#You grandiose motherfuckers

[stardustedknuckles]

The more I think about Essek and Astrid the funnier the implications are. Whatever her relationship now with Caleb, it's apparently not good enough for him to have Jester call her and say hey you got some chucklefucks headed your way, help em out. And sending Essek specifically fucking kills me because. Has Astrid met him as someone close to Caleb. Does she know Bren's boyfriend just showed up and dramatically nuked the both of their magics just for a literal conversation about Aeor. Was the last time she saw him during Naughty Wizard Garden Rehab at the Grove.

The fact that Caleb and Essek knew that talking to Astrid at all would require THIS level of theatrics is honestly a level of top tier wizard bullshit that's been missing from the campaign and the fact that it was SO strong in one single encounter in a porn shop has got me cracking up. Why was she there. It's got to involve Caleb somehow. Did he ask her to show up there? If so, again why not just tell her Bells Hells were coming?

It's so unnecessarily convoluted. The fantasy equivalent of asking a bunch of engineers to solve a simple problem and they make it as complicated as is mortally possible.

[biggest-geo-oogami-enjoyer]

Somnophilia smut with Sol? Reader doesn't wake up (Tʖ̯T)

No Rest for the Wicked (Sol x MC/Reader - Somnophilia Smut)

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, PRESENTING TO THE STAGE, YOUR FAVOURITE TKATB WRITER !!!

SKY FORTRESSES AND BURNING CITADELS, WITH A LONGTIME-AWAITED, PROMISED SOLIVAN BRUGMANSIA S.M.U.T.!

*bows*

Anyway, just a reminder this is rape, non-consented, probably slightly OOC, and I'm a (slightly more than) tad rusty in writing. I've also never written smut before, so do give feedback if you deem it necessary. Toodles, my sexy motherfuckers.

You could even say I came back with a bang. ;)

P.S. Also the M/C is written as a virgin in this, if your character isn't then congratulations! They hid their previous sexual escapades impeccably well, for Sol to not know.

- Signed by biggest-geo-oogami-enjoyer

Wicked: evil or morally wrong.

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The room was pitch black, so heavily ensnared in the gaping shade of the darkened night that even shadows disappeared under its tarlike veil. Any ordinary, random burglar would be blindly stumbling about like an idiot, if they happened upon your apartment with…impure intentions.

Sol wasn’t a burglar, and he was definitely not ordinary. He wasn’t a mindless passerby on the streets, with a forgettable face and unassuming nature. Sure, he acted the part well, played the weak-minded shy kid well. But that act, that mask? It’s for the faces that litter his vision, that plague his sight and try to distract him from his goal, his mission, his messiah.

Faces that exist as a way to try and deter him from his forever, from his life and his bride, from his venerant Annabel Lee.

You.

He’s saving his true, adaptable, self for you. He’s willing to morph into anyone for you, alter himself, hurt himself if you so merely asked!

You could ask him to kill for you and he wouldn’t even blink until said soul was eviscerated; and their body exsanguinated and dumped in an outskirt lake.

He was the only one for you, your only soulmate, your only lover, your only.

So why did you always neglect him? Ignore him; spend time with him as a last resort, all in favour of that insignificant bastard-born slug?!

What did he have that Sol didn’t? Hmm? 

The queries began to flood his mind, onslaught his body. He barked out a laugh, a cold, brisk sound that reverberated across the walls, before cruelly biting the skin of his knuckles.

Hush, can’t have you wake up now darling, not when you’re so serene and at ease.

He didn’t want to do anything bad to you, of course not, he loves you…! But even the best of lovers need to be taught a lesson…or seven.

Boots softly thud against your floor, their path marked by years of memory and intuition, and like normal, he makes his way to your bedside.

Sol might not be able to see you, but he doesn’t need to. He already knows how you sleep, he remembers the precise dosage of medication he needs to do this…he’s all set…

Yet the longer he stands there, the more time ticks by him, gently ageing you both second by second closer to a fated death, he was struck by an epiphany:

Why the fuck should he settle for this? He’s been in the darkness long enough.

The kid at the back.

The afterthought.

The forgotten face of the world.

If Jericho Ichabod gets to see you…then so shall fucking he.

In a bout of ornery, he ditched his boots and marched into the lightless expanse of your lounge. He knew you had a torch hidden somewhere, might as well finally make use of it. 

Like he will of you.

Most people would’ve already ditched or aimlessly clambered around; but Sol wasn’t most people. He knew your residence inside out, all of them.Each place, grandiose or minimalistic, apartment or house. No matter where you go, he’s always watching, tonight’s just a little more…intimate, a touch closer than his usual escapades.

His hand softly searched the drawers, each soft click sent a thrilling chill down his spine, his body shuddered as he tactfully manoeuvred his way about the room. His fingers casually map each surface, fondling for anything remotely cylindrical…until, after what felt like millenia, he finds it. How lucky.

A lava lamp. Bright enough to see you, dim enough to not awaken you; and look at that…it’s red, like his eyes, like his lips…like his cock.

Were you thinking of me, beloved?

With methodical steps, silent as the grave, he strode back to you, placed the lamp in the closet door…and by God’s holy grail was he once more rendered stunned.

The soft crimson rays paint your frame in a way he prayed to one day replicate, with his own blood, perhaps? Paint wouldn’t be enough to perfectly capture your divine essence. 

Your lips look so fucking good. 

He wanted to have you so damn badly it hurt.

And he would’ve…until something crossed his peripherals.

A small photo, about the size of his palm, lay tucked away on your bedside drawer.

To say Sol was intrigued by this was an understatement, and his bubbling wonder continued to froth as he took in the details of this quaint square and halted. 

All intrigue turned to rage, white and hot like his flesh and it pelted his mind like hail on an abandoned car; before an idea, comical as it was repulsive, crept into the depraved depths of his mind.

What better way to avenge himself than make the whore see? See how much better he is, both in appearance and in bed?

A lifeless grin moulded into his face, Sol positioned the photo to ensure it stared right at him; The slug isn’t worthy of seeing the pretty things you’ll do; he thought.

He bored his eyes into ones of disgusting cobalt, before turning down to the grandest feast of his life.

Slender fingers, corpse-like in colour, caressed your face, measuring once more the map that is your body, his eyes hungrily raking over your sleeping form.

Against his better judgement, he lowers his head and drags his tongue, languid and unhurried, across your neck, his teeth softly rubbing across your zen pulse. 

He swiftly rose up, his face burning and his breaths stuttering; all the while his cock —  like the night before, and the one before that — began to fucking ache, straining horribly against his pants, almost begging to be allowed freedom from its constant confines. 

The urge to tear off your clothes and piston himself so deep inside you that your body would refuse any other dick was so tempting. The mere thought made a small wet spot appear, yet Sol would take his time, after all, this was merely you making up for teasing him, right?

Fuck it.

In one swift motion, he’s at your side, his nose buried in the crook of your neck as his hand casually dived under your shirt, worming its way towards the mounds that lay atop your angelic heart; but you couldn’t possibly blame him, they’re so malleable and beautiful; just like you!

He inhaled sharply, before closing his eyes and stifling a pathetic whimper.

You smell so fucking good.

His whole body was like a bomb, ticking away until either his time runs out and he leaves to care for himself elsewhere, or until he allows himself to… indulge.

If Ichabod got to revel in your presence, then so shall he.

“Mhh??”

Shit.

He froze, his body arched over you, his hoodie half off, exposing his burnt abdomen, carmine circles and purple dots peppering him like seasoning. 

Ahh…you told me I was beautiful in your eyes once…but I won’t risk you rejecting me from these, darling.

Another reason why he loved you oh-so much. You’re so pristine, so pure, so perfect that it stung. He didn’t deserve you, he wasn’t remotely close to reaching the bar of whom someone like you should have; but he didn’t care anymore. You were here, beneath him.

And he was going to have you if it’s the last thing he ever does.

Soon enough, his mouth returned to your pulse, suckling on the throbbing flesh and his teeth cautiously caging the arteries, until a mark — angry red like the burns that paint his skin — started to blossom.

His hand inched up your breast, the pads of his chilled fingers encircled your areolas, the nips hardened and prodded at him, begging to be pleasurably satiated — and satiate he inevitably would.

He swiftly moved to straddling you, this time in entirety, careful to avoid putting too much pressure on your torso. When you’re lying so prettily before him it was almost too easy to forget how much bigger than you he was, how small and dainty and delicate you were compared to him.

Using his other hand to lift your nightshirt to your collarbones, Sol redirected himself fully to your breasts, his teeth grazing over the buds before rapidly digging them into the warm fat, his nails clawing at your sides like they were pencils upon a blank canvas and the artist had the eureka of a lifetime.

His face felt torrid, his whole body felt like it’d been set ablaze and he’d barely started.

Look at what you’ve turned me into, but I’m not complaining, how can I?

Sol suddenly wished he was a snake, so he could coil around your body forever, his fangs lodged in either your neck or tits, while his tip would remain buried so deeply within you that you’d forget what it meant to move normally.

But hey, he could still do one of those things. The drugs are significantly stronger this time.

As if to test the waters, he delicately shifted your blouse off of you, tossing it somewhere else on the bed whilst he — perverted as he knew he was — admired your figure, his hands mellowly brushing your arms and kneading your curves, wanting to ingrain this image of you for the rest of his life.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty. How are you so pretty?”

His cock was shrieking now, hell, he was struggling to contain himself. But he could hold off a little longer, right?

No. No I can’t.

His hands weren’t even his anymore, by the time he’d ceased gazing at you, his belt was being yanked out and he was aggressively tugging his pants down, a sharp slap! bouncing off the walls as his dick emerged from its confines, dribbles of translucent white steadily seeped out the shroomy head. 

He inched closer to you, deciding to fully ditch his clothes as he tenderly brought your hands into his. He covered them each in kisses, suckled on your fingertips, before guiding them towards his throbbing crotch, your fingers tightly clutched onto it; it’s like you’ve wanted this as much as him!

Shit. Fuck. Fuck you’re so pretty.

Blanketing your fingers with his longer ones, Sol slowly pumped himself into your palm, his whole body almost falling on top of you with how violently he shook at the sheer magnitude of carnal pleasure that coursed through his veins.

A pitiful whine emitted from his tongue as he commenced vigorously propelling himself into your hand, the drastic change in speed and temperament making the sensations nearly overwhelming. 

It forced him to hold his weight up over you; like his arm was a pillar to a divine shrine, one that he deems you more than worthy of. But he supposed this is the best way to be close to a god, to worship a god.

Shit, I love you. I love you so much, you don’t know how crazed I get when it comes to you.

Sol turned to the small picture of Ichabod, before looking respectlessly at the view under him, and smirked.

From his nigh-omniscience when it comes to you, Sol knows you’ve never had sex, and he’d be damned if your first would be Crowe.

He continued to piston himself into your palm, contemplating whether he should move on…elsewhere, while he could. 

Your hands weren’t gonna be enough, he wanted Ichabod to see him fucking you, making love to you; you didn’t have to be conscious, you’d still love him either way. 

Sol relished in the thought, as his thrusts grew erratic and variable, his abs clenching and his arms locking in as he prepared to release, to paint his magnum opus — to paint you white with his cum.

I love you, I love you so much, I want you so much, you’re everything to me IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou.

He moaned, gripped your hand and placed a messy kiss to your lips, using his other appendage to pump faster and faster, until his body physically stuttered into it —  until his whole being shattered, and a fountain of his sperm splattered onto your skin, leaving your body glistening under the vermillion light of the lamp.

But Sol wasn’t done this time, for how could he be? He had to make sure nobody got to you before he did.

He kissed you again, his tongue diving into your mouth, exploring the wet cavern, his hand — the one that formerly served as a buttress — coming down to the band of  your shorts, his fingers gently prying them down with your panties, and judging by its appearance, it was one of the few he hadn’t touched — how cute. It’s like you wanted him to gather every garment that’s pressed against your core, that felt your slick as you touched yourself.

Gah, the thought of your fingers buried inside you, toying with your clit, playing with your tits.

Anything you do arouses him, but the thought, oh fuck him, the thought of you using yourself whilst thinking of him — like he about you — makes him feral.

Without even thinking, he plunged two digits into your pussy, silently (s)creaming at how smoothly they entered. 

Your body knows it’s mine, hahah! Fuck…you’re hot.

Pressing a thumb to your clit and his other hand over your mouth, Sol feels himself going sexdrunk, watching in slick satisfaction the squelches and pretty little Os your hole made around him, trying to crush his bones and slurp them into its warmth, as if it wanted him there forever. Not that he mind, he’d curl up inside you and live as your sentient sex toy if he had his way.

He sighs, his cock turning a brutal shade of red as his eyes observe the beauty that lay within how well cocooned he is inside you, and that’s with his fingers!

Repositioning your wrists so that he could comfortably hold them in one of his own, he redirects his attention to your pussy, thrusting with vehement pleasure into your depths, feeling your wet rapture on his skin, and his pace only increases; like fire on drywood.

The flames of his lust for you, the burning pyre of his love for you, it wasn’t enough in his eyes to see you so shortly each night. It shouldn’t be normal for him, he wanted to take you, to have and hold and love and worship and admire and caress you each day and night, for all his life until both of your ephemeral existences fell by the threads and you both lie in a shared sepulchre next to the sea.

He goes faster, his thumb circling the fleshy nub with affection, a small whimper stirring from your lips.

“Mh…C-crowe?”

Sol ceases, ears alert, eyes widened as he realised whose name you uttered.

Hah. Hahahahah. That motherfucker.

He was gonna go nice and soft on you, gonna be loving to you; but clearly, clearly you needed a little…reminder, of whose thick, fat, juicy cock was inside you.

Removing his sticky fingers, Sol tore apart your thighs, his nails etched so callously in your flesh he barely registered the groan that slipped past your mouth.

Crowe huh? My gorgeous darling, you’re so beautiful but you should know you can’t say such vile things.

He moved his cock with a tenderness towards your gaping entrance, the head brushing against your labia, a waterfall of gasps tumbling out of his mouth as the contact — evasive yet so direct — sent rushes of cold adrenaline down his spine, making him arch himself into you, searching for the closeness he’d wanted for so long.

Cupping your hand in his, he forced himself deep inside you, an onslaught of euphoria surging past any potential despondencies he might’ve had and he slammed his lips onto yours, the slapping of skin and the popping of each entry and exit his cock made out of you left him dazed in the sensual chorus of a symphony built upon ecstasy.

Even in all the times Sol’s touched himself to you, fucked himself into your undergarments or clothes, he’s never thought how immaculately well you fit around him, as if you were the warm, tight nut to his aching, etched bolt.

He was in pain, a beloved pain that came only from first love and lust, his heart screaming as he kissed your lips again and again, squeezing the life out of your hands as he muttered an obsessive, possessive manta:

I love you. I love you. I love you. 

He spent so many years waiting in eager anticipation for you to be his — to feel this sick love that he felt for you — like he was yours, and now, now he had you, claimed you. He wished Crowe was here so he could spit down his stupid throat. The idea felt tempting, maybe Hyugo could help him one more time.

But that’s for later, he’s with you now, and nothing is more invaluable to Solivan Brugmansia than you.

He couldn’t cease his gratifying motions, his suppressed moans, or the blitzes of unfiltered joy that rained down his face as he cried; fell apart both bodily and soulfully. His lips fell to your neck again and he marked you, tainted your priceless flesh with his teeth, contaging you with the plague that long since infested his mind.

His thrusts grew sloppier, his body was boiling as he stuttered out a hushed whimper:

Shit, I love you, I’m cumming, I’m cumming, I love you so much-

And with a sharp bite to your shoulder, a callous bracelet of bruises to your wrists, and blood seeping from your swollen lips, Sol came deep within your heat — oceans of his desire-fueled suspension tumbling about inside you, painting you in white, his dove-white passion. For you.

Only you.

Yet as the waves of his lust left him spent and empty, he rose his sweating body above your form, tears running down his pallid face, and cupped your cheek.

He knew he should clean you up before he loses himself once more, but whilst he remained buried within you — his kingdom, filled with the seas of his undying adoration, he turned to the photo of Jericho Ichabod, yanked it off the wooden surface — and tore it to shreds.

[xxavengingangelxx]

Graves Defragged 1/?

As promised, here is the first part of deconstructing Graves. This part touches on the first half of the psychopath traits I want to discuss. Below is my take! I am NOT licensed to make these decisions. This is just for fun. It also touches on why I write Graves like a heartless mf'er in my longer fics. Because Graves is a heartless motherfucker.

Not proofread. I'm posting this before going to bed cause it's the only time I got between working 60+ hours a week, house chores, keeping hubby fed, etc.

To touch on my sociopath vs. psychopath post earlier, there are some in the field who argue that a sociopath is made and a psychopath is born. We don’t have enough information on Graves’s background to see whether or not he’s shown the same callous disregard for human life, disregard for rules, and narcissism earlier on. But he certainly shows those traits now.

And we do have this:

Graves: "That uniform was a limitation. I shed that skin..." Soap: "Like a fuckin' snake-" Graves: "Like a fucking soldier, son." — Soap confronts Graves about his past.

Let’s assume Graves was born a psychopath. It’s certainly possible. And if Adler is his father, then he’s got the genes for killing, anyway. Yes there are theories that say there are genes for criminality but I can post more on that later if y’all are interested.

How many traits of a psychopath does he actually have? Based on the behavior, we’ve seen, quite a bit!

Robert Hare, a Canadian psychologist, created the Hare Psychopathy Checklist (known today as the Hare Psychopathy Checklist Revised). Let’s go through the items with our crush man Graves in mind. Each of these items is rated a 0 if it does not apply, a 1 if it kind of applies, and a 2 if it definitely applies. They are added up at the end. Max score is a 40.

Item 1: Glibness and superficial charm = 2

You’re kidding me, right? Graves is the man of charm and glib. His good fuckin’ looks certainly help him out.

Image credit: @Vault21 on Tumblr

Remember Dark Water? Yeah…they trusted each other like brothers. Soap even hugged Graves! Graves had them  (and us) fooled because not much later he betrayed them like they were enemies.

Item 2: Grandiose sense of self-worth = 1

Graves is narcissistic. We can all agree on that, right? He thought he was too good for the Marines, that the Marines were not good enough for such a special person like himself. And I could be wrong here, but he is massively successful, likely a billionaire so doesn’t he get to be a little narcissistic?

Item 3: Need for stimulation/proneness to boredom = 2

Graves was so bored in the Marines, one of the toughest branches of the military, that he saw his uniform as a limitation and sought out to make his own company of mercenaries who don’t really answer to anyone. Also, how many CEOs do you see in the field like Graves is? Close to none. He lives for getting shot at and chased. He has a scar on his face to prove it!

Item 4: Pathological lying = 2

Is this even a question? Graves lied so well to 141 that they trusted him and saw him as a brother in arms. Also, remember the scene from Congress?

Image credit: BabyZone on YouTube.

Which leads me to…

Item 5: Conning/manipulative = 2

Phillip Graves is a conman. If you look up conman in the dictionary there’d be a picture of Graves or there should…it’d make the dictionary less boring. According to Google’s dictionary, the definition of conman is, “a man who cheats or tricks someone by gaining their trust and persuading them to believe something that is not true.” I can think of a few examples. Again, Dark Water

Image credit: Wallpaper Cave

Also, the Congress scene where he lies (about WAR CRIMES) like he’s talking about the weather.

And when he pulled the rug out from under 141 in Las Almas.

Which in turn takes us to…

Item 6: Lack of remorse/guilt = 2

Graves betrayed 141, the men he had fought next to, defended, befriended all while gaining their trust.

All while smiling about it!

Image credit: halgalvv on TikTok

Look!

Image credit: Call of Duty Wiki

Which also reminds me of the war crimes Graves committed in Las Almas. Some argue that Graves cleaned house by killing off people who were supporting the cartels but based on what I’ve been told there were children in this town as well.

This also brings me to the topic of Graves’s Shadows. These men are okay with war crimes. Shadows are okay with killing people just because Graves said to. In one (or more?) of my fics I portray Shadows as I see them: callous and even sadistic with how they agree to torture a prisoner of war (POW), going so far as using rape as a weapon if Graves gives the word.

Are there some Shadows who can’t engage in this kind of behavior? Perhaps. So Graves knows which men to pick to carry out war crimes. At least that’s how I see it.

Psychopaths have physical differences in the make up of their brain that make them UNABLE to feel guilty, remorse, or fear. So when I hear people asking how serial killers and other criminals deal with their guilt, I say they do not because it doesn't exist to them. They have no idea what guilt is.

Remember: It’s not that psychopaths choose not to feel/ignore guilt. It’s that their brain is completely INCAPABLE of this emotion.

You might be asking why/how: Psychopaths think the same thing about you…how can you feel guilt? Why would you want to?

Item 7: Shallow affect = 1

Only because we are unable to see how Graves functions emotionally away from the battlefield. My forensic psychology professor said that psychopaths have 2 emotions: rage and joy. Have you seen Graves portray anything else, really? In another fic, Graves supposedly says he loves OC. Like he even knows what that means. He doesn’t. He loves controlling her and abusing her, yes.

If Graves had a kid like he does in the same fic, he doesn’t feel much affection towards him. He just likely sees him as an extension of his partner. A future soldier, someone Graves can start training from young. Something he can use to control and keep his partner in line.  That child, from the moment he was born is seen as an asset by Graves. Plus, there are some good chances that kiddo might have inherited Graves’s genes that pass on his psychopathy. And even if that child does not, there’s a good chance he could develop as a sociopath because he’s not likely to see much more other than Graves continuing to abuse and control his partner and battlefield conditions.

Item 8: Callousness/lack of empathy = 2

This relates to a lack of remorse. You might ask how can Graves not feel empathy for how 141 must feel after he betrayed them? Because, like the shallow emotions and lack of remorse, Graves’s brain cannot do it. He doesn’t have the neurons for it. He doesn’t have the brain structure for it. It’s not that Graves chooses not to feel or ignore empathy. He CANNOT. It’s almost like asking someone with very low math ability to do a PhD in physics. It’s not that they’re lazy. They do not have the aptitude for it.

Graves does not have the aptitude for remorse or empathy because he doesn’t have the brain structure that makes that happen.

He think's it's funny.

Image credit: Einstein Ibraheem on YouTube

Item 9: Parasitic lifestyle = 0

Finally, one that does NOT apply to Graves. This man refuses to depend on anyone. He’s a fucking billionare that can get whatever the hell he wants whenever he wants it.

Item 10: Poor behavioral controls = 0

Hear me out! Graves is not impulsive. Lots of psychopaths are due to limitations in a part of the brain called the prefrontal cortex as well as other parts to include the limbic system. Graves is not limited in that manner. He plans, he’s meticulous, he’s detailed, and he gets away with a lot of shit because of it. Graves is not impulsive. Get him mad and he might smack the shit out of you (more than once if you make him mad enough) but when it comes to important decisions, he takes his painstaking time.

So fear we are up to the score of 14! He has scored positive on 14/20 possible points.

More to come!

[roachliquid]

Before I get going into season 3 of Danny Phantom, I feel a need to take the time to enthuse about my all-time favorite antagonist of this series to date. I mean to tell you, this guy dethroned the Box Ghost, and he's still sitting at a solid #2. Though with that being said, it probably won't be too surprising when I tell you who unseated old Boxy, since this dude is so absurdly threatening that so far, he's only been deployed twice.

Yep. I'm talking about the man, the myth, the incredibly attractive legend himself, Freakshow.

Don't try to embarrass me; I've got no pride.

But uh. Moving past my taste in evil would-be clowns, I will admit that Freakshow is a classic example of Danny Phantom's derivativity. Creatively, he's blatantly heavily inspired by other cartoon villains - Jafar and the Joker being the most obvious ones - and visually, he's like if Richard O'Brien decided to work for the circus. Which I'm not remotely complaining about; it's a combination that works very well - it's just, y'know, classic DP creativity.

Anyway, the thing that I find whenever Freakshow shows up is that I am genuinely a little bit scared of him. Not in a "I am no longer aware that I'm watching a silly cartoon for kids" way, necessarily, but in an "oh shit our heroes are in real trouble" kind of way. Which sounds impressive for a guy who has no powers of his own, but... I think that's a big part of why he feels so threatening.

See, while Danny's faced a goodly number of powerful and high-stakes villains, I rarely find myself feeling like he's truly out of his depth. At the end of the day, most of them are ghosts, and he can usually defeat them by doing some kind of ghostly activity, such as shooting them with beams or taking a trip to the Ghost Zone. The few exceptions include Dan Phantom, a guy who could only really be defeated by Danny choosing not to become him, and then this motherfucker.

As I mentioned before, Freakshow is a normal human, a fact that he has a way of using to his advantage. Not because it exempts him from being blasted with beams or anything, but because he isn't constrained by the behavioral patterns or weaknesses of your average ghost. He doesn't have a consistent, unified power set that can be memorized and predicted, nor does he have a convenient Achilles heel sitting somewhere in the Ghost Zone just waiting for some hero to find it. Instead, he exhibits the far more worrying tendency of just having whatever powers he was recently able to get his hands on, and being more than prepared to get his hands on them whenever the opportunity arises.

That's the thing about Freakshow, is that he plans. And not in the grandiose, elaborate habit of Vlad Masters, who puts all his focus on a singular plan at the expense of flexibility. Freakshow's plans are simpler, but generally more effective - he looks out for potential opportunities, and does whatever legwork he can so that by the time one arises, he's ready to seize it and hit the ground running. He is, to put it in a word, adaptable.

And that's genuinely worrying. Because when someone is that flexible, you can never be too sure what they're capable of. Combine that with the absence of conventional ghost weaknesses, and you create a problem that Danny is just... not equipped to solve.

As badass as ghosts can be in Danny Phantom, I treasure those moments that show that they have their own disadvantages. Freakshow is a stellar example of that principle, a guy whose greatest strength - unfortunately unbeknownst to himself - is simply being a human being in a situation where that isn't the norm. Especially to a fourteen-year-old whose biggest non-existential threats are ordinary humans, that's a pretty big deal.

[kissingrhi]

can you PLEASE write some jealous lalo hcs!! tysm!!!

jealous lalo? you're speaking my language

cw: a little nsfw but nothing crazy

this man has absolutely zero shame in his game

if he sees you talking to someone he even remotely considers a threat, he’ll sling an right over your shoulder and press the fattest kiss on your cheek!!

definitely soooo petty. “oh i see you’ve met my amorcito!” “nice to meet you, i’m their boyfriend!” he’d say this with the most mischievous glimmer in his eyes.

he’d keep a smug grin on his face, even with the sassy undertone.

10000% leaves hickies in the most noticeable areas if he’s feeling particularly jealous. he would brush your hair over or “adjust” your shirt just so they’d be more visible for people to leave you alone.

not overly clingy, but keeps a rough hand on your thigh or interlinks your hands. he makes it visible enough to where you two aren’t clingy but everyone knows you’re together

this man is still crazy. if someone won’t leave you alone or is being particularly touchy, you might never see them again. or when you do find them they’ll be… roughed up.

it’s not that he doesn’t want you to have friends! he just wants you all to himself (his words)

he can be extremely possessive or just simple (dropping a ‘back off’ to whomever is speaking to you) every now and then… depends on his mood.

if you two are going out and you look really good, he’ll just drop by behind you when you’re in the mirror, locking one of his gold chains around your neck or spritzing some of his cologne on you. then he’d press a kiss into your neck and lock eyes with you in the mirror, a greedy hunger in his eyes. “gotta let them know, hm?”

he’s really threatening to people who try to mess with you. if someone won’t leave you alone? apologies to them in advance. he’d be the most grandiose motherfucker about it, grabbing the person by the collar and pushing them away. so extra!

all in all, he really really REALLY loves you and will let it be known whenever is necessary

[queenlua]

this martin luther guy has SO many DRAMA QUEEN MOMENTS, i'm kind of in love

like, okay, here's one: the story of august 22, 1524, aka The Very Public Friend Breakup

THAT MORNING, Luther gave a long-ass sermon at this church in Jena, right

and he spends a lot of time dunking on the "radical" reformers, whom he calls "crazies" and accuse of being in league with the devil

however, in the audience, disguised as a peasant, is his old buddy Karlstadt

who Luther threw under the fucking bus two years ago. basically, Luther went around preaching all this radical reformation stuff, but as soon as the town of Wittenberg got TOO gung ho about it & threatened Luther's buddy-buddy relationship with the reigning Elector, Luther was like "oh man i never meant that TOWN COUNCILS could just DECIDE to remove icons from churches. where did you get THAT idea. i denounce you all entirely"

meanwhile his buddy Karlstadt, who'd collaborated with him!!! on multiple important writings!!! was sitting there like "wtf man i was just going ahead with what you've been preaching the whole time"

& there were a lot of ways to resolve that conflict but Luther decided to just pin all the blame on Karlstadt, and he manipulated circumstances s.t. printers stopped printing Karlstadt's books, etc

so now Karlstadt's had two years to wonder why tf his former friend hates him so much

and after this sermon, Karlstadt writes Luther a letter of "hey can we talk. mano a mano. my feelings are hurt :(" and Luther's like "sure"

so Karlstadt shows up at the inn where Luther's staying, and Luther's chilling in the lobby with a whole bevy of Saxon court officials surrounding him, and Luther's like "yo, just take the seat across from me, anything you want to say to me you can say in front of all of them"

(bitch-ass move!!! what a lil motherfucker)

so then the THROWDOWN BEGINS

The two men argued for a long time, sometimes falling silent. They knew each other well, and their jibes hit home. You "go about in a grandiose fashion, boast grandly, and want only yourself to be exalted and noticed," Luther told Karlstadt. "You must always speak in such a way that you maintain your reputation and stir up hatred for other people," Karlstadt replied. In the midst of these highly emotional exchanges, Karlstadt turned to the audience and declared: "Dear brothers, I pray you, don't pay attention to my harsh speech. Such harsh speech is a matter of my complexion but my heart is not on that account wicked or angry.”

(yeah that's very much a "im not mad. please don't put in the newspaper that i got mad" moment lol)

Luther taunted Karlstadt with not daring to attack him in public; Karlstadt retorted that it was Luther who was preventing him from doing so. Then, taking a coin from his pocket, Luther announced: “If you do, I will present you with a guilder for it." Karlstadt accepted the challenge, took the coin, "showed it to all bystanders," and declared: "Dear brothers, this is a pledge, a sign, that I have authority to write against Dr. Luther." Karlstadt bent the guilder and put it in his purse. The two men shook hands and Luther drank a toast to Karlstadt. Then they parted.

which is already PEAK bitchy, right, "lmao if you're really so brave, do it, here i'll even give you some money," but it's even bitchier with additional context:

It was a momentous meeting. By bending the coin, Karlstadt took it out of circulation and marked it forever as a token. This was common sixteenth-century practice: Binding marriages could be concluded by giving a coin as a token, while commercial contracts, agreed without paper records, were given force by rituals like the handshake and the drink. Yet the meaning of this ritual was not clear. Luther regarded it as a declaration of enmity, a formal initiation of feud; Karlstadt, as his right to publish.

anyway even though Luther's the one who asked that they duke it out publicly, apparently he gets mad when anyone other than he himself is doing the Poasting lol:

Martin Reinhard published a pamphlet describing the event, so for once Luther did not have control of the propaganda. Luther was furious when he read Reinhard's account, written "to my infamy and Karlstadt's glory," even though the tone of the text was scrupulously neutral. But no reader could miss Luther's contempt for Karlstadt during their meeting, capped by the gift of the valuable coin (gold, no less). And now there was no turning back: Luther's promise to Karlstadt allowing him to publish was on public record. Luther made certain that the author of the pamphlet did not get away with it. Shortly afterward, Reinhard was forced to leave his post in Jena, and when he moved to Nuremberg, he was driven from there, too. Reinhard soon knuckled under, asking forgiveness, but Luther was unwilling to intervene on his behalf.

i swear every other chapter has something like this. am i going insane. goddamn i love this book and this skrunky weirdo

[trainingdummyrabbit]

white night angela

PARADISELOST ILU PARADISELOST MY BESTFRIEND PARADISELOST. genuinely one of my very top favorites despite how little i ever bring her up Ever. she is like... Everything 2 Me in a way im not quite sure i can describe. ok.

Design- GENDER. ok. the way that she looks so weightless, the hair thats reminiscient of feathers, the fucking. bloody angel look. the little snake around her shoulders!!!! come ON! something about the fact that her eyes are just about always closed again; and further than that, the fact that they only open during Attacks, in which they are completely flat red. hashtag girl. girl just LOOK at her. ok? ok. something about the collar is fucking me up but im not sure i can detail it.

Theme- i have TALKED ABOUT THIS MOTHERFUCKER!!!! the religion floor realization kills me to death and im never over it. the tangle of shepherd and lamb, leader and that who wishes to follow, savior and the damned. like... listen. something about her desperate desire to not be alone manifesting as some split between Her and One Of The Most Feared Abnormalities, in such a stark difference to how she usually acts where you cant really tell the lines between one and the other until you snap her out of it. how she manifests that which she wishes to have As Herself in conjunction with how she is completely convinced nobody would dare to stand with her. the image of complete and utter calm in the face of the turbulence that she clings onto like a lifeline despite it all. its quite literally all of her struggles pushed to an Extreme. this motherfucker is the reason i can never talk about anyone about angela without it being an hours long thing how the FUCK do you summarize this even. speaking with words that arent hers, yearning for someone to lead her to a happier place where she would never be alone again, to lead, to follow, to have, to take, to give. and still, despite it all, she is still just... confused, lost, and afraid. its something so shockingly simple for what a grandiose image thats projected of herself, and the conversation beforehand really drives it home. i will literally be here for hours. anyway if you want that other post its [here]; i dont think i could say it any better or differently or more youre just gonna have to take it ok. thanks.

in conclusion uh, i think she might actually be one of if not The one thats the most important to me? like... personally. ithink she was the first one i drew something Completely for, the one that kicked me into thinking abt her for hours on end every time she came up... something about her just kills me to death. shrimply. she is so very important. and most importantly: She Should Be Allowed To Kill.

[rcubens]

☞ Wakeup Dead Man 🕑 DAY -2 — AUGUST 31st, WEDNESDAY ☏ @woodrowhub

Everyone got antsy around their birthday, getting older, inescapable change. Especially when it was a milestone birthday. Your first, entering the double digits, being able to buy cigarettes and lottery tickets— then alcohol. Then there was 30. It felt like the official end of adolescence, from eighteen to twenty-three, every year that ticked over was more and more definitive. He paid taxes and rent, bought his own groceries, and spent his disposable income on stupid things without fear of judgement. He was, for all intents and purposes, an adult.

Though, the looming number up ahead gave him pause. He still lived in the same apartment he did at twenty-three, he owned two sets of dishes— and bought paper plates every now and again when washing the dishes felt like an insurmountable challenge. He had one of each utensil, Chinese takeout at the back of his fridge from last Christmas, and didn’t own a dining room table. His only friends were his old college roommates who now sent him holiday cards of their wives and babies and sun soaked holidays. His last serious relationship was a three week stint in middle school, and he had been a junior lobbyist for five years where his last, and only, promotion had been from assistant to his current position. His only assets were his apartment, the contents of his safe deposit box (which held mostly sentimental things from his late father) and, maybe the house in Virginia, but he wasn’t really sure because no one ever called him about it.

It felt a bit like Groundhog Day. Except it wasn’t a day, it was a year. Maybe even five. Nothing's changed, he looked the same as he did ten years ago barring some new permanent under eye fixtures and a disc in his back that tweaked every now and again. Shouldn’t he have done something by now? Traveled Europe, ran a marathon, wrote a book? Maybe those ideas were slightly grandiose but the point still stands. Even a promotion would feel metamorphic. The three guys he started with had all already surpassed him, one of which even left to lobby for Wall Street— which in evil lobbyist speak was practically Valhalla. Sure, comparison was the thief of joy but jeez, would somebody throw him a bone? He did the fancy prep school thing, the great college, he even had the last name! That used to mean something! It got him this far, but it was like the ride had run out of time and he needed to put in another quarter.

Realistically, the only person to point the blame at was himself but, Reuben had never done so before and wasn’t about to start now. So he needed to find someone else to blame, not needlessly— that served no purpose. Someone with even a semblance of responsibility for his current sorry state of affairs would do. He contemplated on the bus ride home, white wired headphones playing Nine Inch Nails. His mother? No, too easy and unrealistic— Reuben loved her dearly. For everything he wasn’t, he was still her little star. Never made to feel any less as she held him close. Plus, as a man, hating your mother was untoward. He rifts around for keys in his pocket as he stood at the front door of his apartment. What about his father? He lived in his shadow all his life, then was swallowed by it after his death. He resents him for never teaching him how to drive, or for never seeing him graduate. The man never taught him how to tie a tie, or change a tire, or how to be the most charming motherfucker in a room and grease palms with the best of them. Those were the things he needed, the sort of advice you got from a patriarch on his back deck with a cigar and a whiskey. Instead, he got shipped eight hours upstate and fielded whispers in the hallways and insane conspiracy theorists who saw no qualms in approaching a child. Realistically, a therapist might tell him that having a chat with a gravestone in Macon, Georgia would be cathartic. Right now, he wanted a target.

A Budweiser is opened on the edge of the counter. It sends a metal bottle cap clinking across his kitchen floor. He shuffles around the apartment, a mix of anger and resentment simmers within him. There was only one other person he could channel this frustration towards. He’d spent so long silently resenting Richard, it felt almost a given. Everyone, nearly everyone, who came into Woodrow went through a phase like that. Though they eventually grew out of it, growth and accountability were things Reuben sorely lacked. He had never received an apt apology or restitution for what happened to him. Though his first couple of days at Woodrow were not the axiom of the issue, they certainly didn’t help. It was a pre-existing condition that was only stoked along at Woodrow. He never fit in, then the world he once knew ceased to exist and with the chance for tabula rasa, nothing changed. He was still fundamentally the same kid. Awkward, overlooked and forgotten. Though it may not be the axiom, it was a memory that hurt deep enough to cause tears to well. He allows himself the luxury of painful reminiscence so long as there is still beer in his bottle. Then he will compartmentalize and store those wretched memories in a shoebox in a closet of his mind. To be dusted off the next time he wishes to be reminded of his lonesome.

The next morning he is called in to his boss’ office. A not uncommon occurrence but, it catches him off Guard none the less.

“Sharpe, you can have a seat—” a heavy sigh of a man who’s out of options accompanies the request. “Thank you, sir.” “I need someone to meet with Imperial in New York and Watts is in London with BAT and Evans is off on vacation, I’d send quite literally anyone else, but there isn’t anyone else and you’re my last junior so…I guess you’re representing us in New York.”

Almost reluctantly, two boarding passes are slid across the mahogany. Reuben stares down at the offer in awe. He’d been away on business before but more so as a lackey. Never given the reigns. There are a few too many beats of silence in which his boss sorely regrets bringing up the whole ideal. He might just be better off having the meeting notes and documents faxed to the office.

“I’d be happy to, sir.” His hand lands atop the passes and shuffles them over to his side of the desk with some resistance. “Sharpe, these talks are important okay—” Not entirely true, but he’d tell Reuben these were nuclear armament talks if it meant assuring he’d actually get the job done. “I need you in there, representing us well,” “Have I ever failed to do that before?” “Do you want an honest answer?” “No, sir.” “Then I’d get out of my office and on the way to Reagan, your flight leaves in three hours.” “Yessir.”

With that, he headed home to pack a suitcase. It was as though the universe delivered him the opportunity on a silver platter. Comped travel, comped accommodation, no travel points— darn, and an excuse to visit Woodrow for once. He rarely if ever thought about returning unless explicitly asked. He was hardly ever asked. Just an occasional quarterly digest slipped into his mailbox of all the children they’d helped and how their work impacted the community. He wondered if he was supposed to be donating.

He took a cab, opting not to trust public transport on such a time-sensitive matter. The security line snaked, and he felt an immense level of scrutiny from the TSA guards before navigating to the business class lounge to not only look the part but feel it too. Stuffing mini muffins and bread rolls into his pockets for later. He wasn’t very fond of flying, it felt more akin to a game of chance than a practiced science. However, the attendants in their little blazers certainly eased tensions. LaGuardia is a mess of corridors, other disgruntled business passengers, and small children to trip over if not paying attention. Another taxi is written off as a travel expense, and he checks in at a Manhattan hotel he isn’t entirely sure the company could afford. It was growing more evident by the second that he wasn’t supposed to be the one on this trip.

There wasn’t even time to settle into the room before the start of the meeting. He just left his suitcase and headed back out with a messenger bag that had a pad of paper and maybe a pen if he was lucky. Despite the windows of the cab being rolled all the way up, it was as though the city’s volume was turned up to eleven. So many concurrent people, sounds and smells too. Even just standing on the corner felt like it drained him off all his energy. A tall glimmering office tower awaited him. Marble floors and packed elevators. He wondered how these people did it. Where they hid at the end of the day after passing about 10 000 people on the street. If being invisible in a city of seven million ever felt challenging. Though, he doubted the men in blocky charcoal grey suits and women in pencil skirts thought about things of that nature so intently.

The meeting was by all accounts boring. He sat in the far corner against the wall and listened to c-suites regurgitate information someone six floors down had spent months gathering then took another team a few weeks of rewording to sound strong and definite. He had gotten distracted by the view from the conference room windows. He looked north and wondered how far north he could see. Somewhere out there was his childhood home. As they moved onto upcoming legislation they heard was coming down the pipeline, Reuben had decided he would make the drive. Two and a half hours was manageable with a couple gas station stops for soda, Airheads and Jolly Ranchers. Then he’d drive back and see if Dante was on any fight cards, go to sleep and head back to D.C. the next morning.

Something like two hours later, though it felt like nine— they were finally set free. Coming up with an excuse to ditch the power luncheon and find a map with the location of a car rental place near enough to the edge of the island. There were some papers signed, license inspected and exchanging of a credit card before he was saddled with a new car for the next 24 hours. He white knuckles it out of the metro area, only relaxing slightly when it’s just him, the highway and a top 40 pop station. It is the second gas stop when the bends start growing increasingly familiar, and the friendly stop in starts to feel like an opportunity for the internal conflict he was dealing with yesterday to wage on. The things he could no longer vocalize to his birth parents had the opportunity to be heard and digested at Woodrow house, for better or for worse.

113568 is the code punched in at the gate not waiting for Beau to let him in. The conviction he had was a sort of now or never thing he wanted to take advantage of while it lasted. He parks and slams the car door with a ferocity he wasn’t even expecting himself to possess. As he pushes open the grand front doors, he is greeted by the entry hall and suddenly feels very small again. He stands in its vastness, chest rising and falling. There’s a faint sound of activity, which is both odd and comforting. He almost thought the place would freeze once they left. Preserved in a glass jar to be revisited when the embrace of childhood could be deemed comforting.

Without him telling them to, his feet take him to the sunroom first. There’s a smell of potted soil and leafy green in the air though it is empty. The early afternoon sun shone in making the air thick. It had at one time been one of his favourite room in the house though that memory can’t even prevail through the red mist. He’d try the library next, almost prolonging the inevitable. If he wasn’t in the sunroom, then he wouldn’t be reading in the library. He checks anyways, opening the door with a creak. It, too, had not changed. How was expected to be an adult here? He had always been a child within the confines of its walls. Like immaturity permeated the foundation and shot straight up through his legs.

Like lead, or if his shoes had been filled with cement— he begrudgingly drags himself up to the second floor. There’s an office door at the end of the hall that is ajar and whatever confidence he once had has disappeared like grains of sand through his fingers. His ears are already hot, but there’s a courtesy knock before he opens the door.

“Richard?” Hearing his name, Richard looks up from the catering contract he's reviewing for the upcoming gala. "Reuben?" His brows knit together in confusion, but a tentative smile tugs at his lips. "This is a surprise. You should have given us a heads-up. I'd have asked Mrs. Tristan to whip up something for you." He stands awkwardly in the doorway, hands dug deep in the pockets of his slacks. “There’s no need, I’m in the city for work. I can’t stay so, I just wanted to stop in for a minute,” “Then what brings you here, shouldn’t you be preoccupied with work?” Though his tone is light it’s the exact sort of thing the strike a very fragile part of Reuben’s ego. “I mean I would be if I did anything of value ever—” he starts with a shrug. “But I don’t, which is confusing because I should be. I should at least be more than a junior lobbyist. I don’t want to own the whole damn company, but I want to do something. Be somebody. I did everything you told me, I did Woodrow, I did the prep school with kids whose parents own small micronations. I did the good college. I did what you asked of all of us, so why isn’t it working? Why am I the only one out of all of us that’s going nowhere? Some of them are building rockets to fucking Mars or working with multi-millionaires, or running around on Broadway or writing the things that are turned into award-winning stage plays. Natalia is galavanting around Paris making a bigger impact on culture through a god damn magazine than half the politicians out there, Celia helps fucked up people in some deep genuine way, and Naomi is a fucking Michelin star chef in a restaurant I’ll never even get the chance to step into. Some of them are doing the hard, important, political jobs that don’t make the front page headlines, while Dante’s handing someone’s ass to them in front of a live audience for a purse that is more than some people will make in their entire lifetimes. They’re all out there doing fucking great, accomplishing things, and what about me? Where was my guidance? When were you gonna’ notice if I was a chess prodigy or head delegate or fucking, anything. Everybody’s got their thing and I don’t even have you, I never did. What did I have to do to get your attention? Has it worked— will it ever?”

Towards the end of his diatribe, his voice cracks and betrays him. He didn’t want to cry. It felt like such a silly thing to cry about but, with nothing concrete, these were the sorts of things that he felt his entirety being revolved around. “You forgot me, like I meant nothing. Just another name on a list. I don’t think I can ever forgive you fort that. I’m not sure I want to.”

There’s a long silence, where Reuben can her the blood rushing in his ears. Everything he was wearing felt too tight, his palms held pins and needles. The tears that once threatened now leak over his cheeks. He’s a kid masquerading in front of the dad he wished loved him. He wished he’d say something. Anything. It didn’t even have to be sorry. The sadness is quickly replaced with anger the longer the silence.

“Fuck it, it’s fine.” He mutters as he turns to leave. “Reuben- I—” “What, you what?” He turns back for one final acknowledgment but still, nothing could be produced. With that, he left. Determined to never see Woodrow again. It was cathartic in a way. Validating. All this hurt he held inside, it wasn’t for nothing. Richard didn’t care. He couldn’t acknowledge the things he had done, let alone Reuben’s feelings surrounding them. The distinction between him and them had been clear. He was a tether cord trailing behind. His hands curled into tight fists and unfurled repeatedly. He willed himself not to hit anything in the house, leave a mark that he’d even lived in it at all.

He steps out into the courtyard and it takes a few moments for his eyes to adjust. It had took so much conviction to get here, to confront Richard. Only for the world to keep spinning, the birds chirping, the smell of fresh cut grass on the air. He had ultimately changed nothing. If he was a little less sane, or maybe more, he’d laugh. Double over with laughter. Because it was honestly hilarious to think he’d walk out of there feeling anything different.

Turning the engine over he turns in the driveway and starts back towards the highway. There’s no radio this time, opting for the sound of a wind flitting past his open windows. There’s an overwhelming feeling as though he’s made a mistake. A tightness in his chest that flows down to the rest of his body. As much as he wanted to sever ties, they were all he had. It was better to exist on the outside of something than be a part of nothing. Almost instinctively, he breaks into sobs. Loud, uncontrollable, childlike, can’t see the road sobs. He slows to a halt in the deserted shoulder. Blond curls fall over the steering wheel as he puts his forehead to the leather. He had to go back and apologize and, say it was all just one big misunderstanding. He needed them more than they needed him and for right now that was okay, for he was nothing without his neediness. He dries his eyes with the arm of his suit jacket and pulls a U-turn. He had not got more than 45 minutes down the road.

He could accept not being a favourite. He could maybe learn to love the hands-off-ness of their relationship. Perhaps if Richard was too involved it would’ve of been more detrimental than beneficial. Maybe he’d still be living here, without a job. Coddled by the comfort Woodrow afforded. He’s prepared to say I’m sorry, and thank you and I love you and I tried my best and you did too. He reaches the second floor landing and the door is exactly how he left it, wide open. A clear look directly into Richard’s office.

Except it wasn’t Richard. It wasn’t his office. It wasn’t even Woodrow. It was Virginia in 1989. Photos littered the walls— his dad’s naval tours, his mother with Mary-Beth and Adelia. Summer nights, holiday parties, the pair before he entered the picture. He walks slowly, as though approaching a mirage. Like if he moved too quickly the reality of the situation would appear to him. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again. He could do the right thing for once. He couldn’t lose two people the exact same way. Time felt like a flat circle. He was in the past and present simultaneously. A gentle hand turns the slack face before him in his direction. He screams for Mrs. Tristan.

There’s a rush of people, EMTs, staff, and Reuben. He knows this feeling all to well. The sort of hollowness. The guilt could eat him whole. It had started in the soles of his feet. He follows behind the ambulance in the rented car. No radio, no wind. He turned left, while they turned right. He drove far and fast and hit Manhattan by the early evening. The allure of the hotel was gone. The sleek and luxe had turned into soulless and cold. He crawls onto the mattress and curls up to make himself small.

[kurjakani]

While i absolutely love the design for the harkonnen in tje new movies, bc i just. Love it it looks good. And slarsgard was GORGEOUS as Baron. As yall know wjat i have said abt it. However now having read up until god emperor, they really do loose a lot of the. Who they are as in they are the most wasteful motherfuckers in the whole universe. Like yes their stuff is grandiose and EMPTYA and that's a good step but idk. Like i think i realized this bc in tje movie you don't exactly get the vibe of "baron doesnt want to be in power, he just wants to secure his familys power because it gives him access to any pleasure he wishes for whicj. Is why him telling feyd that he could make HIM emperor in the movie feel confusing

[everymlmhybrid]

everyoneeeee Larry's profile from the Profiling The Reservoir Dogs bonus feature thang from the dvd. which i hate and disagree with completely. but I couldn't find it anywhere online so I had to write it down myself sitting in front of my TV.

Mr. White

Mr. White is a cold-blooded psychopath. What you may see as empathy for another human being is nothing but an expression of his own needs.

He probably grew up in a rough neighborhood, possibly in foster care homes.

Soon he would learn quickly that the way to survive is to lie and steal, but to do it with a smile.

The empathy he shows others may be a methodology he learned to control others when he was still a youth.

Mr. White seems to have received an education of some substance; perhaps, he spent some time in parochial schools where he got just the right mix of discipline and religion to make him cocky and self-righteous.

He may have actually finished high school or left to join the military at age seventeen because he has a very strong almost fatherly side to him in which he behaves as a sergeant might with his men.

He is also very skilled with weapons, which means he may have worked in some fighting capacity.

Mr. White has a grandiose view of himself; whatever he does is correct and what everyone else does is wrong. However, he is the type that tries not to make the same mistake twice. Most likely has has not spent much time in jail.

Mr. White hates the police because they are the enemy. For that matter, he has no use for anyone who gets in his way, even innocent people. Again, a military type of thinking: the police are the enemy and the innocent bystander is collateral damage. He makes this perfectly clear when he says "the choice between doing ten years and taking out some stupid motherfucker is no choice at all."

Mr White is a good manipulator and because he has learned the art of congeniality, people generally like him, women want him, and he likes that they like him because then he can stay in control. Mr. White could sustain a relationship with a female for at least a reasonable period of time because he doesn't seem to express any hatred or fear of women. He could have kids but he doesn't like owing people anything like time and consideration. Women are okay for a short time but kids would just be a stone around the neck. If he did have any kids out there, he wouldn't have visited them in the last five years.

Mr. White liked Joe because Joe was an amiable and generous guy and may be like the brother he never had. For a long time, Mr. White benefited from this relationship. But, as Mr. White grew older, he became resentful of the fact that Joe, a rough, crude character with a whole lot less charm than Mr. White, had made it this far in life and was now his boss. He started doing things to attempt to prove his superiority to Joe who was getting mighty irritated with his behavior.

It was his consuming desire to be in control, his desperate need to be respected, and his extreme arrogance which ended up being factors in the group's downfall. His desire to be a leader again made him take on Mr. Orange, a man he knew little about, a protege. Mr. White was hitting those years when even a hardened criminal realizes death is around the corner and it is a lonely road downhill for people with no family or friends. Now, Joe had power, money, and a son, but Mr. White was just an aging crook. So it happened that Mr. White found a new puppy to take home in the form of Mr. Orange. It is interesting that while many psychopaths despise people and cats, they do like dogs because dogs are a narcissist's best friend. Mr. Orange made for a nice puppy; and innocent, eager, adoring, lapdog. And because Mr. White had assigned Mr. Orange this particular role, he let his guard down and revealed too much information to him. Mr. White feels responsible for Mr. Orange getting shot and because of his carelessness in spilling information as well, he has to leave Mr. Orange out in the cold. He feels awful about this. He is not feeling so awful for Mr. Orange or he would have driven him to the hospital and saved his life. No, Mr. White felt very badly for himself. He might end up losing the new pet that was making him happy and he is angry that he is the one who is at fault. He takes it out on everyone else, gets mad at them for not trying to save Mr. Orange's life, yet he, the only one with feelings for Mr. Orange (however self-centered they may be) ignores his anguished pleas to get him to a medical facility. Finally, when Joe shows up and says they need to put the rabid dog down, Mr. White is furious. He knows nothing is going to save Mr. Orange's life at this late in the game, yet he is willing to kill his longtime friend to make a point; that Joe is not better than him, that Joe is not smarter than him, and that Joe has no right to think he can order him around. Joe cannot destroy what is his as if he was just swatting a mosquito that is annoying him. If he allows Joe to have his way, Mr. White will be admitting he is a total has-been who commands respect from no one.

Mr. Orange is but a symbol of Mr. White's ego. Since psychopaths do not really recognize personhood and all people are just pawns in their personal game of power and control, Mr. White's emotional behavior towards Mr. Orange is about love for himself, not the dying man. In the end, when Mr. Orange admits he is a cop, Mr. White's ego is completely destroyed and he realizes what a failure he is. Shooting Mr. Orange in the head is not an act of homicide (Mr. Orange is almost dead anyway) but the suicide of Mr. White, a mercy killing that ends his pain and makes the statement, "no one is going to fuck me over ever again."

[horkus-porp]

just got to the part in DE where you get back to the fishing village after seeing the phasmid and jean and the squad are waiting for you there and it's just like. I've just been psychologically devastated by the world-endingly beautiful manifestation of human hope in the existential grandiose of it all and the first thing this motherfucker says to me is that I need an organ transplant. I'm getting a *migraine* from how much I've been crying at the splendor of the ethereal bug and this guy tells me I look like complete and bloody shit that they have to scrape off the pavement. like. give me a second man. holy fuck.

[forjustice]

The Rivalry I Never Thought Would Happen But Now I Feel Was Only the Logical Conclusion of These Muses' Characters: Wallace vs. Volo

I made this post sort of as a joke and now it's gonna be a big serious part of my canon. That's just how this shit goes, isn't it?

So the thing is, Wallace grew up LOVING Volo. Out of all the legendary figures across Yumean history, Volo was legit his favorite--of both the prophets and of the mythological figures in general. A lot of Yumeans love her for the same reason that a lot of Jewish people love Magneto--because even though her methods may be questionable, she represents the powerless taking back the power that was stolen from them. A strong, independent, multiply marginalized Yumean youth such as Wallace who was highly invested in social justice would have been incredibly fascinated with the scriptural stories about Volo growing up under colonialism and eventually helping to dismantle it in Hisui. What's more, Wallace would have admired and been influenced by her performance work. Hisui/Sinnoh, like Hoenn, is a place where Contests are such a part of the culture that almost everyone raised in their traditions would know how to do them; Volo as a polymath genius who can do basically anything would have been one of the performers who caught his attention, and he would have taken after her and her daughter Cynthia's dramatic flair. He would have sought to embody her tenacity, her passion, the grandiosity of her visions--and he certainly had her pettiness. >:3

But as the old saying goes: Never meet your heroes. Though she means a lot to the Yumean community, many Yumeans still consider Volo dangerous to approach for good reason--someone to admire from afar. They all know her as a Reformed but Not Tamed; woe betide anyone who refuses to emphasize the "Not Tamed." And the thing about Wallace facing off against Volo's specific problems is--Wallace is an insufferable egomaniac and Volo is literally a narcissist, as in, actually having symptoms of Narcissistic Personality Disorder, so you can imagine those two things clashing like a MOTHERFUCKER. Their massive egos and unbendingly stubborn opinions, especially about Contests, did not mesh well with each other at all; they also both LOVE talking behind other peoples' backs, so they'd gossip about each other and then hear the other gossiping about them but instead of directly confronting each other they'd just get even more vicious with the gossip. After a one-month honeymoon period of each one showing boundless enthusiasm for the other's work, their relationship began to swiftly break down. They shared a lot in common--genius, grandiose vision, religiosity--but they could NOT get their egos and their pettiness out of the way to put their talents together and truly get along.

The post I linked to was written partly as a joke, but to be honest I can actually see such a remark by Volo being the straw that breaks the camel's back of this whole relationship falling to shit (with each one making it worse by trash talking about it instead of just being open and honest that this friendship really isn't working out). A long time ago, after that remark was said, Wallace and Volo parted on bad terms; they never wished to speak with each other again. But now things are more complicated, because given that Wallace is now the Archchosen of Kyogre and Volo is the Archchosen of Giratina, they both have equal cosmic rank and now they are required to be in each others' presence and behave amicably toward each other for at least some spiritual functions. The universe put them in a cosmic Get Along Shirt which they are desperately straining to get out of, but that they are now trapped in for the next few thousand years--the usual amount of time that Archchosens live before they give their power back to their gods and pass into the afterlife. Given that both of them are stubborn and neither of them wants to die first though (it's a competitive thing), it remains to be seen whether they will grudgingly accept their new bonds.

[iheartnimbassacity]

[A video, it starts off dark, the russleing of fabric giveing away that the camera is in a pocket, the only other sound steps. After a few seconds, the camera pulls away, settleing behind Dave. She is infront of the ruined house from the previous post, but now the details are clearer.

This house was massive, the extent of it not caught at this angle, at least 2 stories from the remains of some stairs to Daves left, once grandiose.

Dave looks up at the structure, sighing gently, "Came back home." She mutters, almost mockingly, "The storage room with it was on the first floor right?"

[Btz. As I remember. Why do you want me to record again?]

"Keep records. So I know it's gone." Dave shrugged her shoulders, seeing something in the rubble, eyes fixed on a shiny object.

"Motherfucker."]

[gaykarstaagforever]

Here is an article from Variety about how the writers' / actors' strike will probably lead to Apple buying everything like Shudder, while CBS and Disney will continue to lose market share and money:

I post the link because I think the author is correct about the market impact, generally.

Now the problems with it.

1. Her premise is that the strike is hitting the billion-dollar content dragons "at the worst possible time," as they bravely fire people and purge IP to make more money for shareholders. The narrative that this is all some unfortunate act of nature is utter bullshit. They all did this to themselves, and are ONLY doing this to themselves because of greed and lies fueled by greed. Zaslav is the one who promised everybody that his company owning 47 others would lead to good times that will never end. That wasn't "market forces" or "the wind." This is Smaug laying upon his Golden Hoard, bemoaning the apparent death of the world because it isn't making any more gold for him to steal...because he's already stolen it all. Then set the mines on fire. What a shock that Variety, a trade publication, would pretend like the market leaders in that trade are downtrodden simpletons just tryin' to make their way through this mixed up ol' world. But they are decidedly not.

2. Traditional or "Grandpa Media", your network television goons / Disney / Paramount, haven't been in a position to blow money on stuff that can't compete with offerings from Netflix or Amazon for like more than a decade now, yet they are continually eager to keep trying. So maybe stop wasting money on that? Like I don't believe you are in actual dire straights when you've refused to steer out of then for 12 years. And keep trying to build a house there.

Paramount should have given up on their grey water service ages ago, but are seemingly refusing to out of spite. The networks are spending tons maintaining free ad-supported services that are destined to never be profitable, because no one under the age of 70 is willing to put up with this goofy format to watch even more tepid CSI knockoffs.

Why are these companies investors allowing them to keep doing this? It is YOUR money they are flushing away on bad ideas, guys. This is why everything is a mess. It isn't because a staff writer wants rent money for churning out bad dialog for some shit G-rated fireman show only 6 dads watch. Again, you people fucked this all up from the front end.

3. If motherfucking Disney, with all of their billions and monopolization of IPs, haven't figured out how to make streaming work yet, they are never going to. At least not with this leadership.

You brought Iger back. He oversaw the first Disney stumbles into streaming, where they did whatever and it worked because they are Disney and people were willing to put up with whatever. That "successful formula" isn't going to work again. You actually have to fix that godforsaken broken POS app and put shows on it that aren't Mandalorian Season 3. And the confused old man who basically led to all this of happening in the first place is in no position to fix it.

4. The demands of the striking talent are not grandiose. They are asking for living wages and humane working conditions and being valued as creatives and artists by the corporations making billions from their work. Regardless of the market, this is baseline stuff they should have had already. The writer of the article knows this, but still seems to bemoan the timing, like this will hurt their chances of getting concessions.

Lady. They ALREADY HADN'T GOTTEN THE CONCESSIONS. When times were good. Obviously it doesn't matter, because the companies aren't interested in doing what is right. So what the hell does it matter?

Maybe kicking them when they are down, because they've already kicked themselves, is a better strategy. Because with all the talk of AI and CG doing everything, that is being said by people who barely understand what those are, who STILL NEED TO PAY PEOPLE TO DO THOSE, the cheat code they think they have to beat the system isn't a cheat code. ChatGPT can't make a show anyone with a brain would watch. And you have to pay people to composite actors in. And because you low-ball the rates for that, you're burning through the companies that can do that: they keep going out of business. This isn't sustainable, or even fundamentally doable.

The companies are wounded animals, and their fix for it is to chew off another limb. That isn't a position of strength. Striking writers can go get other jobs if they have to. But what is NBCUniversal if there are no new episodes of...let me look it up here...Chicago Med? They are an entertainment company. They can't transition into a lumber yard or something.

I realize they are owned by Comcast who has a monopoly on paid internet and cable TV in a bunch of US markets. But Comcast isn't going to keep them if they aren't profitable. They're all at risk if they don't settle with talent and make more shows thst someone, apparently, is watching.

[aspiringsophrosyne]

Episode 4: Those Who Walk Away

There's a long line at the concession stand. Think you can get something before the show starts? Traffic was pretty bad.

Because trust me, you don't want to miss the beginning of this one.

The Good.

There's no end to the praise Liam O'Brien deserves just for the first couple of minutes of the episode. I knew what was coming; how devastating it would be for these characters and how painful it would be for them all. 

Especially for Vax. 

And still. Still. Vax's desperate "Somebody do something!!" stabbed me right in the goddamned heart. And the delivery of his line to the Queen of Death, the one that every critter who watched Campaign one knows, the words that changed Vax's destiny forever...perfect. 

The visuals for the ritual were really cool, too. It was hard to imagine how they would communicate what was happening in the show; as in the stream it was down to dice rolls and rituals. The gold dome over Vex, the Queen's claw piercing it and then causing it to shatter....it calls up dread from the deepest pit of your heart.

And then Vax just having the armor on when they turn around...quick, efficient and spooky as hell. Very good move there.

Those shots of the Calamity in the vision. My God. For the record, and I touched on this before, I love that the peeks we've gotten into that period of Exandria's history have been broad and unspecific. They are meant to be grandiose to mind-bending proportions, and you can ironically lose that effect by trying too hard to get that idea across. It also leaves the impression that as big and crazy as this all looks, what we've seen (Osysa's story in S2E2 and now Vax's vision) is only the tip of the iceberg. 

I like that Purrvan got to shine a bit here. Partially this is because I can sympathize with Matt over that name; (Vox Machina's reaction to it was pretty much the cast's in the stream) and also because it makes sense. Funny name or not, the Matron doesn't hire chumps. In the watch-along for this episode, the cast mentioned that they originally had Matt record grunts, sounds of effort, and reactions to getting hit...and then decided the scene was more striking without them. It was a good call. It gets across just how beyond Vax this former Champion is. And it foreshadows just how formidable a being Vax will one day become. 

As I've said before and will say again, titmouse knows how to do a good fight scene. I was surprised the monster was savvier than it looked, angling its tentacles around Keyleth's obstacles to get at her and Percy. Some damn good lines here too. Pike's understandable exasperation ("Son of a bitch!") and Percy's testy incredulousness ("Oh, just petrified!?") are incredibly relatable.

Perhaps the scene only feels this way to me because of hindsight, but Vax's acceptance feels like a crown being placed on a head under a guillotine.

I didn't immediately realize what they had done with the Deathwalker's Ward. I had honestly forgotten what it did: aside from its most obvious perk, which we'll see in a future episode. In the game, it's mostly a defensive item. Ironic: a Death Goddess's artifact that made it harder for you to die. But what they did in the show was combine it with another magic item Vax had, the boots of haste, which the twins fought over incessantly. They let him cast haste on himself without having that spell, and with it, he could haul ass like a motherfucker.

This allows us a demonstrative visual for the ward's power-up, and it gets those boots in the show without them being in it. Plus, the ability they grant fits Vax as a speedy, stealthy guy.

Not only that, but it also shows us in very little time just why Osysa sent Vox Machina after these things. Seeing the whole crew get trashed by this monster, only for Vax to take it down alone, cements how powerful the Vestiges are and how essential they'll be in defeating the Chroma Conclave. Another great use of show-don't-tell.

And that shot. That shot. Reactors and the cast alike can't help but cheer when That Shot happens, where Vax leaps into the air and is framed by the Matron's mural above him before he delivers the final blow. Like Liam O'Brien's acting, I can't say enough good things about that shot. It looks cool, but it also has weight; it suggests that Vax has taken his place as a figure in history who will have murals in temples dedicated to him that other adventurers will stumble upon one day.

The new implementation of the necklace is clever. It makes sense a bounty hunter would have something like it. And Wil get's one more good line out before he and Zahra exit.

The Bad. (Or at least not great.)

You're hot, then you're cold.

Zahra is the one to vocally oppose Vex's attempted resurrection. This contrasts her with Kash, who leaps right in to try to help when Pike's efforts don't work. This behavior comes across as somewhat inconsistent.

Zahra was the one who had a personal relationship with Vex, even if it ended badly. Zahra was the one who supported and saved Vex in the battle with the Adaro, even if it was at least partially to show her up.

I could see Zahra cautioning both Kash and Vox Machina that what he's trying to do for Vex has a minuscule chance of succeeding. Or even warning Kash against it for fear of drawing Vesh's attention. (Vesh is Kash's goddess, and she is bad fucking news.) But Zahra just unemotionally writing off Vex as dead and declaring it useless to try to help her seems disproportionally cold compared to how she'd acted up to that point.

No Drama is Better Than Bad Drama?

Previously, I was pleasantly surprised to see the Take included at all, let alone so well integrated into The Legend of Vox Machina's story. Likewise, Zahra and Kash were a delight, and the passion for their characters comes just as strong through Mary's and Will's performances as it does for the rest of the voice acting cast.

But the Onlooker fight is where the momentum stalls.

Zahra specifically says this to Kash after Grog is petrified:

Kash: Shit.

Zahra: Would you relax? As soon as they're restrained, I swipe the armor, you unfreeze your new friends, and we get the hell out of here.

So we have a clear scheme here. Let the Onlooker turn Vox Machina to stone, steal the Deathwalker's Ward from Vax, de-petrify everyone, then book it.

As far as plots to steal an artifact go, it's pretty tame and harmless. It probably wouldn't have even worked because after Vox Machina was restored, they would've been pretty pissed about the theft, and then it would've been a two-on-seven fight. One on seven, if Kash decided he wasn't on Zahra's side.

But as the battle continued, more of the other group succumbed, and Kash got upset and said he wouldn't be a party to Zahra's plan.

...Why?

Later, after Vax Awakens the Deathwalker's Ward, Kash says this to him:

Kash: Look, I'm sorry. We didn't mean for any of this to happen, I swear.

Yes, you did!! You absolutely did. Or at least Zahra did. That was her whole plan.

The script treats the fight like an escalation from what Zahra planned. That her recklessness and stubbornness let things get out of her control. That she put Vox Machina in danger.

By every indication, that is not what happened.

Things were going exactly as planned before she tried to put the monster back in her necklace on Kash's objections, and Vax Awakened the armor. 

Not only that, but Vox Machina would've been perfectly fine if everything had gone the way she'd wanted. They would've been rightfully pissed that their Vestige was stolen, but they would've been unharmed otherwise once Kash restored them.

The crew said in the Q&A that they wanted this monster fight to have more drama than its stream counterpart. I like drama. But I'm most satisfied with drama when it makes sense. When it's consistent with what we're seeing and hearing on screen. What I'm not impressed by is a drama that's introduced for the sake of it and thus ill-conceived and ill-implemented. That brings nothing to the table.

This isn't the first time the script of The Legend of Vox Machina was at odds with what we were actually seeing or had seen on screen. And sadly, it won't be the last time this season.

A Question of Motivation.

Something else harms the deployment of the monster. Beyond the disconnection between what's happening and what is said, Zahra's motivations, or lack thereof, hold things back.

Zahra's clearly irritated that Osysa told Vox Machina about the Ward instead of anyone at the Take, but how does this motivate her? Is she acting out of envy? Greed? Worry? A sense of responsibility? A feeling of betrayal? Her old bitter feelings about Vex? Does she feel Vox Machina could be worthy of the Vestige, but she won't accept that unless she sees it for herself? Or all of the above?

We'll probably see Kash and Zahra again. And future episodes could shed some light on this. But as of this episode, it's hard to tell how you're supposed to feel about her, the fight, and Vox Machina more or less letting her and Kash off the hook after. We can guess how she's feeling, but it isn't made explicit, so we don't know why she does what she does or whether or not we're supposed to find her actions understandable or sympathetic.

Here are two possible ways I think they could've done it better.

Option A, have Zahra announce to Vox Machina that although they found the Vestige, one of them would've died getting it if it wasn't for Kash (as far as those two know). The others will be similarly hard to get, and even if they manage to get them through pure dumb luck the way they got this first one, that doesn't mean they're worthy of them. Vestiges are incredibly powerful and dangerous; they shouldn't go to just any bumble fucks. So they must pass one last test to keep the Deathwalker's Ward.

And then Onlooker.

This approach makes for a smoother transition, firmly establishes Zahra and Kash's priorities and motivations, and gives the audience and Vox Machina a chance to understand their perspective. Because once we see Vax Awaken the Vestige and take the monster that had petrified the rest of the team down all by himself...we can understand why Zahra and Kash were trepidatious about letting someone outside the Take walk away with this thing.

And when Zahra and Kash see Vax do that, they relent, heal the others, and admit he's worthy to wield it.

Option B, we could've had the thing just be there like it was in the stream. But, we could have had Zahra and Kash be involved in its ambush of Vox Machina in another way. After the Adaro fight, while they're by themselves, the two mention that the fish people usually don't gather together unless they've got something bigger than themselves to latch onto. Similar to remoras and sharks. We could even add an image of the Onlooker drawn in the fresh blood from earlier for foreshadowing. But the two keep that to themselves; the monster attacks and everything plays out like in option A. 

Nitpicks

Let's look at Vex's line at the beginning of the episode.

Vex: Whatever happens...it's out of our control.

For anyone, for Vex, and especially for a kid, the line feels unnatural. In fact, it's obvious she says this not necessarily because it's in character but to set up Vax's Awakening of the armor later.

And you could argue that someone who didn't know what would happen wouldn't feel that way, but people will watch this show more than once. On a re-watch, a newbie might feel similarly.

While we could change the line, we might not even need one here. Just have Vax flashback to the twins and the bear while he's fighting Purrvan, only with him in the place of the mother bear with his young sister's hand soothing his cheek and his younger self's dagger at his throat. That gets across exactly how Vax's feeling in an instant with no dialogue at all, and it informs his letting go.

~~~

Instead of this at the end of the episode:

Vex: And what about my debt to the Slayer's Take?

Zahra: What debt?

I like something like this better:

Vex: And what about my debt to the Slayer's Take?

Zahra: Well, you did say you wanted to speak to Osysa because of four incredibly wealthy dragons didn't you? You better not fail in slaying them, then.

Zahra basically going put up or shut up here. You said you wanted a Vestige to kill dragons? Well, go kill some dragons. But it's not unkind, as it shows that now she thinks they might actually mean to try, and they actually might even have a shot at succeeding.

That's episode 4 down. It's only getting more interesting from here folks.

[countlessrealities]

@villains4hire sent: For C137 Rick: Is there one thing you wish you could have that you currently can't for any reason?

The question echoed in Rick's head, instantly bringing back the memories that he constantly tried to ignore but that he couldn't let go. His very own personal hell, the one he had lived through, in one shape or another, for the past four decades. Anger, loss, pain, guilt, self-loathing, despair.

No matter how far he went, not matter how many dimensions he ran through. No matter how many discoveries he made, how many brilliant inventions he built. No matter how much he drunk, how many drugs he took. No matter how many time he killed himself by murdering some other version of him.

There was no escaping it. His original sin, the one thing that had been the only drive of his life for so many years. Revenge and closure, assuming that the former would lead to the latter, were constantly out of his reach. No matter how far he stretched himself. The one thing he had always craved the most, the one at the core of whom he had become, was the one he could never get.

And where did that leave him? Lost, frustrated, hollow. Feeling like a failure, like a joke, like a fraud. Alone with the smell of burnt plastic, a piercing ringing deafening his ears and burnt concrete where the two people who had been his home had been till just a moment before.

And all because he had dared to choose them over the grandiose promises of the biggest motherfucker of the multiverse.

Rick pulled out his flask, gulping down several mouthfuls of hard liquor until the knot in his throat loosened up enough to allow him to speak.

"Y-Yeah, there fuckin' is. I-It's called 'peace and quiet' an-and no matter what I do, t-there's always some brainless idiot w-who takes it away from me."

It wasn't even a lie, but a convenient complaint. It fitted his persona, it supported the mask he wore whenever he wasn't alone, away from everyone eyes.

As for the real answer, that was for him to know and a burden he would always carry on his own.