be one thing if he was just a funny side character but he does play a very active and prominent role in the film. his presence is integral to ratigan getting what he wants/needs, they clearly have Some kind of relationship even if it’s just a working one… and people just. idk. they cannot be bothered with fidget and as someone who found him to be one of the most endearing and compelling characters in TGMD it makes me sad

[monsterfactoryfanfic]

if I've learned anything from grad school it's to check your sources, and this has proven invaluable in the dozens of instances when I've had an MBA-type try to tell me something about finances or leadership. Case in point:

Firefox serves me clickbaity articles through Pocket, which is fine because I like Firefox. But sometimes an article makes me curious. I'm pretty anal about my finances, and I wondered if this article was, as I suspected, total horseshit, or could potentially benefit me and help me get my spending under control. So let's check the article in question.

It mostly seems like common sense. "...track expenses and income for at least a month before setting a budget...How much money do I have or earn? How much do I want to save?" Basic shit like that. But then I get to this section:

This sounds fucking made up to me. And thankfully, they've provided a source to their claim that "research has repeatedly shown" that writing things down changes behavior. First mistake. What research is this?

Forbes, naturally, my #1 source for absolute dogshit fart-sniffing financial schlock. Forbes is the type of website that guy from high school who constantly posts on linkedin trawls daily for little articles like this that make him feel better about refusing to pay for a decent package for his employees' healthcare (I'm from the United States, a barbaric, conflict-ridden country in the throes of civil unrest, so obsessed with violence that its warlords prioritize weapons over universal medical coverage. I digress). Forbes constantly posts shit like this, and I constantly spend my time at leadership seminars debunking poor consultants who get paid to read these claims credulously. Look at this highlighted text. Does it make sense to you that simply writing your financial goals down would result in a 10x increase in your income? Because if it does, let me make you an offer on this sick ass bridge.

Thankfully, Forbes also makes the mistake of citing their sources. Let's check to see where this hyperlink goes:

SidSavara. I've never heard of this site, but the About section tells me that Sid is "a technology leader who empowers teams to grow into their best selves. He is a life-long learner enjoys developing software, leading teams in delivering mission critical projects, playing guitar and watching football and basketball."

That doesn't mean anything. What are his LinkedIn credentials? With the caveat that anyone can lie on Linkedin, Mr. Savara appears to be a Software Engineer. Which is fine! I'm glad software engineers exist! But Sid's got nothing in his professional history which suggests he knows shit about finance. So I'm already pretty skeptical of his website, which is increasingly looking like a personal fart-huffing blog.

The article itself repeats the credulous claim made in the Forbes story earlier, but this time, provides no link for the 3% story. Mr. Savara is smarter than his colleages at Forbes, it's much wiser to just make shit up.

HOWEVER. I am not the first person to have followed this rabbit hole. Because at the very top of this article, there is a disclaimer.

Uh oh!

Sid's been called out before, and in the follow up to this article, he reveals the truth.

You can guess where this is going.

So to go back to the VERY beginning of this post, both Pocket/Good Housekeeping and Forbes failed to do even the most basic of research, taking the wild claim that writing down your budget may increase your income by 10x on good faith and the word of a(n admittedly honest about his shortcomings) software engineer.

Why did I spend 30 minutes to make a tumblr post about this? Mostly to show off how smart I am, but also to remind folks of just how flimsy any claim on the internet can be. Click those links, follow those sources, and when the sources stop linking, ask why.

[my-name-is-siduri]

Great article! I did want to chime in with my own findings, if you don't mind. Dragon gondolas are actually first brought up and explained a bit in Choice of the Deathless. Details after the cut, just in case of spoilers.

During the sequences where your character and Pat Ngabe depose Ajaia, you both arrive on a dragon gondola:

Sunset glimmers off the gondola window. Outside, above, the dragon's wing curves back, metallic and glistening. Muscles strain and surge to bear you south.

Your mouth's dry. A half-drunk cup of blended whiskey vibrates on the tray before your seat [...]; this is all the flight attendants had on offer.

Somewhere up near the catering station, a bell chimes.

It seems, based on this description, that the dragon gondola is more or less equal to how a real world plane flight is, like Kai's economic dragon flight.

After having a conversation with Pat, the dragon lands and we get this description:

The landing ground itself is the largest unforested patch you've seen, and torn by dragon claws. Mooring docks for blimps needle up into the night, not quite as tall as the great treea. You stand with a drum solo of popping joints, gather your bags, shuffle through the ghost-lit insanity of baggage claim to the taxi stand, and ‐ at last - to your hotel bed, and a sleep haunted by dreams.

Apparently the dragons' claws scratch up their landing ground.

Then there's "mooring docks for blimps." The Craft Sequence's world has blimps, apparently. Of course Choice of the Deathless was written very early in the series, so who knows if this is a case of early installment weirdness or not.

While the last sentence tells us more about the nature of their airports than dragons, the fact that there's baggage claim implies that luggage is stored similarly to how it is for us in the real world, that is, separately from passengers.

Finally, we get this description while your character has a rather introspective moment:

A lone star glints through the leaves alone - or maybe that's a dragon, high up, flying west. They volunteer for aerial transport service, dragons do - young ones that haven't yet accumulated a hoard. The work, the routine, the whole exercise amuses them. And when it ceases to amuse, they stop.

Interestingly, this description states that the dragons that handle transport services don't have a hoard, despite the fact that the dragon in Ruin of Angels does. Maybe they're close to retirement?

In summary, we know as early as Choice of the Deathless that dragon are sapient, that the aerial transport services is done by young dragons who find it entertaining, and at least some types of dragon gondolas are analogous to real world plane flights.

Thanks for reading! And let me know if you ever need help grabbing quotes from the games, I've played them for years and know them front and back, haha.

Dragons are a mainstay of fantasy literature BUT have you ever seen them as vehicles of mass public transport? Or their corpses turned into the kind of weapons that break the Geneva Convention (or local equivalent).

Now you have. Part 2 of our (belated) dragon week series is OUT NOW.

Major spoilers for LAST FIRST SNOW, be warned.

[thatinwardhell]

winner’s spoils | s. crosby

rating: explicit, mdni

wordcount: 3.8k quickie lol. had to get this out after Certain Videos surfaced

warnings: fem!reader, smut, age gap, oral sex (m receiving) (its facefucking!! be advised!!), no reader orgasm, slight?? gender roles just in case. more in a symbiotic sexy way than “go make me a sandwich”

notes: sigh .... after a 3 YR LONG hiatus from any fic writing !!!!!!! it was the four nations that brought me back. pls send in requests !!!!! i'd love to keep writing more lol. vvvv happy 2 be back !!!!

He’s standing above you, legs spread wide, Colossus of Rhodes, but twice as tall and thrice as golden from where you kneel in front of him.

His hand, still wet, still sticky, from the champagne that slid down it, crystalline, only minutes before, is running through your hair, moving it, manipulating it any which way he pleases. He can, of course he can; he’s Sidney Crosby, Sidney Crosby who’s just added yet another trophy to his gratuitous spoils of war, who, even after all these years, still proves his dominance. Aging though he may be, it never fails to knock your knees, to put warm honey between your legs at the sight of him so easily evincing his overwhelming ownership of the young men whose pointed hits and on-ice jeers seem to roll off his back, reminding the world of his complete and total domination. Not that you needed a reminder. 

Your hands fiddle with the drawstring at the waist of Sidney’s hockey pants, pawing relentlessly at them, desperate to unearth the reward you know awaits you beneath them, and the jock you so frequently call disgusting (something about it puts that old, familiar ache in your tummy though: the thing is nearly as old as you are, and you throw a pathetic, watery-eyed glance up at Sidney at the thought that he has been this good at what he does longer than you’ve even been alive. He’s already looking when you do.) 

Sidney seems to take pity on you; precious girl, he usually says in moments like these, but tonight – no, he seems to crave your tongue, your mouth, in more ways than one. You pant, watching with a sense of wonder as he makes a show of pulling the string apart with the sort of practiced effortlessness that only comes with his age. He takes both of your wrists in each of his hands, gently, his calluses scratching the supple skin of your inner wrists, perfumed just for him, only for him, leading them to the waistband of his jock, leaving them there. He wants you to do it, and this is a capitulation that does not go unnoticed. Traitorous pride blooms in your chest; that Sid needs you so badly, so wantonly, that his infamous and over-practiced stoicism seems to slip after his big wins flatters you to no end, and it stokes a different, softer emotion in you at the thought that he needs you at all. You nuzzle the newly-exposed skin of his thighs in appreciation of this small surrender as you draw down his jock, inch by torturous inch, either ignorant or tactless to the party which still rages outside. 

It’s a wonder Sid even found the broom closet at all, a private corner in the midst of a monsoon of alcohol, and spit, and sweat. It’s a wonder they’re not missing him yet, but a man has needs, and though he seems to walk on water like a god, Sidney is just that: a man. You know this better than most, you think, but your one-track mind is thrown off-kilter instantaneously: you have finally found your prize. His cock springs free, and it is just as good as you have imagined. 

Sid blushes from the tips of his elven ears to his long, sloping nose to the thick, muscled cord of his neck at your unabashed appreciation of him, of all of him. You are too enthralled to notice he thinks, but, though you are thrown into a sea of awe at the sight of Sid’s cock no matter how many times you’ve seen it, you know he needs it: he’ll never say it out loud, no, never, but in moments like this, he needs you to tell him he’s good, without the need for words, without touch, by sight alone, in regards to more than his performance. 

You run your nose along the column of it, and your giving to him gives into an act of selfish self-gratification at the heady, virile scent of him. Sid’s all man, and he makes you dizzy with it, mouth dropping open and little pink tongue peeking out to whet both your appetite and your lips, preparing for the Herculean task of taking all of Sid into your mouth. But not now – not just yet. No, now, he is all yours, all yours to stake claim over, completely yours in the tiny broom closet he had dragged you into, the need boiling over in those hazel eyes you love so much. Usually, Sidney insists on showering before he takes you all for himself, but you love this, perhaps more than the musky bergamot soap he always uses postgame. 

Your vinous desire finally blots out your stalwart want to simply appreciate him like this, though – you have never been good at resisting Sid, though he might say the same of you (your pride simmers even higher, at this thought.) You give him as his grip tightens in your hair, reeling briefly in the doglike panting that reverberates through the room, permeated with the desperation only you can bring out in him. 

Your tongue peeks out once again, pressing tiny kitten licks to the very base of his shaft, to the very beginning of the impressive length that you swear inspires the pure and uninhibited supremacy he seems to exert over others. You often tease Sid about his big dick energy, drunk off the blush that rises to his stubbled cheeks at your flattery, but it couldn’t be farther from a mere act of adulation. You’re bad with measurements, and he’s never given you a number, but you know it takes half an hour of prep with his fingers, his sinewy tongue to fit it in, that, after your months, years together, the stretch of him still punches a half-gasp, half-grunt from your lungs that no other man has ever inspired. 

“C’mon,” Sid half-pleads. His accent seems to get stronger like this, though he’d object to you calling his tone a whine. This tugs another sigh from you, your eyes caressing the bright red maple leaf that adorns Sid’s chest. He seems to be Odysseus now, returning home from battle, to you, Penelope, his one and only, or you his Cleopatra and he a bloodied Mark Antony. He fights for his country, his pride, and, drenched in sweat, returns to you for the womanly comfort he can only find in you, for his spoils of war. More fluid drips from the hot, damp seam of you, but you ignore it easily. Sid will take care of you – he always does. Later, he will see the red silk, the cherry lace that covers his prize, but for now, the only thing that interests you is pleasing him. 

You oblige him easily – this is what you can give to Sidney, after so long and so much of him giving to you. All at once, he’s in your mouth, and his head is back against the racks of cleaning supplies that will inevitably be completely vacant, if the sounds of Team Canada’s celebrations outside give any clues. 

You run your tongue experimentally along the thick vein which runs all along his shaft, up to the swollen head of him, now bright pink with anticipation in the back of your throat. Slowly, surely though, you draw back, dragging your slick lips along Sid’s length until you reach the very tip. Just as quickly, you sink down to the base, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes at this familiar intrusion, but you only look up at him the way he loves so much. Both of Sid’s hands drop, now, to your cheeks, caressing them, his callused fingertips tracing the shapely, gentle slopes of your face. 

“Beautiful girl.” Sidney sounds wrecked, in the way only you can make him, gentle and tender just for you, even as he dominates you so thoroughly, so completely. He gives you a pointed look, wordless, but so intimate, so intense that you know what it means. Though you try to nod as best you can, he would know, even in the darkness of the cramped broom closet, even from miles and miles away, that you have said yes to him, that you’re enthusiastically giving your mouth to him, the last in a long line of tributes from those the conquered tonight. 

Sidney thrusts those fucking hips with a miniscule fraction of the power you know he’s capable of, the pure, raw energy contained within the corded muscle of his thighs, his hips, and now it’s not just the slight lack of air that’s making you dizzy. He draws back, allowing you a momentary reprieve before his cock once more breaches the damp cavern of you, this time harder, more powerful. 

Eyes half-lidded, you will him to do more – to take from you as much as he pleases. Sid could take from you everything you have, and you’d still offer more on hands and knees, ass in the air, and, though nausea bubbles in his stomach at the thought of taking anything from you, the offer sits implicitly in his hands, a reminder of your complete and utter devotion. To drive this home, you apply the most suction you can manage in your present position to Sidney’s cock, still sitting heavy, impish on your tongue, and this draws a wrecked moan from him – a moan! Your revelry is brief, cut by a slight cough as he buries himself even deeper, the thickets of hair at his base enveloping your nose. 

Sidney doesn’t flinch at the sound – neither do you. He knows your body better than you do, and, even in the throes of his pleasure, he knows you can take more, wills you to do so, already so tender, so brutal. 

He pulls out once more, and you ache for the loss of him, mouth clinging to the scant bit of him that remains in the relentless warmth, the unforgiving smoothness of your mouth. Sidney looks down at you once more, asking for the last time, with the last scraps of his self-control, for what he knows you will give him. 

You offer up your love easily, as easily as breathing comes in sleep, knowing that, even despite his age, his money, his undeniable success, he still needs this, your reassurance, from you – you drag your nails down his thigh, he groans, and begins to thrust the way you know he can. 

The hot, wet drag of Sidney’s cock against your lips, the pleasure-pain of him hitting your gag is intoxicating. He’s outside himself – you’re grateful, foggily, for the volume of the music outside, of they’d hear the desperate grunts, the sound of skin on skin on skin, Sidney’s panting, as the thighs that not thirty minutes ago propelled him across the ice at speeds and velocities unimaginable to you now propel his cock to where he needs it most. 

Time seems to slow, or speed up, drifting into the amorphous, pleasurable fog you float in. You revel, hedonist, in the feeling of his heavy balls against your chin, the force of his thrusting pushing your head back and forth, relentlessly, a tiny buoy bobbing in the unforgiving and complete story that is Sidney Crosby. He holds you fast, though, as he always does, large hands that once rested solely on the plushness of your ruddy cheeks now banded across your face, thick, brawny fingers now digging into the base of your skull, so gentle, so terrible all at once. 

The veins on the underside of him pulse, and you feel them against your lax tongue – you drag it, softly, across the quickened river of blood that sits just underneath the tan skin of him, worshipful. He grunts, appreciative, at this, urges you with the caresses of his calluses against the soft expanse of your skin, your hair, to do it again, and again, and again. You oblige.

Sidney permeates every atom in the tightly-cramped broom closet, too small even for the cleaning supplies contained within it, smaller yet for the heat of two bodies, hardly even flesh, a mess of spit and sweat and sticky, sweet-smelling filth, dripping down your face and landing on the floor with a wet sound. His body is so hot, burning so brightly with the adrenaline typical of wins like these, wins he hasn’t touched with the ruggedness of his fingers in so many months, now within his clutches, now brought under a banner of blood red and snow white, his victory so absolute no one, not in the farthest stretches of obscurity, could deny it. 

The power of him overwhelms you, the scent of him, the feeling of his thighs, spattered with a layer of brown hair and now soaking with saliva, under your palms, a psalm for your taking. The musk of sex is overwhelming – you pity the poor worker who walks in here to clean up after your debauchery (you, briefly, remember the absurdity of your situation: it reads like cheap pulp fiction, at times, you think, that only so many months, years now, he had descended on you, delivered you from the dregs of your monotonous, menial, laborious job and into his arms. You would happily open your mouth, your legs, your arms to him as thanks for this epiphany, but he refuses every time; he says the look in your eyes is enough, the brush of hair and skin and the very thought of your shared bed far too much for him already.) 

But you can smell him, feel him all over, a woman possessed – Sid gives as much as he takes, like this, though he doesn’t know it. You hope he doesn’t notice the way you grind yourself against your heel, the red silk already so soaked through with arousal now completely ruined, only a memory of your decadence in the broom closet. Surely, he would insist that you climb on top of him, to let him run his tongue over the folds of you until you scream and pound at his chest, screaming mercy, mercy, mercy, as he’s so fond of doing, but you’re happy, perfectly happy, like this, serving him. He hates to hear it, makes him feel his age, the power imbalance that infrequently, but profoundly, informs small bouts of jealousy or solitude. But you like to serve him, yes, especially when he’s like this. 

Sid’s so utterly debauched, so lost in himself that even if one of his teammates were to enter, they would hardly recognize their usually so measured captain, completely drowned in the throes of his own pleasure. Sidney’s cheeks, already prone to the kind of ruddiness that inspires poetry or paintings, are flushed a bright cherry red, dotted with sweat and the remnants of champagne, dripping down the long, curved line of his nose (you’d like to lick it off, to suck the liquid from his skin and revel in the salt and the musk of his sweat, the bitterness, then the sweetness of the champagne. But alas, your mouth is occupied.) His salt-and-pepper hair is mussed up in a manner only Caravaggio could imagine, every curl so perfectly askew, which seems to be a habit of your boyfriend’s and one that, admittedly, inspires bouts of desire similar to Sidney’s in you, all over him in the dusk when he comes home, or in the early morning before he leaves. The plush pinkness of his bottom lip is worried to pleasantly between his bottom teeth and the top ones and, had you been more lucid, you would have been able to identify the ones he pointed out to you as implants, replacements for the ones that had been knocked out by one Flyer or another while you were still learning your alphabet. 

Sidney’s thrusts are ragged now, are getting deeper, faster, more desperate, his grip on your head that much more intentional, maneuvering your face the way he wants you. He makes you wonderfully lightheaded like this – so completely and thoroughly possessed. You love being his toy, like this, to sit on your knees and please him, almost as much as you like for him to do the same, to press a worshipful mouth to your ankles, your calves, your thighs, then the part of you he loves very most, apart from your eyes, maybe your laugh or the shape of your teeth, the feeling of your smile; if not what he loves the very most, the one he serves – the one thing that puts ‘Captain Canada’ himself on his knees. This is a secret pride of yours, one that you tell no one, one that is kept safe in the depths of you until Sidney is away on a roadie and his side of the bed, still smelling of that bergamot and musk, is getting cold. 

But he’s close – you know, you know, and you resist smiling around the heady, intoxicating weight of him. You know him so intimately, you think, you could know his orgasm even if blindfolded with your hands behind your back. You like to think you could coax one from Sidney the same way, but you’ll have to wait, to bide your time. Your ears ring with it, watching the way Sid’s crows’ feet bloom across his cheeks, disturbing the stubble there, the way that, when he grimaces like this, teetering on the edge, his dimples pop out, digging graves in his cheeks. 

Sidney’s fingers are doubly hot against your scalp now, dangerously lecherous as they clutch the base of your skull tighter still, pulling you even deeper into him, your nose buried in the wiry brown hair at the base of him. On the precipice of ecstasy, he misses the way your eyes roll back, the way your mouth vibrates at the smell of him, all sweat and manhood, the way you like him, completely in control, yet so entirely under your thumb. You hear a familiar hymn on Sid’s tongue, vaguely, and wonder if he’s been talking this entire time, if you’ve just been so enthralled in the scent of him, the wires of his thighs under your hands, that you missed the oh fuck baby oh fuck yes yes take it fuck yeses. He’s teetering, desperate, flailing for it, grasping at straws as he thrusts deeper still. 

You want him to come, want him to give the reward of his spend so badly that you’re suffocating on it. You’re grinding on your own foot so hard it’s almost painful, desire controlling every movement, every gyration of your hips against your heel, pushing into the floor rolling your swollen clit with the daftness you’ve realized is inherent with orgasms not provided to you by Sidney. You won’t cum like this, certainly, but you don’t need it, no, not when you have him like this. 

You slide the viscous hot pleasure of your tongue along the vein on his underside and he breaks. 

Sidney tenses, your hair now taut between his fingers, pulled to its limits, your face pushed as far into his pelvis as it can go, now suffocated in the truest sense of the word in the man who stands above you, so powerful and so destroyed all at once. His pink mouth is dropped open, completely lax, and you can see the edges of his teeth, where they meet the softnesses of his own mouth, the pink tongue, the reddish gums, the pale pink roof of it, and his eyes have screwed shut, now only two tiny, puckered hints of eyelash and supple, thin skin, barely covering the dark bags which have accumulated under his eyes. Stress, you think, maybe sleep, but, then again, no, he’s always good about that. No worry. You have your ways of keeping him in bed when you need to, of keeping him exhausted in all the ways he wants the very most. He gives smaller, tiny thrusts as the heat of him spills down your throat, and you hum at the taste. Sidney eats well, so virile, so fecund, that he tastes good, strong, heady, and a base, animal part of you revels in the smaller thrusts, the taste of him, pines the loss of his cum; he could be thrusting like that in you, keeping his spend inside of you, where it belonged, where it’d carry on his progeny better than TNT or ESPN could. 

Sidney eases, taut muscles now weak, so spent you swear you can see his legs shake. It’s an illusion, you know, knowing that his legs, so well accomplished, can hold his weight under much more pressure than any orgasm. But you stroke your pride this way, like to think that you can make him weak, can make him strong whenever you please. His hands slips from your hair, returning to your cheeks, where he turns your head back up from where you hadn’t realized it had slumped. The amber of his eyes is so soft, looks so brown in this light, rather than the greenish they look in the bright lights of the media room or the fluorescence of the rink, so much like pools of dark water, undiscovered, unthinkable to anyone but you.

“Swallow for me.” Sidney is so soft like this, so disparate from the man who can level men twice his size without a second thought on the ice. He could crush you between his thumb and his finger, so easy, like this, but he doesn’t. 

You listen, swallow him the way he likes you to, so you keep some of him in you until the next time he can have you. 

“Good girl. My best girl.” Sidney says, so quiet anyone else wouldn't have been able to hear it, said for your ears only. He brushes his hands once more over your cheeks, wiping away sweat, stray tears that may have fallen with the tenderness only he’s capable of. “C’mere, give me a kiss.” 

You oblige him easily, but act as if it’s a chore – you shrug, roll your eyes as you rise uneasily from your feet, steadied into Sidney’s arms at the first sign of unsteadiness, huff a little for dramatic effect. 

He laughs, a soft, easy sound, wraps his hands once more about your cheeks, and presses his lips to yours. Sid’s yours, like this, all yours, away from the cameras, from his teammates, from the rink, and you revel in the softnesses of his mouth, the plush of his lips and the slight scratch of his five-o’clock shadow, and everything else falls away, quickly, easily, just like this. The party persists outside – they’ll have to miss him for a minute more.

[csprint]

what type of pussy eater do you think ateez are? like i just know yunho and wooyoung got to be the biggest pussy eaters!!! definitely the types to suck on your clit until it’s puffy 😩

kookinglikeachef: Sorry this took forever. I am like a sloth when it comes to writing. My name might as well be Sid.

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The pros: NOT FOR BEGINNERS

Seonghwa, Wooyoung, Jongho

Precise and very focused on the task at hand. So don’t be in a hurry to cum cause they’re gonna take their time and drag it out for as long as possible. But when you do cum he’s already edging you for your next one. These men lick their fingers clean when they’re done with you.

They are STARVINGGGGG

Yunho, San

Unlike the pros, these two are messy. They eat it like they are enjoying a dish. You’re all over their face. Is your pussy from KFC? Cause that shit is finger lickin’ good. But they would clean you so nice it’s like they weren’t even there. And even when you’re done they still want more.

They just wanna fuck

Hongjoong, Yeosang, Mingi

Don’t get me wrong, they do belong up there with the pros and messy eaters but pussy eating does not do it for them. “Did you cum yet?” They’ll be fucking themselves against the mattress. It’ll be quick and half-assed just so they can get inside you sooner.