#difference between bulk deals

[priyashareindia9]

Block deals are significant transactions in the share market that involve the buying or selling of large quantities of shares. Typically executed by institutional investors, these deals are conducted through a separate window provided by the stock exchanges. Understanding the block deal's meaning and its implications is crucial for both investors and companies, as these transactions can have a notable impact on market dynamics. In this blog, we will explore seven benefits of block deals for both investors and companies, while also touching on the difference between bulk deals and block deals.

[starshideurfics]

Thirsty Thursday - Buzzed

steddie, omegaverse, modern AU, Eddie got out of Hawkins and got famous

Most days it’s easy to pretend. Steve and Robin share a house and a workplace and most of a life in Indianapolis. He can usually forget how he and Eddie almost had something.

But that was before Eddie moved to L.A. to try doing something with his music, found his way into playing a busker in an indie film that miraculously got oscar buzz, and suddenly he’s a household name, booking tons of projects.

And Steve is happy for him!

Really!

He is.

It’s just… He misses having Eddie around. How excitable and goofy he can be, but also having a thoughtful alpha to hang out with other than Robin.

Not to mention his campfire scent and the way his callused fingers feel against Steve’s skin.

They still talk occasionally, texting mostly, little check-ins every couple months, but Steve hasn’t seen Eddie in-person in at least five years.

That’s why it’s easy to pretend. Steve’s old friend, Eddie, and Eddie Munson, alpha movie star, are two different people.

Steve’s crush can exist between the pages of magazines and on internet gossip sites.

He can moon over the pics from Eddie’s photoshoots that he has saved on his phone in private. Can keep his fantasies contained in his nest as he imagines his fingers sliding into short curls.

At least until he gets a call from Dustin on an unassuming Friday night. Steve and Robin are already nearly through a bottle of wine, kicking their feet up after a long week of teaching, when Steve’s phone rings.

“Eddie’s next movie is shooting in Chicago,” Dustin starts.

“And he’s flying out early so he can stop in Indy for a week. I may have told him he should skip the hotel and stay in your guest room.”

“Dustin!”

“What? You’ve got one of the mattresses from the podcast ads in there! It’s comfy! And that way he doesn’t have to deal with paps!”

“Can you just say paparazzi like a normal person?” Steve sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “But it should be fine. When does he get in?”

“Next weekend.”

“Dustin!”

“I only just found out! El and I are driving down in a week, and Mike and Will are only able to skype in.”

He doesn’t mention Lucas and Max, since they also live in Indy; Dustin and El are likely staying with them.

Robin elbows Steve and hisses for him to put the call on speaker, getting caught up as Steve has a private crisis at the thought of finally seeing Eddie again.

To make matters worse, his totally not stalkerish web alert for Eddie’s name pings after he hangs up with Dustin. A new photo shoot.

Eddie’s curls are gone, buzzed down to his scalp; Steve mourns for a fraction of a second.

Then he needs to squeeze his thighs together.

The wanting that he’s been squashing down for the better part of a decade comes back in full force, strong enough that Robin asks if his cycle is early and he’s going into heat.

Blushing, but knowing he can’t keep a secret from her to save his life, he shows her his phone.

“All I can see is how noticeable his ears are now,” Robin says with a judging look and a shrug. “And I am never going to buy Eddie as a tough guy, but I guess I can understand what you omegas see in him.”

“Rooooob!” Steve whines, indignant.

“Steeeeeve!” she teases back.

“I just… Fuck, I need to get laid.”

“I’m sure Eddie would if you asked him nicely.”

“Rob!”

“He looks like he could hold you down, get you to stop stressing so much.”

“Robin… I can’t think about that.”

“Sure you can.”

“I can’t.”

“You can, and you know why: The bulk of the conversations Eddie and I still have are about you. He always asks me how you are, what you’re up to, at least once a month.”

Steve’s taken aback by that. “What?”

“Yeah. He usually asks if you’re seeing anyone. Tries to sneak it in. Like I’m not going to notice.”

She raises a single eyebrow, and Steve feels intensely confused. “Then how come he doesn’t ask me? Or talk to me more?” He tips back the last of his wine and pulls his legs up tight to his chest.

“Because you’re both idiots,” Robin says, voice warm and full of love as she hugs him.

A week later, a car with dark tinted windows pulls up in Robin and Steve’s driveway.

Eddie has a baseball hat and sunglasses on as he gets out, the disguise barely enough obscure his features, but even if it were better, Steve would still recognize him by his posture.

Robin is out running errands and picking up dinner, but mostly giving Steve an hour of privacy. A chance to say something before either of them can get stuck inside their heads and fuck it up.

“Hey, Stevie,” Eddie says with a smile as he pulls off his sunglasses in the entryway.

“Hey yourself,” Steve replies, pulling Eddie in for a hug, ready to make it quick, only for Eddie to hold on tight and press his nose to Steve’s neck. A purr rumbles from his chest.

Steve reaches up and pulls the hat from Eddie’s head, letting it fall to the ground.

He rubs his fingers over the stubble of the alpha’s hair, keeping him pressed close to the bonding gland at his neck, his scent crying out for Eddie to claim him.

Soft lips ghost against Steve’s neck. “I missed you,” Eddie whispers.

“Missed you, too.”

Steve kisses the side of Eddie’s head, the only part he can reach, lips pressed to the velvet of his shorn hair. Then it’s like his brain suddenly catches up with him. “Sorry! We- I didn’t-”

Eddie presses a single finger to Steve’s lips, finally pulling back to look in his eyes.

Without his curls, Eddie’s gaze is somehow more intense, dark chocolate looking into Steve’s heart. “Don’t apologize, puppy. You have nothing to apologize for, not to me.”

“Eddie…”

“I’m the one who ran away, who’s been hiding instead of alpha-ing up and telling you.”

“Telling me what?” Steve asks, lower lip trembling.

“That even after all this time, I can’t get your scent out of my nose. That I still dream about you every night. That I work so much to keep from going insane missing you. That I sh-”

Steve cuts him off with a kiss.

Eddie doesn’t waste any more time, just picks Steve up, their lips still connected, and carries him to the nearest bedroom—fortunately Steve’s—and drops him on the bed. Getting out of their clothes doesn’t take long; they’ve both waited long enough.

And Robin will be home soon.

Part 2

Now expanded into a full fic! Read here

[eldritch-spouse]

Sometimes greedy gambits do work out.

Your typical greedy fiend may wax about their insatiable desire for the material, how satisfaction is the death of their nature and never shall they cease stretching their fingers towards the next shining trophy-

But they know limits.

They have that little bit of normalcy that tells them when it's time to drop something, even if it leaves a taste like curdled milk in their mouths.

Not Xiko.

Xiko grabbed onto something and he did not let go.

Not even when death came knocking at his door.

This celebrity of the Greed Ring was known for being the biggest, most successful human/monster trafficker of Hell itself. Xiko, a mere mid-ranker, yet clever and crafty enough to dethrone nearly everyone in his field of vile work.

Wanted humans and monsters worth owning? In mint condition? With some really rare traits? Leave it to him and his boys, you won't be disappointed.

With great skill and talent comes great danger, but Xiko didn't cower when he started to gain many an enemy, when he could no longer count them, when he spent most of his time hunting them down rather than hunting the poor souls he's supposed to sell. With each visit, he'd return home with a few trophies to remember his victory.

Things were going well.

His empire of fifth kept growing, enough so that it garnered the attention of the very Lord Rinx, a client Xiko both reveres and dreads, due to his extravagant tastes. Why, he ever earned himself a juicy deal with this strange, extremely popular establishment on the surface that constantly bulk-orders humans. The Clergy's Eye or something of the sort, he knows the Icons had been there before.

How impressive is that? Enough for prideful folk to eye him wantonly.

Xiko had the opportunity to grow in rank, to sit at Rinx's table and negotiate starting a little jewelry store in the heart of Greed to keep up appearances and branch out. What luxuries.

Unfortunately, all highs lead to lows.

His health starts deteriorating inexplicably. Xiko begins being unable to move properly without chronic bursts of pain debilitating him from doing much of anything other than lie and wait for the wave of torment to pass. He has no idea where it's coming from. The pain is so great he gets blinded and passes out in some episodes.

The best doctors he can find tell Xiko he developed something terminal. Not quite a cancer, similar, something only demonoids can exhibit.

But what did the name of it matter? His own monumental riches wouldn't save him from certain doom.

One might think Xiko would do some soul searching with the time he had left, as laughable as that sounds for a being as rotten as him.

Not even close.

You don't get this far without being stubborn.

Things can't end as they are. Xiko can't die, he has so much to do and so much to oversee, it's simply not an option. He can't.

In the midst of despair and hopeless solution-seeking, Xiko finds a possible answer to his impossible conundrum inscripted in his most favored trophy, a timeless chalice.

Between its jewels and lovely finishes, the instructions for a ritual sat written in one of the oldest tongues in Hell. Having a historian for a friend sure comes in handy, doesn't it?

Said acquaintance is there to witness it when Xiko grows mad enough to try it, at the hands of demons who perpetuate these ancient practices.

A mummification-like ritual.

Except, to avoid death, Xiko must remove the two organs which the soul is most connected to, the brain and heart.

He knew what he was getting into when he laid on that altar.

He knew that he would suffer physical trauma beyond anything he could ever have experienced in life. He knew he would come out of it looking like a completely different being. That he would no longer be a demon.

And he was ready.

He was ready when they started chanting.

He was ready when his jaw was stretched to absurd proportions.

He was ready when his chest was torn open.

When he danced in that barrier between life and death, looking down at himself while his figure withered and contorted.

Those memories are... Scratchy, to say the least.

Xiko recalls screaming at the top of his exposed lungs and feeling his skin rip from several sides all at once, as if rejecting him. He remembers when his skull was crushed and how he could hear it for a moment. He knows he twisted and shriveled like a bug on that marble.

And that he woke up.

Wrapped like a present.

Dead yet amongst the living.

To continue his work. To remain forever at the top.

So what if he was emaciated now? If he'd never get rid of the massive scar where his figure was torn open, if his eyes now reside inside his bizarre gaping maw and his arms are elongated? Xiko had made it.

And while death was unavoidable, it was not the end.

In fact, it was the beginning of something a lot more amusing for Xiko.

He found his new appearance frightened his competition. Rumors of him being an undead diety spread. No longer featuring a core name or even something as simple as a sigil, Xiko was freed of even more weaknesses.

He made no effort to hide what he had become the next time he was present at Greed's Conqueror's Spoils festival. His mangled, infernal undead form on the spotlight.

Some of them were smart enough to understand what he had turned into, knew to stop pursuing him. For when you take something from a mummy, it cannot rest until it retrieves its possession.

Others came to find that out eventually.

Perhaps the person Xiko feels most sorry for is, not one of his enemies, but you.

You poor thing, still trying to escape him, still trying to lockpick your cages and manipulate his men, trying to make it out at all costs.

You never think twice when you set foot outside his territory.

Unaware that he'll always instinctively know where to find his "stolen" possession.

[butterscotchpiesandguys]

Bad Boys Get More

I had been working my office job for years now, at least 3. I talked my way up and had been happily ready to be promoted. But last time someone got it over me, no big deal. I wasn't concerned. I mean he was here longer than even I was! So of course he did! And then this month I had applied and interviewed again for a manager spot. Even higher than I got before. Unfortunately... I had been passed up again.

This time was different though. This time was much much worse. It was some guy with tats all over his body. That wasn't the only problem either. Devin, the new "manager" and guy in question, just didn't show up to work some days. So I decided enough was enough and I tried to confront my boss about it. It was his decision ultimately.

"Hey." I said a bit annoyed, but trying to conceal it. "Mind if I have a piece of your time, Henry."

My boss looked at me, he was also a bit younger... not as young as me but not old old? Probably just about 40. "Yeah sure, what's it about." He said a bit plainly as he walked back into his office, me following.

"It's about Devin." He nodded, knowing what I was going to say. "Why was he chosen over me? I mean... he has such shit attendance! He barely even did his job!"

By now Henry was a bit upset, I had been talking about this for the past week to other co-workers and he had overheard it. This was his decision and now he'd let me know why. "You wanna know why Devin got the job instead of you? One simple reason. He's chill."

"What?"

He continued as if I hadn't said a word. "Devin's a cool guy, he's been here a little less than you, sure, but he won't complain when someone else gets the job instead of him." He looked at me and nodded, as if knowing something.

"But he hardly looks professional!" I blurted out.

"Neither do you, Colt." Colt? Who's Colt? "But don't worry, we don't discriminate here against what's on someone's body. Which by the way, what are all of yours about?" He pointed to my arm... what was happening to it?! Black writing was going down it and ink filled it up. Making images, Henry came over and looked at my arm.

"Oh that? That's a meaning between someone and... wait... no..." I tried to resist.

"No need... dang, what gym do you go to? I would ask the next question on our interview but you've worked here for a while and I do know you can lift more than 50 pounds now." I looked at my bulking up physique. I tried to stop it but it just looked like I was flexing more. I held back a chuckle.

"Well... I think the interview might be done. You have the job, unless you have questions for me."

"I-I... What did you do to me?!" I stood up and looked at my body. My clothes clung to every bit of me, an outline in my pants and pecs obvious.

"Why Colt, I just made you able to get the job you wanted. Trust me. We were going to give it to you anyways but with how you were acting? Devin put in a good word at least. Said all you needed to do was be more like him. So... there ya go." He stood up and shook my hand.

"You'll get used to your new life during your shift with Dev tonight, shouldn't take long. Tons of changes... hopefully you find them all for the better." Henry smirked as he walked out. Devin came into the room.

"Glad to see you finally got 'your' Position dude. We're gonna have fun tonight..."

[witchofthesouls]

Okay wait no culture clash: Soundwave and Ratchet both teaching the kids about Cybertonian history and Culture?? Can we PLEASE see some of that??

Ratchet is having back to back fits because nothing is going as planned, and he feels he made a deal with the devil or has been given a monkey's paw because he's getting his wishes in a really twisted way without even knowing there were active conditions.

He returned to Earth to watch on the place that held a special place in Optimus' spark as the rebuilding process is taking a different shape and he's too tired to carry that burden on his own, and found out it there were still Primal Artifacts and other weaponry from the Vaults on the planet.

The once teenage tagalongs are now adults that are continuing Team Prime's directives to collect them. They had sacrificed continuing higher education for the mission, and Ratchet couldn't stand that he already missed a portion of their lives that damn fast and how they're so nonchalant over not improving their own selves. Ratchet then found out that Raf, Jack, and Miko had literally spent lifetimes together as they traveled Elsewhere to secure Cybertronian relics that shaped their planet in some way or form. Not only grew up. They grew old in some of their ventures; delving deep into their Other heritages to ensure they could make it back in the right time.

The kids (because they're all kids to him, even if Raf has a beard) are still limited by an organic lifespan, and humans are shorter compared to other species, so Ratchet clucks over their health, and he counts the days when all he has left are their ghosts and dust. And then a Primal Artifact cyberforms them.

Of course, none of his kids are what the Autobots had thought their frames would be. They're all strange, otherworldly, and dangerous.

Miko is definitely a spitfire. But not a motorcycle or a tank. She's a full-framed War-Forged Seeker femme. She revels in her bloodthirst and dresses well in violence as her plating is a searing and hauntingly bright pink. Her helm has small horns, her mouth spilts wide, and she enjoys showing off rows and rows of serrated teeth with her unsettling optics brimming with tactical programs.

Raf isn't a mech with alt based on lab equipment or even suited towards data. He's something completely else. He's draconian, but not a Predacon, as that root-mode is something familiar to Ratchet. Raf is far more reptilian, even in root-mode. An elongated face with a snout. Teeth hanging over his bottom lip with thick ridges of pointed plates upon his crest to trail up to proper horns, long and notched. His brilliant boy still has the same eyes towards sciences with slitted pupils, and Raf is comfortable navigating around with and without a thick tail and has adapted well to his large hands with thick claws.

Jack seems the most normal. Seems. He could pass off a young mech - handsome with dark and glossy plates and the unique grey-tinged blue optics - but if you stare too long into those optics, strange shapes emerge. Ratchet thought he's some type of jet, but sometimes Ratchet spies wheels along his legs or sees how Jack's silhouette bulks or slims between beats. The hem of his armored coat curls or blends too well with shadows and fog that it's too difficult to tell where Jack is really at.

Soundwave got dragged into this mess via a deal with June Darby, who had traveled into the Shadow Zone because of Ratchet's off-handed commentary that the Decepticon TIC once tied with Megatron in the Pits.

It was the closest thing to help that the trio could receive, especially with their heritages becoming more active in their new bodies.

Miko's sea-yōkai bloodthirst had meld too well with War-Forged programs because they naturally feed into each other. She was starting to frenzy more often. The War-Forged monstrous durability and inability to disable locked mission priorities combined with the Jinja-hime/human hybrid hunting and magical capabilities produced a monstrosity on the field.

It doesn't help that Miko had long incorporated the Apex Armor into her style. Her constant tinkering and experimentation led her from piloting the entire thing to using it as a type of indestructible shield or reinforcement via a controlled surrounding body similar to Susanoo from Naruto.

Ratchet can't keep up. He doesn't have the endurance or the speed to withstand Miko's onslaught.

June could have taken them away, but they already knew how to function as human-based hybrids. The main issue was their new Cybertronian biology.

Ratchet is the most prominent medical expert of baseline Cybertronians, while Soundwave is a well-experienced close combat specialist in brutality and pitted against opponents known for overwhelming strength and voracious mech-hunters.

Ratchet will never admit he's territorial. He won't. He fucking is, though. And it clashes with Soundwave.

Part of it is the medical-programming quirks, but a lot of it is cultural.

Medics function on their own hierarchy, and Ratchet has been the Head for a really long time, serving several Primes, immense hospital networks, and his own clinic. No one had been able to shake him from his position.

He trained in Iacon's universities. Their higher education system fosters a deep sense of competition, alliances, and networks among their students, staff, alumni, and partnerships as the universities function as their own private settlements.

Soundwave, on the other hand, didn't have that kind of opportunity. Instead, his education is eclectic and self-driven since gladiatorial clades would provide martial classes and potential masters as sparkling recruits were a long-term investment, but much had to be clawed for as resources were given to those with the most potential.

Ratchet is used to working with someone who already has all the groundwork and needs experience and refinement into their specialty as well as being the main authority over their journey. While Soundwave is familiar with training groups in various skills levels or backgrounds along with other mentors at the side. An inductee could buy protection services from a mentor, but all are subjected to the management of the clades.

So Ratchet has classical training and education, whereas Soundwave had taken his education through other means.

It doesn't help that there are language differences as well, and Miko is trying to bridge Pit Kaonite and Iaconic together because she's simultaneously learning both. And that Miko with her newfound Cybertronian medical knowledge is becoming a new level of menace.

Since Jasper trio had delved deep into their Other heritage as well. Their respective lineages had followed them through the conversion, and that's a whole other can of fuckery. However, there are cultural misunderstandings as the former humans are okay with stripping down to bare protoform for whatever reasons.

Ratchet, as a medical frame, has been part of the middle-upper castes, so he does carry a lot of those sensibilities. Similar to what Alpha Trion did with a Wastelands mech that would become Orion Pax, Ratchet tried to soothe out those rougher or unpalatable edges but in a more gentle and far less invasive sense, like shifting from talons and claws to blunted edges when not in combat and careful not to show too much fangs when smiling. Contain, contain, contain, is the Iaconic cultural norm.

Soundwave cares little for Iacon's false civility, but the trio does fit some ghost stores and folklore. Jack can be utterly eerie with the way he erases himself and how at ease he is in warped spaces, Miko really gives credence to the tales of Predacon hybrids of the Wilders' traditions, and Raf is something unearthed from Quintessons' fears.

June Darby is something else entirely.

[syrupfog]

The first time Penguin sees him, it’s in the auction house at Sabaody, standing on the opposite side of the room. He’s hard to miss; tall and imposing, a mess of blond hair and a LOUD polka dot shirt. 

He leans over to Shachi. “Does this boiler suit make me look cool?”

Shachi smacks him upside the head. “No,” he says. “Stop making eyes at the enemy.” 

“He can’t even SEE my eyes,” Penguin sulks.

The second time Penguin sees him, it’s in Wano. And it’s, like, a whole thing. There’s a lot going on, and Penguin’s a bit BUSY, honestly, he’s got some other things to deal with. 

But he notices that the guy’s, like, seriously bulked up. It would be hard not to notice, really.

Penguin flexes his own muscles. He can’t see much of any change. Especially under the boiler suit. 

Shachi squints at him. “What’s wrong with you?” He asks. 

Penguin smacks him. “Shut up,” he says. “And give me those binoculars back.”

The THIRD time Penguin sees him, things are a bit different. 

And by a bit different, he means “SHIT SHIT SHIT FUCK SHIT WHERE DID BEPO GO? SHACHI— FUCK WHERE IS SHACHI—“ 

It’s HOT on this island, boiler suit stripped down and tied around his waist and Penguin is still sweating buckets as he runs down alleys and side streets with the sun beating down on his back. There’s only about twelve people running behind him, yelling angry-sounding things that Penguin doesn’t bother deciphering because WHERE THE FUCK IS EVERYONE?

The bundle in his arms isn’t helping the heat stroke quickly approaching either. He’s gonna need Law to give him a rehydrating IV or something after this and then he’s going to be in trouble for wasting resources. 

Racing around a corner leads him to a crowded market street — a good sign, maybe he can get lost between the stalls. Or maybe not— the angry mob behind him seems to be gaining and they’re yelling honestly very rude things. WHERE the FUCK are his CREW— 

That’s when he sees him. HOW they ended up on the same island is a mystery, but—

“Hey! Oi!” Penguin yells, making a beeline straight for him. 

Killer, of the Kid pirates, is at a stall perusing mangos. He looks up, blue and white stripes zeroing in on Penguin. GOD the guy has some wide shoulders. 

“Yeah, you!!” Penguin yells. “Offense or Defence??”

“Uhhhhhhh,” Killer says, tilting his head. Very calm for a guy who MUST see the mob behind Penguin. “Depends on the game.” 

“Now!!” Penguin shouts, getting within throwing distance. He can practically SEE the question marks popping above Killer’s head. 

“…Defense?”

“Then CATCH” 

Penguin throws the bundle at him and turns on a heel, skidding into place mere feet in front of Killer and facing down the approaching mob. He sticks his hands deep into the pockets of the boiler suit and draws out two brass knuckles, because god these outfits are NOT good for hiding larger weapons in. 

“Uhhhhh,” says Killer behind him, voice echoey under the helmet. “Maybe I should be offence, actually.” 

“TOO LATE,” Penguin yells, charging toward the mob that has been quickly thrown into confusion now that their target has turned around.

Honestly, there’s not even any burning pitchforks or anything. It’s just a dozen or so citizens with sticks up their asses (and in their hands), and Penguin, well, he’s had to fight Clione for the last ice cream bar. 

He comes away with one nasty scrape to the cheek and a bunch of blood splatters on his outfit that Law will enjoy testing for STDs. When he finally shoves the brass knuckles back in his pockets, he turns around to find Killer still standing in front of the mango stall (although the seller has long since run for it)

And the bundle squirming around in his hands. 

“You good?” Killer asks. 

“Are you holding her upside down?” Penguin asks. 

Killer looks down at the bundle in his arms. He flips it over, and the squirming stops. A head pops out. A small child with an unnervingly large mouth full of triangular teeth, and a head of shockingly blond hair in two messy tails, is looking bright eyed at Penguin. 

Penguin gives the small child a thumbs up. 

She giggles, showing off her many unnerving teeth. There’s a second set behind the first.

“So,” says Killer, conversationally. “She yours?” 

“Oh god no,” Penguin says. “Found her chowing down on some offering to a local god and the townspeople were getting all angry at her.” He walks over, picking up a mango and holding it up to her. She neatly bites through half.

“Cool,” says Killer. 

“You got parents, kid?” Penguin asks. 

The small child shakes her head, mango juice dripping from her mouth. 

Penguin frowns. “Family?” 

The small child shakes her head again. She doesn’t seem sad. She probably didn’t know them.

“Aww,” says Killer. Penguin looks up at him. He’s oddly expressive for a man in a helmet. 

A chill runs up his spine, though, and he turns away, recognizing the feeling of conquerors haki. Sure enough, the captain of the Kid pirates is walking through the center of the now deserted market street. 

“Killer!” He yells, stalking over to them and ignoring Penguin entirely. That’s fair. Penguin likes it that way. “What’d you fucking do??” 

Killer tilts his head. With both hands he holds up the fishchild. “Got a baby,” he says brightly.

Kid blinks at the child. “What the fuck,” he says. 

Killer lowers the child and then points with one hand at Penguin. “His baby,” he says. 

“Well,” Penguin hedges. 

“What the fuck,” says Kid.

“I’m keeping it,” says Killer. 

“Her,” says Penguin. 

“That makes you a grandpa,” says Killer. 

“FUCK no it doesn’t,” shouts Kid. 

The child laughs. 

“You can’t have a BABY with the ENEMY,” Kid yells. 

“Well,” says Penguin. 

“You can’t tell me what to do, Mom.”

“Fuck you,” spits Kid. 

“She has her father’s eyes,” says Killer. 

Penguin’s not sure which of them is supposed to be the father. 

“My hair, though.” 

Ah, Penguin is the father. 

“We’ll have to work out custody agreements,” Killer continues. 

“I’d like a date first,” Penguin says

Honestly it’s fitting that that’s the first full sentence he gets out, somehow. 

“You can’t date my second in command!” Kid yells. 

“I mean, we have a kid together,” Killer points out. “You’re a bit late.” 

Penguin is halfway to a genius response of some kind when he sees  blue light wash over them. It’s all he can do to mime “call me” at Killer before he’s shambled back to the ship. 

“You’re late,” Law tells him. 

“I’m an unwed mother now I think,” Penguin says. 

Law sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t want to know.

[thenightisland]

in various conversations with my doctor about the insane life changing effect adhd meds have had on me one of the things he said was that it's not uncommon for people who have dysthymia/pervasive depressive disorder to have undiagnosed adhd at the root of the problem. and i think we forget that like. major depressive disorder is supposed to be something that eventually stops. it's episodic. like even people with depression very often are not in a state where it's just like. every day is a misery virtually nonstop for 15+ years. but with dysthymia/pdd it very much so is. which you can have pdd and mdd both at the same time too which is evil but anyway. it is wild enough conceptualizing that there is in fact a difference between the two things bc i very much so got depressed around age ten and just. never stopped. and when you live like that for the bulk of your life you just sort of get used to it? like it sucks but you just assume a degree of that is normal. so even on several antidepressants i never once aimed for "not depressed" i was always aiming for "mildly less miserable" i had just accepted that i would always be a degree of miserable and that my default was going to be feeling bad and if i was very lucky there might be a few days where i felt a little less bad now and then. the goal was "bearable misery" which is nuts to type out like wow! bleak!

anyway something i noticed when they started me on the adhd meds was that all the Racket in my head just. stopped. for weeks i just said to people "it's so quiet in there" because i didn't have dozens of loud competing fast thoughts all the time. and it took a while to pin down why this effect made me less depressed and worked better than literally any antidepressant had. and it's bc it /stopped thoughts/ and when i was depressed the Thoughts did not stop and they were not pleasant ones so i'd get stuck in these awful mental doom spirals and nothing i did would make it stop. and then this medicine made it stop. and it turns out it's much easier to not be sad when your brain doesn't have the Sad Channel turned up to high volume and is forcing you to deal with it clockwork-orange style. bc historically it was like oh god do we really have to do this again do we have to listen to the you will always be alone and unloved and nothing you do will ever be enough and your life will never be fulfilling in any way spiral again?? do we really have to i'm so tired. but now that channel is muted. a lot of channels have been muted. no amount of cbt/dbt techniques or various other therapy tactics had ever managed to mute those channels before.

and it's just insane it's like the thing about how stunned people with chronic pain are to learn that the normal amount of pain for someone to experience on an average day is none. it's just that but emotionally. bc even with the challenges i still have for autism reasons, most days now i'm fine. the emotional pain is zero on an average day. i now understand what people mean when they say "i'm having a bad day" bc there's a difference. but you see. all my days used to be bad. all of them. even the "good" days involved a degree of visceral emotional suffering and dread. and you don't realize how pervasive the bad is until the bad is the exception and not just an ordinary day.

i do not sit around consumed by the same thought patterns and doom spirals and mental quicksand now i'm just going about my day like an ordinary person and it's amazing how much less life /hurts/ and that's the only way i can think to put it is that every day used to hurt and it doesn't hurt now. past-me was incapable of conceptualizing a life where my baseline wasn't "profoundly and painfully sad and aching at all times" i was 100% prepared to just live like that forever!!!! and now if i have a bad day that's all it is an outlier i thought people in movies were just doing a bit when they had a "bad day" and the solution was just have a big piece of cake and cry a little and go to bed early and you'll feel better tomorrow bc i never felt better tomorrow! now i just feel better tomorrow if i have a bad day! most days the emotional pain scale is a 0/10.

like this is so long already but those of you who have been around for a long time you know how nuts this is for me. and i'm a firm believer in everything happens for a reason even bad things and for a few years i've been like huh wonder what the reason is for the whole getting beaten in the head thing though. well. it exacerbated the working memory issues. and it got on my goddamn nerves. so i asked to try this medicine so i could remember to get my soup out of the microwave. and then it fixed all the problems that have plagued me since i was a small child. and now i'm able to conceptualize a day to day life that isn't just Hurting all the time when i once thought i would never do anything but hurt.

[howtofightwrite]

I know DnD is not about realism but how accurate is having, say, your heavy armor wearing paladin have 10 dex or even negative dex? Where medieval knights built like The Rock or like The mountain? I’ve seen youtubers saying that you needed a lot of strength to be able to fight like a knight so women and smaller people couldn’t do it.

I think I know which YouTuber you're talking about, and you can pretty safely ignore them. Their personal misogyny takes priority over their (alleged) expertise when they're forming their arguments.

There's two logistical problems with the idea that you need someone like Hafþór Júlíus Björnsson to make up the bulk of your elite forces. The first problem is that they need to consume a frightening amount of food. This isn't as much of a problem in the modern era, when we have the capacity for truly staggering amounts of agricultural production. But, in a medieval society, with serfs responsible for most of the agriculture, the prospect of feeding each of your elite troops 10,000 calories a day would economically destroy most kingdoms. (And, yes, that is what Björnsson reports to consume on a daily basis. Other estimates place his dietary intake somewhere between 3600 and 8000.) And, to be clear, that is an absolutely absurd amount of food. But, if you want to build that kind of mass, you need a lot of energy, which means, a lot of food.

The second logistical problem is, there's only one of him. Okay, that's not literally true, The Mountain was portrayed by three separate actors, Conan Stevens, a professional wrestler, and Ian Whyte, a stunt actor who had previous appeared as a White Walker in the first season. But, Hafthor Bjornsson took over the role in the fourth season, and is probably who you're thinking of when you name drop the character.

Bjornsson is a member of the 2000 pound club, which include power lifters who can lift over 2000lbs combined between bench press, dead lift, and squats. Not many people ever get that far, and Bjornsson is one of the few individuals who can get into the 1000 pound club from a single lift.

Here's a fun name to know, Becca Swanson is also in the 2000 pound club. She credibly claims that she is the first woman to have achieved that, and I'm not sure if there are any other women in the 2000lb club, but it is achievable.

Now, here's the fun thing about all of this, because you're asking about D&D, and D&D players need to know exactly how much their character can lift. The calculation is (STR*30)lbs. (In the Player's handbook p174.) This also means if you have a real person, and you know how much they can lift in the real world, you can reverse engineer what their strength score would be in D&D.

It's 37.

If you wanted to convert Hafthor Bjornsson into D&D, his strength score would be 37.

Dude can fucking arm wrestle the Terrasque and easily win.

Putting that in perspective, it's a little ludicrous to say that if you want a viable martial character (fighters, paladins, barbarians, etc.), they need a Strength score of 37, when it's not normally possible for player characters to exceed 20 base strength. (If you're wondering, Becca would work out to have ~29 Strength. So, on par with most ancient dragons, and a few gods.)

So, there you have a man and woman who are both superhumanly strong according to D&D.

D&D and math have always had issues like this, and it pops up in a few different places here.

The basic concept that your ability to hit, and the amount of damage you deal is based on strength comes from a very, “schoolyard,” understanding of violence. It's okay to step back and abstract it out, where “strength,” is some amalgam of melee combat aptitude in addition to actual strength, but the idea that being stronger means you can hit harder with a sword or dagger doesn't make a lot of sense. It doesn't even make much sense with axes and maces (the force applied has more to do with the mass and velocity of the weapon, rather than the strength of its wielder.)

A paladin with negative DEX is dead. I don't mean that figuratively, and I do understand what you meant to say, but this rule is a little obscure in 5e. If any of a character's physical attributes (STR, DEX, CON) are reduced to zero, the character immediately dies. Ability draining effects used to be far more common, so the rule existed by itself, though, now it mostly shows up when you're looking at a monster with a physical ability draining attack.

What you probably meant was a negative DEX modifier, meaning your paladin is unusually clumsy. Outside the context of D&D, that would be an incredibly bad thing for a front line combatant. In the specific context of D&D, if they're in heavy armor, it doesn't really matter, if they're in medium, then it reverts to being “a bad thing. Specifically, the rules is that light and medium armor add your DEX modifier to your armor class. Medium armor caps this at +2, but it can go negative with either armor type. However, heavy armor in 5e ignores your DEX modifier entirely.

Now, here's the thing about D&D, its concept of armor is spectacularly weird. Unlike RPGs where armor reduces damage taken, either by subtracting a fixed amount from incoming damage or by reducing damage via a percentage, D&D's system is that your armor class grants you a chance to avoid being hit at all. (5% chance per point of AC, if you're wondering.) Narratively, this is often framed as taking a hit, but your armor turned the blade or something similar. This is because sometimes the enemy attack straight up misses, and that's (usually) determined by your dexterity. This is important, because the game is trying to balance two different power fantasies against each other.

On one side you have the players who want to roll in heavy plate armor, and soak all the hits, and on the other you have players who want to go with light armor, and dodge around enemy attacks. Realistically, that's not an option, but D&D permits it, and again, that's fine. The fantasy of lightly armored fighters makes a lot of sense. I'd even go so far as to say that the barbarian's unarmed defense bonus (where they add CON modifier to their DEX modifier while unarmored) is a really good change in 5e even if it does make no sense objectively. It contributes to the fantasy of this brutal fighter who runs around without armor slapping people silly with their weapons, and shrugging off damage because they're too stubborn to die. In (nearly all cases) the ability to deliver the player fantasy of a class is more important than a strict adherence to reality, and that's fine, that's the point, but the realism of D&D doesn't translate off the page in any meaningful way.

If you wanted a more, “realistic,” (and, yeah, that's incredibly loaded in this context), approach to armor for D&D, I'd say gate access based on your Constitution (or Constitution modifier). Sort of like how your equip load in Dark Souls is based on your Endurance attribute. Give armor and weapons a burden value, and if the combined burden on a character exceeds their CON, the character risks taking levels of Fatigue when they're fighting in heavier gear than they're conditioned to deal with. Maybe add a Conditioning feat or skill if you want to add some other attribute modifiers to the mix should you end up with your heavy armor fighters being underequipped. (Then again, I am one of those psychopaths who really liked the D20 Star Wars' vitality system.) So, ultimately, tinker with the balance until you find something you, and the people at your table, are happy with. Roleplayers who have more meaningful build choices tend to be happier, so long as they don't feel like they're being punished for having a character fantasy.

One of the more amusing descriptions I've read of medieval knights is that they were built like methheads. I can't fully vouch for that, because I'm not an expert on the physical appearance of medieval knights, but it's certainly credible. These guys were eating pretty well for the era, and engaged in a lot of physical activity. Depending on what they were doing, that could easily result in some fairly bulky guys, but it could also result in some wiry looking guys who hide their muscles. Just, knowing what I do about the human body, the answer was probably both, depending on their metabolism and diet. But the image of Sir Methhead, Knight of the Realm, and his implausibly clean teeth, still amuses me.

It's worth remembering that a lot of the times I've seen someone say, “they were built like athletes,” they'll drop an image of a bodybuilder. No. That's not what you would get. Bodybuilding is designed to create its own physique, one that doesn't occur unless you're abusing your body in some very specific (and unhealthy) ways. It's probably better to think of someone like a high-school football player. Bulky, but without the carved physiques of a Boris Vallejo painting. (If you don't know who that is, look up his art. It is a bit dated, but it's gorgeous.)

Alternately, if you do want your characters to look like those paintings, it is your fantasy, have fun.

-Starke

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[camaelczarka]

So, I think we all know that there’s going to be quite a bit more to the 2x07 trial and the 2x08 tower scene when Lestat tells the story. If you’ve read the Vampire Lestat, you already know what I mean; TVL is almost a wrapper for IWTV, and provides much of the context around Claudia’s death. I’m definitely going to spoil some events in that book in this post so watch out. Under the cut for spoilers.

The bulk of TVL describes Lestat’s mortal life, his relationship with Nicolas de Lenfent, his non-consensual turning into a vampire by Magnus who then shortly after jumps into a fire, his meeting Armand, his forming of the Theatre des Vampires, and Nicki’s eventual death by suicide that Armand greatly facilitated. There’s a lot more to it but basically it’s the backstory for why everything that happens to Claudia and Louis in Paris goes as horribly as it does.

Near the end of the book, Lestat revisits the trial. It picks up with him being extremely weak and sick for years after his ‘death’ at the hands of (mostly) Claudia. He doesn’t condemn her for it, or seek revenge, and says he understands why she did what she did. But being alone and having no one to turn to, he eventually decides to ask Armand for some of his blood so that he can recover, having no idea that Louis and Claudia are already in Paris. Still in his weakened state, Armand takes advantage of him to get information about Louis and Claudia and how they tried to kill him. Armand is reading his mind but it’s unclear how much info he gets there. Then, he traps Lestat under the theater and starves him until he’s forced to drink dead blood. He’s extremely disoriented and sick and is dressed up to look good and brought out to testify against Claudia. Then he’s taken away to Magnus’ tower (he also has the yellow dress here) and Armand flips out on him for breaking up his former coven and starting the theater, tells him Louis is also dead (a lie obviously), and pushes him out of the tower.

The key difference between the show trial and the book trial is the fact that the show makes the trial into a play with rehearsals that Lestat is (apparently) present for. So my question, knowing the book canon, is why would Lestat participate willingly, or did he even willingly participate?

Going on the book canon, it might simply be that Lestat is super fucked up in this moment, that Armand is controlling his every action except for the few times where he manages to break out of it and go off script. And I do think that’s possible if he’s weak enough- Armand is very powerful in that way, and Lestat might be unable to fend him off. I think this is possible- Armand explicitly states in the book that he wants Lestat to look presentable, and maybe that was enough to fool Louis.

But I actually think the show might have added another even more nefarious layer to this already fucked up event- I think that Armand has made some sort of fucked up deal with Lestat for Louis’ life. Because otherwise, none of this makes sense.

Why does there need to be a trial play with a human jury? Legitimately, there doesn’t. There’s no good reason for it- the coven was going to judge them as guilty no matter what, and the audience is going along with the play because they think it’s a show. Armand and the coven will have Claudia dead one way or another, they really don’t need a bunch of mortals to weigh in on it. So who was Armand trying to convince? The only answer is Louis.

Armand may have written into the script that Louis was supposed to die with Claudia, but I think he made a deal behind the backs of the coven with Lestat. That deal was maybe something like- “I let you get him banished, then I will take him out of the wall. Say nothing about your involvement or he dies.” Lestat is made to give up personal details of their lives together, seemingly freely. Why would be do this? Why would he willingly put himself in the position of the bad guy to Louis here? Even Louis wonders this in the interview. And there are even a bunch of moments where Lestat stalls in the middle of talking- and I think he’s fighting with Armand telepathically, or being reminded of the terms of this agreement. Louis and Claudia wouldn’t be able to tell what was happening, but Madeline would, so they keep her hypnotized until later.

Because, the coven DIDN’T spare Louis. Lestat getting him ‘banished’ didn’t spare his life at all, he was just dying slowly. Because again, the coven didn’t actually care about the audience jury, they just took him offstage for the main event. He was 100% still going to die. But Lestat DID still save him- by agreeing to let him go with Armand.

Lestat doesn’t answer when Louis accuses him of getting revenge during the trial. Lestat doesn’t provide any explanation in the tower in the next episode for why he participated. He allows Louis to hold him responsible for his participation and how it resulted in Claudia’s death. I feel like Lestat CAN’T dispute it, as per the terms of whatever arrangement he and Armand had. Armand takes Louis out of the wall, and the price of Lestat saving him from that is letting Louis decide to leave him. He can’t say anything otherwise, and he truly doesn’t think he deserves to anyway.

This also could explain why Lestat participated to begin with. He actually IS really weak and fucked up, so he couldn’t do much to save Claudia or anything really past getting Louis put into that coffin. Armand puts him into the impossible position of relying on him to get Louis out while also trusting that Armand can handle his suicidal husband, knowing that Armand is responsible for Claudia AND Nicki’s deaths already. This is why he is terrified that Louis is dead in 1973, because Armand has a track record and he knows that Louis has been suicidal before. But what other option does he have? Giving Louis up is the only way to save him.

This achieves 3 goals for Armand. He get Louis and finally (he hopes) severs Louis’ ever present love for Lestat. He gets rid of the coven, or at least gets out of it. And, perhaps most importantly, he injures Lestat in a way that he will truly never recover from. Nicki is dead, Claudia is dead, Louis hates him.

I think this is partially why Armand is so gleeful when he tells Daniel how long he and Louis have been together versus Louis and Lestat. His ultimate goal is to punish and hurt Lestat. Kill his daughter, make him watch, make him responsible. Make Louis hate him. Make Louis stay with him ‘forever’ of his own free will.

It also recontextualizes the line in the last episode where Lestat explains to Louis that he “gave him to Armand” and questions whether or not that was actually saving him. Which implies there was a goal beyond simply getting him offstage, and I think means more than just exchanging a boyfriend between the two of them. Louis had already left Lestat at the point, and while maybe they would have gotten back together already without Armand’s involvement, Louis wasn’t really ‘his’ to give. I think it means something more along the lines of he LITERALLY gave his bodily safety to Armand, knowing how much he couldn’t trust him. But, he had no other choice, because Armand left him with none. Let me have him or he dies.

I do actually wonder if Lestat was still imprisoned and starved by Armand, and I think there’s a high likelihood of that. I do think Lestat would have to be in a weakened state to agree to any of this. But it does add another psychological element to the original story that also explains some of the weirdness in Armand’s version of events. This is the part of the story that Daniel can’t totally decode, because only Lestat knows exactly what happened besides him. And Lestat may still assume that Louis has ‘figured it out’ in the present day, because all Louis says is that he knows Lestat ‘saved’ him. Lestat still is going to clarify events going forward, and the trial is a big reason WHY he he writes TVL, because he wants Louis to understand what happened there.

[katbrando]

▹NSFW (minors dni) • 5.1k • diego brando x afab!reader ▹content: modern au, diego is a cheater AND a bottom, pegging, hate sex, slapping, choking, rimming, face-sitting, degradation, spit (lots of spit) ▹synopsis: diego and you have a pretty toxic relationship to begin with, but after you find evidence of him cheating on you while out of town, you decide to put him in his place. [ read on ao3 instead ]

The silence that followed your boyfriend’s phone being gently placed atop the kitchen counter was thick, maybe rivaled only by the sheer bulk of rage that was currently settled on your tense shoulders. Atmospheres like this certainly weren’t uncommon between the two of you, usually spiraling into screaming matches that ended in unresolved tension eventually fizzling out as if nothing had gone wrong at all. In most of these circumstances, it was both of you at fault; differences in opinion and outlook tended to blow up into something far more dramatic than necessary, but that was inevitable when you were dating Diego Brando.

“Darling –” he’d started, of course, by trying to lighten the situation with a term of endearment associated with the numerous romantic dinners he’d taken you on as apology for previous grievances, but you’d stopped him dead in his tracks with a single finger pointed just inches away from his broad nose.

“Do not.” The same finger quickly moved to press directly in the center of his phone, reawakening the screen to show the current source of this particular confrontation, a message from a random number with obvious sexual intention. “Who the hell is texting you right now?”

This, of course, was a rhetorical question. The answer to that question was made clear to you just last night when the exact woman in question had contacted you personally. “Your man is cheating on you.” A single Instagram DM that would’ve otherwise seemed ludacris, but paired with a damning photo of Diego himself laying amongst someone else’s bed sheets. It was hard to know where to place your anger, but after realizing the message wasn’t meant to taunt, moreso to inform and warn, you’d understood what needed to be done.

“I don’t know, love,” Diego lied through his teeth, his sharp canines poking out as he plastered a smile on his face, “probably a wrong number or something.”

In most cases this would be an understandable possibility. Not only was Diego an exceptionally beautiful man, but his career as a jockey made him well-known within a specific sphere of people. And these people were committed, often cult-like in their actions. Learning to deal with jealousy and uncertainty was part of the package when you signed up to date such an established athlete. Was it worth it? That, you’d been struggling to answer as of late.

Your relationship with Diego certainly wasn’t perfect, it hadn’t been for a while, but the idea of him cheating still seemed inconceivable. As a partner, Diego was ruthless in his loyalty, though it was not lost on you that he’d had a past of sleeping around and taking advantage of his good looks. You’d thought, maybe, that was all in the past, but lately with his uptick in popularity it seemed he was spiraling back into old habits, feeling a bit too untouchable.

“I’m not a dumbass, Diego,” you countered, a laugh bubbling up in your throat as if to try and quell the anger, “so you can stop treating me like one and tell me why the hell some random person is sexting you.”

“I can’t control the fact that people want to share their fantasies with me.” Diego folds his arms across his chest and shrugs, letting out a chuckle of his own that only furthers a boiling point for you. “If my number was leaked again, I’ll get a new one, it’s no problem.”

“You and I both know that’s not what happened here. Get real, or I’ll kick your ass to the curb.”

Something in your tone must have struck something in him, because at those stern words Diego seemed to visibly stiffen. Was that fear in his eyes?

The sound of your own breath became unbearably loud as you watched your boyfriend try to find words, his pillowy lips parted but offering up nothing. Absolutely pathetic.

“Are you cheating on me?”

Even if Diego was a good liar, you’d be able to see through him easier than most others could. And the way his eyes darted to the side told you everything you needed to know before he could even say anything.

“Well, clearly you’ve already made up your mind as far as the answer to that question, so why even bother answering?” He grumbled, his little pout making it hard for you to decide if you’d rather slap him across the face or kiss him so hard you both forget this entire situation.

“I’m taking that as a yes.” You took his phone in your hand and tried to decide what to do with it, finally resolving to chuck it at the floor, letting it land with a thump on his foot. “I have proof either way so you’d be an idiot to try and argue with me.”

Diego’s stare immediately dropped to the floor, his fingers drumming nervously across the surface of his bicep as he looked at his phone. It beeped again, another notification flashing across the screen, but he didn’t pick it up.

“So is that it, then?” He finally murmured after several seconds of silence. “Are you going to scold me? Kick me out?”

“Are you not going to apologize?” You scoffed, taking a couple steps closer to him, tone threatening. “You’re a real piece of work, Brando.”

“Love, I wouldn’t expect you to understand the difficulty that comes with being in the spotlight.” Diego started, and you knew exactly what frustrating turn he was about to take. “If I turned away every single person who approached me, anyone who wanted a piece of me, the media would make me out to be a bloody prick. Do you know how hard it is to maintain a balance of charm and disinterest? When your career depends on it?”

“You are a bloody prick!” You shouted in response, jamming a finger against his chest before shoving at his shoulder. “Since when does your career require you to sleep with random people when you’re in a relationship?”

Visibly trying to recover from the sudden action of being shoved, Diego met your sharp stare again with wide eyes and raised eyebrows. His nostrils flared, and it wasn’t immediately clear if that was a sign of his own rage bubbling up or something more carnal. Either way, he stayed silent, his demeanor practically begging for more.

“Tell me you aren’t happy, then, go ahead.” Your provocation continued as you got closer to him, shoving him with both hands this time. He briefly stumbled back but remained stock still. “I can dump you right now and you can go get your dick wet with whoever the fuck you want, your choice.”

“I don’t want that,” Diego grumbled, narrowing his eyes, “I made a mistake.”

“A mistake!” You echo, laughing again at the absurdity of Diego’s entire reasoning. “Do you understand how pathetic you look right now?”

“Throw me out, then, go ahead. Clearly you’re not willing to have a discussion about this.”

“There’s no discussion to be had, Diego. And throwing you out would be way too easy.” You pause to take a deep breath, your voice lowering significantly. “Maybe I should just beat the shit out of you and teach you a goddamn lesson.”

Diego gulps, his breath noticeably hitches. “Why don’t you, then?”

“Because I know you, I know that’s what you want me to do.”

Diego’s lips quirk up into a smirk, just barely, and that action alone makes your mind up even before he replies in a smarmy voice.

“Then aren’t we both on the same page?”

A slap reverberates through the quaint space of your shared apartment, Diego’s hand immediately coming up to rest against the reddening skin of his cheek. You take in the sight of his eyes blown wide and his mouth parted in shock for mere seconds before you close the distance with a bruising kiss. Nothing about it is gentle, your teeth dig into his lip as a frustrated growl spills into his mouth, and though Diego does his best to assert dominance with his tongue you put up a good fight as both your hands shove at his shoulders again.

With his back now pressed tightly against the wall, Diego attempts to part for breath but he loses the battle as you firmly grip his chin in your hand, forcing him to keep kissing you. You only allow him the luxury of breath once your other hand is grasping a fistfull of his hair, effectively holding his head in place even as you pull away.

“I can’t stand you,” you mutter, squeezing his chin tighter, digging your nails into his skin, “maybe the media should know that you’re a cheating scumbag.”

The fear that flashes in Diego’s eyes at that threat further fuels your rage; of course he’s more concerned about his reputation than the state of your relationship.

“That –” he starts, whatever he was going to say dissolves into a groan as you spit directly into his mouth.

“Stop talking, for the love of god.” Your demand is punctuated with another tug on his hair as he clearly savors the feeling and taste of your own saliva settling on his tongue.

To the public, Diego Brando is a shining example of pride and dominance in the world of horse racing, even his small stature is something he’s looked up to for. Something you’ve always taken satisfaction in has been your ability to render that side of Diego completely powerless, knowing the exact words and actions that have the capacity to bring him to his knees with his eyes glazed over in desperation. That is the Diego you fell in love with, and he’s the one who’s currently staring at you as if you’re the end-all and be-all.

Cheater or not, you know in your heart that he’ll always come running back to you with his tail tucked between his legs, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t going to make him pay for this mistake. By the time you’re done with him, your name will be the only thing he remembers how to say.

In a series of exasperated movements, Diego allows you to clap a hand across the nape of his neck and shove him towards your bedroom, his hands awkwardly hovering in the air as if even accidentally touching you will earn him capital punishment. “Pants off.” You demand, admittedly a little charmed by the way he stumbles backwards against the bed and begins fumbling with his belt.

As you dig through the nightstand, you can feel Diego’s eyes boring into you. By the time his pants and underwear are thoughtlessly discarded onto the floor you’ve located the tools for further punishment, tossing them onto the mattress just inches away from where Diego is sitting. It’s cute the way he glances over at his favorite dildo before staring at you again with bated breath, but he’ll have to be patient. And patience is something he’s not very good at.

“Do not touch yourself.” You move to stand in front of him, your legs on either side of his as they dangle off the side of the bed. When his hand hovers over your waist you give it a firm swat. “Or me. Understood?”

“Yes, love,” he mutters, breathy and desperate, both his hands falling into his lap.

You refrain from demanding he not use pet names, seeing as the way they roll off his tongue just makes him sound even more pathetic. Anger rushes through you again as you imagine whether or not he used the same words when he cheated. Inevitably, he must have, it’s part of his undeniable charm. You don’t voice this frustration, but you grip his chin in your hand again and give his head a firm shake.

“I won’t hesitate to toss you out the door, butt ass naked, if you don’t obey what I ask of you tonight.” A pause. “Understood?”

“Yes, love,” he repeats in the exact same lust-soaked cadence, eyes already glazed over with desire.

Your eyes search his face for a moment, finding no hint of foul play nor anything but obedience. Only then do you give a single nod and step backwards to continue your demands. “Get on your hands and knees.”

Diego obeys without hesitation, positioning himself so that his ass is fully presented to you and his face is resting against the sheets, turned just enough to continue watching your every move. Even just the sight of you looking at him in such a lewd position is enough to make him groan and shimmy his hips, though just barely. He likely knows that playing it up and egging you on might be pushing it too far.

For a moment you take in the sight of him, both with intent to test his patience and to appreciate the view. Diego has a nice, plump ass, thanks to his career as a jockey. It’s always been one of his greatest assets, and unfortunately he’s keenly aware of that. Currently a pale ivory, dotted sparsely with freckles, but it’ll look much nicer when it’s beet red and sore. Your eyes travel from the cleft of his ass, past his taint, down to where his cock hangs, and when it twitches under your stare you roll your eyes.

“You’re such a slut,” you mumble, stepping closer and dragging one hand along the underside of his right thigh, “you know that?”

Diego doesn’t reply, just keeps staring at you with those hazy cerulean eyes as if he’ll die if you don’t keep talking down to him. Not responding to the question earns him a spank, swift and harsh and underhanded against his right cheek. He immediately hisses in pain and grips the sheets with both hands, the skin of his ass already reddening to match the flush across his face.

“I ask a question, you answer.” You give the same spot a gentle caress before spanking him again.

“I’m a slut,” Diego groans, “I know.”

“That’s why you can’t stand the idea of settling down and being an obedient boyfriend, hm?” Another spank, another grunt spills from Diego’s mouth. “You just had to go fuck someone else, even though I’m right here. You’re so pathetic.”

“She’s nothing like you,” Diego attempts to wiggle himself out of the guilt, “I didn’t even cum.”

You know that’s a lie. Diego’s so easy you can make him climax just by looking at him a certain way, and you know this from experience. As much as you’d love to consider this a special skill that only you’re capable of, you know better than that. Give Diego two minutes with someone willing to suck him off and he’s toast.

“Don’t lie to me, I doubt you even lasted five minutes with her.”

Diego chances a laugh, weak and breathlessly, and you take the opportunity to give him several more spanks, this time alternating cheeks until they’re both turning beet red. Each motion is partnered with a firmly spoken and degrading name, driving him further and further into desperation. His whole body is shaking by the time you take a break, observing the entirety of his backside and noting that he’s already hard.

“If you cum without me telling you it’s okay, I’ll toss you out the window.” It’s a threat you obviously wouldn’t seriously follow through on, but Diego’s expression tells you that he’s taking it completely seriously anyway. You’ve never seen him grasp the bedsheets so tightly.

“Yes, love,” he breathes, thighs twitching, “I’ll be good.”

“You’re nowhere close to being ‘good’, not right now,” you scoff, placing a hand on each of his cheeks and digging your nails into the warm, rosy skin, “just do what I say and I’ll think about calling you ‘good’.”

Diego says nothing, but whines desperately at the feeling of you gradually spreading his cheeks, his hole puckering as soon as your eyes hungrily trace over it. You lean closer to let a thick trail of spit fall from your lips, landing directly above his entrance and rolling downwards before your tongue meets it and evenly distributes it across the surface of his sensitive skin. He takes a shaky breath, music to your ears as you languidly lick up from his taint and press a kiss to his hole.

One thing you know for certain is that no other woman gets to do this with him; Diego’s flings are consistent in that he’s always topping, quickly getting off and putting no feeling into what he’s doing, never anything as intimate and drawn out as this. In a sense, yes, putting him down and having your way with him is meant to be a punishment. It’s also serving as a reminder that nobody else in the world knows how to make him feel like this, not like you can.

“Fuck –” Diego whimpers as soon as your tongue delves into his depths, your hands spreading him further and further. You won’t scold him for crying out, not when it makes him sound so feeble.

“You like that?” Your breath fans across his ass as you whisper, and when you lay your tongue flat against his hole again and give him another spank he fights to hold himself up. “You’re filthy.”

“S’good…” his voice is barely audible, his eyes rolling back with every stroke and prod of your tongue.

“Why would you ever fuck anyone else when you can have this?” One of your hands slides across his cheek, pointer finger meeting where your mouth currently hovers and dragging teasingly against his saliva-soaked asshole. “Stupid whore.” You punctuate the insult with another glob of spit landing in the same spot.

“Never again,” Diego weakly insists, pressing his ass further back, aching for more attention, “I only need you.”

That statement, clearly dripping with need, makes you roll your eyes again.

“Y’know, you’re more appealing when you keep your mouth shut.” His hole eagerly takes your finger to the first knuckle, even as you slowly pump it and sink increasingly deeper. His whole body is shaking and his mouth is hanging open, drool coating the sheets where his head rests. Again he offers no response, obediently letting nothing fall from his lips besides hushed sounds of pleasure.

For a while, you fuck him with your fingers, letting your middle join the first and curling to meet the spot you know will drive him further and further to the edge. It’s a true test of his self-control, and honestly you’re impressed by his ability to keep himself from falling apart. Perhaps he has learned his lesson. As soon as he easily takes three of your digits without any hesitation, you decide to move on, but as soon as your fingers leave him he nearly collapses helplessly.

“Please –” he starts as soon as he hears the sound of you removing your bottoms and fiddling with the harness you’d previously pulled from the nightstand. You give his ass another smack as a wordless warning.

As if you’d have any intention of stopping at this point; you’re enjoying yourself far too much for him to ruin it. As soon as you’re fully strapped, you climb atop the mattress to settle behind him.

Further testing his obedience, you forgo the lube and instead drag your strap against the cleft of his ass, letting your spit coat its surface as you tease him. Diego’s hips move to meet the actions, greedy for more as he fights to remain silent. And it’s a fight he’s steadily losing, seeing as he keeps whimpering pleas that aren’t lost on your ears.

Just to play with him, you reach around to blindly locate his cock, cupping his balls and feeling a rush of power when he gives a guttural, shocked moan at the sensation. Eyes blown wide again, he refocuses his stare on you and gives you one of the most pitiful looks you’re ever seen.

“What?” You tease him, flicking his tip and returning both hands to spread his ass. “Go ahead, beg me for it.”

“P-please –” Diego starts, choking on another moan; you can hear his nails puncturing the sheets. “Fuck me, please.”

“Why should I? You think you really deserve that?”

At that, Diego groans with irritation, his entire body heaving as he takes a deep breath and tries to calm himself down. Always so huffy when he doesn’t get his way, but lucky for him he won’t have to wait much longer.

Another thick glob of spit leaves your mouth, landing just above your strap and making gliding between his ass an easier process. For good measure, you give the toy a few strokes to distribute the moisture before pressing its tip against his hole. Diego’s thighs twitch and he holds his breath, waiting for you to fill him up.

“Before I fuck you,” you lean down, much to his dismay, to whisper against the space between his shoulder blades, “I need you to tell me what a filthy cheating slut you are. Tell me what you did.”

Diego fists his hands further into the sheets and grits his teeth. From this angle he can’t quite make direct eye contact, but his eyes still desperately try to look back at you as he finally mutters admittance.

“She gave me a handjob, sucked me off a little, that’s all,” he says, his cheeks further reddening with shame, “nothing more, I promise, love.”

In such a vulnerable and brainless state, it would be unlikely of him to lie. And honestly, you trust him, but it still doesn’t make the entire thing any less enraging.

“Why did you do it?”

“Was lonely,” he whines, shutting his eyes, “while traveling, out of town…”

“You were lonely?” You scoff, palm meeting his ass again, making sure his skin stays just as sensitive and rosy. “That’s a pitiful excuse.”

“You weren’t there, love, if you had been, I –”

“Enough, be quiet.” His excuses are giving you a headache, so you straighten up again and distribute more spit to his asshole until you think he’s ready to take you. Whether he is or not, he’s going to get his ass pounded.

Diego gives a short yelp as soon as you push into him, his hole swallowing up the entire tip and eagerly stretching to accommodate as you sink further, slowly. It’s a beautiful sight, his full, rosy ass being fucked by your strap, his thighs twitching and his upper half shaking at the feeling of being filled by you. You reach forward to brush any hair out of his face and gather it up in your fist, tugging his head to the side so he can make better eye contact with you.

“You look so pathetic right now, Diego,” you coo, your hips finally connecting with his ass as he takes the entirety of your strap with a shaky breath. “Imagine if your fans saw you like this. Face down, drooling and whining, ass being fucked by your girlfriend.”

Diego shivers and offers no reply, he’s too close to falling apart and you’d rather him say nothing anyway. You imagine his cock is probably desperately leaking right now, begging to be touched, but he stays vigilant with his hands still buried in the sheets beneath him.

To his credit, Diego takes it like the champ, letting you fuck him hard and steadily faster, moving his body to meet yours and creating a satisfying smack sound with every snap of your hips. At some point the sight of his blissed-out expression is a bit too much for you to bear, so you lean down and press your lips to his shoulder blade as you continue moving in and out of him. Your kisses are fleeting and short-lived, teeth sinking into the supple skin and biting down hard. Diego gasps as you taste blood on your tongue, he knows you’re going to leave a nasty mark.

When you pull back and see the evidence of your actions, you huff a satisfied laugh and move to a new untouched spot. As you continue marking him, your hand finally gives his cock the attention it so desperately wants, his hips not knowing which way to move between your fist pumping his shaft and your strap still fucking up into him. There’s no way he’s going to last very much longer, based on the whimpers and obscenities that keep breathlessly spilling from his mouth.

“I’m –” he warns, and you immediately cease all contact, sitting up straight again and quickly unsheathing yourself. Diego looks up at you as if you’ve just committed the unholiest of crimes, and to him that must be exactly how it feels.

“Not yet, you’re not.” You fold your arms across your chest and eye him, trying to decide how to make his life even more difficult. “Lay down, on your back.”

Diego, face flushed and body glistening with sweat, gives you a pained look before huffing and obeying, his head hitting the pillow and his hands landing just inches away from his leaking cock. It almost looks like he might cry as he watches you remove your harness and toss it to the foot of the mattress.

“Love, please –” he whines, writhing slightly against the sheets, his body aching for you, for anything you’d be willing to give him.

“You’re going to put that filthy mouth of yours to good use, for once.” He watches closely as you climb atop the bed again, straddling his upper half, your pussy dangerously close to his face.

You prod at his mouth with your thumb and he allows it to enter and press firmly against the surface of his tongue. He sucks on the digit, eyes half-lidded and staring up into yours. You utter a request for him to open, sliding the pad of your thumb across his lower lip before leaning down and spitting directly into his mouth again. Diego immediately moans and without looking you can feel his hips lifting, as if trying to fuck up into the air.

“Taste good?” You ask, giving his cheek a little slap as soon as he groans confirmation. “This’ll taste even better.”

Diego already knows what you’re doing, but he refrains from touching you as you turn around, sitting directly against his face with your palms resting against his chest. You hadn’t realized just how wet you’d gotten from fucking him, and his tongue eagerly laps up against you to further coat your entrance with moisture. His ministrations are less enthusiastic than usual, so you remind him who’s boss with a pinch to his nipple.

“Eat up, Diego, this might be the last time you ever get to do this.” The threat draws a noise from out of his throat, muffled by your body pressed tight against his face. “Ungrateful bitch.”

Diego’s tongue delves deep between your folds, sliding out only to toy with your clit and further wet the surface of your cunt. The sounds he’s making are obscene, one glance down at him and you can see a sheen of spit and juices coating his chin. His breath comes in gasps, almost as if he’s forgetting to breathe amidst the sheer pleasure of eating you out. Your eyes trail down from his chin to the length of his throat, watching his adam’s apple move as his mouth continues working.

As soon as your palm presses against his throat, Diego’s body reacts with brief shock but he doesn’t stop you. Gradually, you curl your hand around its surface, squeezing and immediately sensing the tension in his ministrations. His cock twitches against his abdomen as you continue choking him, you’re almost certain that one touch to his tip would push him overboard.

After a few seconds, Diego chokes against you, his mouth faltering and sputtering as he continues trying to please you despite lack of oxygen. Eventually you take pity on him, releasing his throat and grinding down harder against his face as he gasps for breath. Your own need is starting to overwhelm you, making you lay down against his torso and finally wrap a hand around his cock. Diego’s hips buck upwards as you touch him, and you allow him to fuck into your fist as you keep your mouth open and ready for his inevitable release. The aggression and enthusiasm with which he’s devouring you is driving you to your own precipice, your breath becoming shaky and labored.

Your climaxes are nearly simultaneous, your walls tightening around his tongue as he continues sucking at your clit, his cum spilling out between your lips and coating your chin. He makes no action to move you from off of him, but as soon as the last bit of his cum has been squeezed out onto your tongue you quickly flip around again, leaning down to kiss him with as much force as you did earlier.

The kiss is messy, his tongue lapping up at his own release, letting it mingle amongst your shared spit. When you part for breath you offer him no time to recover before spitting again, making certain that every last bit of his filth is resting in his mouth and not yours.

“Swallow.” You weakly command, only satisfied when Diego does so, opening his mouth to prove he’s obeyed. “Disgusting.”

Boneless, Diego lays there, staring up at you through hazy half-lidded eyes. And still, his hands stay at his sides, not once touching you, just as you’d demanded. You figure that earns him at least a little bit of praise.

“See? This is what happens when you’re a good boy.” You give his cheek another light smack, watching as his head rolls weakly to the side with the force of it. “Now get out.”

It takes a moment for the words to really hit him, but once you’ve climbed off the bed and started putting your underwear back on, Diego makes a pathetic little noise and pouts.

“‘Get out’?”

“Yeah, you heard me.” You raise an eyebrow, picking up his own boxer briefs and tossing them at his head. “You’re sleeping on the couch tonight.”

“I… wh –” Diego sputters, voice briefly muffled by his underwear smacking him in the face. “Love, I thought –”

“If you think I’ve forgiven you then you’re sorely mistaken.” You laugh triumphantly, watching as he sulks and pulls his clothes back on. “That ass is gonna have to get fucked a few more times before I even think about letting you off the hook.”

Diego’s pout briefly shifts to an obnoxious smirk. “Promise?”

“Ugh,” you loudly groan, clapping both hands against his shoulders and guiding him out of the bedroom. “Enough. Goodnight.”

You quickly shut the bedroom door as soon as he’s out, hearing him chuckle and mutter a declaration of love. Biting back a smile, you take a deep breath and begin cleaning up.

Unfortunately, you love him too.

[unhetalia]

do you think that Alfred deals with a lot of issues being so beautiful when it comes to both nations and humans? like oversexualization in the media and nations holding him to the "dumb blonde bimbo/himbo" stereotype. i can imagine him, in a nations revealed universe, being held as some stupid looksmaxxing icon (think of Adriana Limas and Brooke Shields reputation) and "Pure American Blonde Beauty". Having cameras constantly in his face trying to capture his "inhuman" beauty, getting excited for interviews only for them to always end up discussing his looks, ect. I would think this would have irreversible effects on his self esteem and body image issues considering how young he is...

Context for this reply -

This (old) ranking I did on who I thought is considered the most beautiful among the Nations.

My headcanon that Alfred has a high IQ.

Headcanon on Alfred having autism and ADHD.

The idea that Alfred finds it hard to build muscle.

One of the reasons my Alfred isn't involved in his own government is because even though he has, over time, developed adequate social scripts, he has always been very obviously 'different'. Pairing this with his looks, and Alfred in the beginning was often infantilised. A symbol. To be seen and not heard. Alfred would have realised very quickly that he was leaving Arthur's thumb only to be under another's - and that they cared about him infinitely less than Arthur did.

I don't know if, back then, his looks would have impacted him negatively if not for his autism and ADHD. But I think the combination of both meant he preferred to be separate from governing bodies.

In World War II, the existence of Nation Guardians becomes public and immediately, Alfred's government tries to prevent him from fighting because they want him to be a symbol. This is what you're protecting, as opposed to this is who is going to protect you. In this case, I imagine Alfred is still young, physically 17. He looks almost fey - but androgynous, slender. This is the difference between making him a symbol of masculinity and allowing him to go off and fight vs their decision to make him a symbol to protect. Of course, Alfred absolutely does not go for that. This is where the bomber jacket comes in - it makes him look bigger. He has big boots, possibly even covers his hair and eyes, often not taking off his aviator hat and goggles. He changes his own image. This is where I think the 'I'm the hero' motto comes in.

By the late 50s, he's physically 19 and this is where he stops aging (how the universe decides this, we don't know). He's taller now at 5'11, and I think the years in the public eye have really gotten to him at this point. This is the point where he's most obsessed about his looks; specifically appearing masculine. He is obsessive about sports clubs, gaining muscle, etc. The thing is, his body is not actually predisposed to bulking up because of his metabolism and super strength.

By the 70s, I think Alfred starts to settle into himself again. Stops trying to mold himself into what's acceptable. Consequently, this is where he gets his worst media. His masculinity is questioned, people try to connect the decline of American society with how 'weird' he's become - basically a moral panic. From this point on, Al's relationship with his government sours immensely.

(2001, it comes to a head when Alfred publicly goes against Bush. This is unrelated to his looks, so I won't go on.)

Around 2010 with social media starting to really take off, Alfred's image changes. He's on tumblr, he's on youtube and eventually he's on instagram. He's briefly on twitter pre-Musk.

Alfred really captivates the youth in a way that isn't just to do with his looks (though his looks continue to come up). He loves anime, he loves animals, he's not wealthy like a lot of other Nations and therefore he's 'relatable'. He does videos where he teaches people how to fix things around their home so environmental activists love him, he always encourages community - soup kitchens, community gardens. He's cool.

To the media, though, he's still just a commodity, and they're focused entirely on his looks. "How to get glass skin like Alfred F. Jones" articles, "The Alfred F. Jones diet - plastic surgeon talks how to naturally get skinny like America's greatest beauty symbol".

Nowadays, I think there are many people who call this out, but it continues. However, I do think at this point Alfred is able to just do his own thing and ignore it. He's an online darling, but mostly people will be talking about the time he accidentally blew up his garage while doing an experiment or the time he skateboarded down the stairs and called it 'a lesson is gravity and physics'.

[lazuliquetzal]

I keep on telling people you're the only one who knows how to plot. Can you teach all of us how to plot, please? I love you.

I AM SUMMONED? PLOT BRAIN SUMMONED?

I love plotting. It's my favorite part of the writing process. Plot is "things that happen" and the best part of writing is imagining things that happen. I'm going to assume that whoever may be reading this knows how to imagine The Happenings, so I'm gonna be talking more about structure, but in like, a kinda abstract sense.

A good plot is a little bit more than a string of events. Plot is like music: there's variation in rhythm and sound and melody, but ultimately there's cohesion, because it's all one song. You can have a bunch of wild things happening, but no matter how strange, there should be something that links them all together, because you're telling one story.

Plot structures are patterns in stories. I'm pretty sure most of them were developed as analysis tools (as in, story already exists > look! it follows this pattern) rather than as writing tools, but people use them as writing tools because it's a neat little way to organize the chaos that is "shit happens." Stories follow patterns for the same reasons music follows patterns: we enjoy the certainty of hitting certain beats. But we also like being surprised. A good pop song doesn't sound like a random collection of sounds, but it also doesn't sound like the middle slider of other songs.

There is this shared concept in both music and writing: the idea of tension and release. Basically, you're playing with reader expectation: there's an imbalance in the experience (tension), and we want to see that imbalance resolved (release). All the common plot structures deal with this basic pattern:

You set an expectation

There are complications to the expectation

You meet the expectation

And this rhythm is happening on multiple levels in writing. Scenes follow this structure (we're gonna get past that door, we're gonna find the murder weapon, we're gonna collaborate and come up with a plan) and all those scenes feed into the overarching expectation (we're gonna solve this murder!). I usually think of chapters as their own mini-story, part of the larger whole. And I think of scenes as their own mini-story, part of the larger chapter. I have engineer brain. I see the gears spinning in the clock. That's why all my chapters have at least One Important Thing happening, because that's that particular chapter's Step #3.

And One Last Important Thing:

In music, a delayed resolution is almost always more interesting than the standard resolution. In writing, that means you wanna drag out Step #2 for as long as you can. That's where the bulk of the story is happening, that's how you build tension, that's how you get people to turn the page.

So when you write a fake dating fic, those bitches better not get together until the very end. I came here for fake dating, not for real dating, damn it. If you resolve that expectation early on, you better replace it with a different expectation that's just as engaging.

But also don't drag it out for too long. Sorry. The hard part of writing is learning the difference between too short and too long. Writing is unfortunately a nuanced skill which is why my advice is like "do this but not too much teehee." But tension and resolution is just rhythm, you can build a sense for it if you engage with enough stories.

[ceilidhtransing]

I really don't get the connection between feeling scared, hopeless, demoralised about the US election and not voting as a result. Personally speaking - and I know I'm not everyone - feeling scared and hopeless and demoralised about this election would only make me more determined to vote, rather than just give in and accept failure without even adding my ballot to the pile.

Except I'm not American, so I don't even get to channel my sense of fear and helplessness around this election into voting. People all around the world are shitting ourselves at the prospect of America allowing itself to elect Trump again and we don't even have votes we can decide not to use. All we can do is watch from the sidelines and fucking beg eligible US voters to do the right thing. And I can't even describe how horrifying it is to be in a different country and see Americans online say things like “what's even the point in voting; Trump's already won”. Because the entire world has to deal with the consequences of whatever Americans choose to do this November, and the vast vast bulk of us don't even have the tiny luxury of being able to decide not to vote.

[cowboyfromh3ll]

Hi! I loved your fics (specially with Charles and John) and i was thinking about making a request

Could you do a Charles x reader smut. Maybe with the reader has a big thing for doing it dangerously and poor Mr. Smith has to deal with his girl

Closer

(Charles Smith x Fem!Reader Smut)

This was so fun to write, it was very free flowing/not structured, so it was new

Warnings: smut, asphyxiation, public sex, impact play, just risky sex lol

The bulk of Charles reminded you of what it was like to be strong. You’d huddle into his robust arms, he’d wrap them around you, dwarfing you completely, and you’d hear the familiar breathing of your lover. His morale and strong nature never dwindled, and he would pick you up when you were down (both literally and metaphorically). But Charles’ stature especially served as a source of comfort for you, his strength was remarkable, capable of defending you from anything and anyone, and he was competent in everything he did. Especially in loving you. The fortuitous exultation he felt seeing you rely so heavily on him: having you ask him for acts of service, ask for advice, or have you ask him to teach you something. And he got pleasure out of beating the daylights out of anyone in your name.

And more than anything, the two of you loved the sheer size difference between you two.

Charles outweighed you by at least fifty pounds, if not more. His biceps alone were nearly the size of your head. His massive back and torso would cover you completely when he was on top of you; his arms caging and protecting you, blotting out the outside world. And in prudent hesitation, he would shakily wrap his arm around your neck and squeeze upon request. For a while, Charles did not understand your obsession with being put in a chokehold. He could not fathom you getting any sort of pleasure from it, but when he heard your shaky breaths, whimpers slipping in between, he would be roused to squeeze harder. And when he saw your increasingly reddening face, both from pleasure and asphyxiation, he couldn’t keep his own cock from twitching.

Charles loved you more than anything, and his tenderness with you would bleed into many aspects of your relationship. Especially sex. He was well aware of his strength, as were you. And Charles would quickly discover, to his surprise, how much you enjoyed being shoved into pillows before sex, slapping your tender skin where you asked, yanking your hair multiple times at varying levels of strength until he got it right up to your standard, holding you down on the bed, grinding away at delicate bones too hard until he felt them shift, all just the way you liked it. And you happily took every bit of it. You’d have your fevered and bruised skin to show, flaunting the deep purple marks around camp so blatantly a few of the gang members would worry for you.

Your moments of sweet cessation around camp together would be delicately intimate, a rare shred of privacy allotted for the two of you, which would inevitably be interrupted by some gang member’s bumbling maundering over something or the other. The cutlery and mugs would look pocket-sized in his grasp, his hands in gargantuan proportions compared to your own. On a more pure occasion, you’d reach across from where you'd be sitting together and trace the curve of his cheeks with the back of your hand, reminiscent of the way he would before slapping you in bed.

Before bed, Charles would occasionally ask you again and again why you enjoyed it so much, what part of you was satiated by the practices. You would simply say you didn’t know why, it was just enjoyable. He would continue to ponder the question as the two of you laid in his tent, your body flipped away from him and your back pressed to his large chest. His arm would drape over your body along with the blanket, his body working as a furnace and providing more heat than the blanket ever could. His breath warm against your neck, goosebumps rising as his lips ghosted the sensitive, downy nape of your neck.

And just as his breath was evening out and slowing down, under the belief that the two of you were finally settling in for the night, you’d guide his hand to your lap, bunching up your nightgown until it was flipped over your hips. He’d blink away sleepiness, his eyes adjusting to the darkness around you, barely registering what you were doing before you hiked your leg up and behind his massive thigh, stretching your legs wide so his palm could cup your pussy.

Charles would become hyper aware of what was happening, especially around him: He’d take notice of the distant chattering coming from the bright camp fire from across camp, the sleeping bodies that were only a few feet from you, the people wandering around the camp entrances acting as guard who’d be more alert than anyone else.

“(Name), what are you doing?” He’d ask in a hushed tone.

Your only response would be a stifled whimper as you ground your pussy against his hand. And even though every fiber in his body would tell him to stop, to keep your intimacy private and dignities intact, he would drag his calloused fingers along your pussy, his rough pads circling your sensitive bud. The hair on the back of your neck would stand as you listened to his heavy breathing against your ear, grinding your ass back on his semi erect cock. You’d guide his hand under your bloomers, raking through your soft curls until he reached your folds, parting your pussy and exposing your clit. You’d urge him to rub harder, pressing your hand into his as he rubbed vigorously.

You’d be moaning openly into the air if not for the arm wrapped over your mouth, his bicep muffling, virtually silencing you completely. You’d cover his arm in drool, occasionally dragging your tongue over the skin tentatively. The pleasure was overwhelming, washing over you like cresting waves. Eventually, he’d sink a finger into you to the hilt, curling the finger and feeling the way you twitched and jerked in his hold. You’d grip onto his forearm, sinking your nails into the steel rod that was his arm and leaving behind crescent shapes.

The two of you would become keenly aware of the body next to you, rolling and mumbling in their sleep, and you’d go stiff in fear of being discovered. But the fear was enthralling, and it would encourage you even more to grind down on his fingers, eyes rolling back as you moaned louder into his arm.

Hair stuck to your forehead with sweat, and he’d slide a second, even a third finger inside you, curling and pumping in and out of you. He’d smirk when he’d hear the muffled squelching coming from in between your legs, getting awfully caught up in the moment and forgetting there were people around you that could potentially hear.

Eventually, his hand would clamp over your mouth as tight as he could, bordering on covering your nostrils. His other hand would clutch your hip hard, staring intensely into your quivering back as he slid his large cock into your tight hole, stretching you so wide he’d feel your back arch and legs tense. He’d use his strength to pin you in place as he fucked you hard. Your skin would be iridescent with sweat, muscles taut and pulled tight as violin strings, your bodies moving in sync.

“Fuck me, Charles.” You’d gasp quietly, attempting to move your hips back in time to meet his thrusts. You’d whine in frustration if Charles even dared to stop if someone passed your tent, not caring that they were only a few feet away. Charles' chest would rumble lowly in a growl as he thrust all the way in, balls deep as his hips slapped against the fatty flesh of your thighs and ass. And you would gasp in satisfaction as your lover lovingly impaled you, deliciously, again and again.

Charles would be hesitant, but he’d always cave into your wants and desires. How could he ever deny his precious lover? Shaky hands would wrap around your throat, tightening each time as you whimpered how it wasn’t enough. And he’d have to be the one who got reassurance, making sure he wasn’t hurting you.

Your affinity for risky sex had the poor man sweating, but again, how could he turn you down? You’d insist he eat you out in broad daylight, only paces away from camp in the woods on a log, where anyone in the gang could peer over and see his tongue rolling flat over your clit. How you insist he take a bath with you in the lake after a long day of work, just barely out of sight from the camp, lazily tracing your tongue over the sweat that clung to his muscles as he fucked you in the water. How you’d request he pinch your nostrils closed as you throated his cock completely, your throat constricting as you struggled to take in a breath. And you would not allow him to let go until your vision was spotted with black. How you insist he finish inside you every single time, pumping you full of cum, round after round, until a halo of white formed around his base as he fucked the rest into you.

Poor Charles, some would say. Being pushed to his limits each and every time as his boundaries expanded with each passing day with you. Seeing the satisfied glint in your eye afterwards was always worth it, and how you’d allow him to clean you up and take care of you. Feeding you food and wiping you down between your legs, rubbing your belly as he wondered when would be the day.

Charles was strength, he embodied it. But he was gentle, delicate. He was benign.

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Closer - Nine Inch Nails

[crustaceousfaggot]

Hey did anyone else notice like a weird amount of parallels between the Arcane ending and the RQG ending or was that just me

Takes place in a magi-tech society that blends elements of sci-fi and high fantasy with elements of British industrial revolution aesthetics. The bulk of the story takes place in a city which is divided in two - a wealthy and entrepreneurial upper city, and a poor and dangerous undercity ruled by organized crime.

One of our protagonists is an emotionally volatile young woman, raised in the lower city by a powerful crime lord who acts as her surrogate father. She believes that her only worth to the world is her talent for violence, and over the course of the story learns to trust again and care for (an) adopted kid(s). This character has a natural talent for engineering and makes her own bombs.

Another of our protagonists is a nepo-baby from a powerful family who eventually learns that they're a sorcerer with a hidden magical bloodline. This bloodline manifests, among other ways, with their skin becoming more metallic. As this is happening, the character decides to step away from their family legacy and inherited power to become their own person.

The catalyst for the plot is a brilliant scientist pioneering a new kind of magi-tech which he believes will revolutionize humanity and make life better for everyone.

Through a bizarre series of unintended dominoes, this magi-tech (which just so happens to be blue) entirely loses control, leading to the creation of a spreading gestalt hivemind which threatens to overtake the entire world.

Quick break from this to watch a couple of our characters get thrown into another dimension. They'll be fine don't worry (lying)

The final battle involves a very large cast of characters doing cool shit but essentially revolves around "we need to kill the center of the hive mind". Part of this involves taking down a Big Powerful Beast that got infected.

Despite this, the conflict isn't resolved just through combat, but through a scene where a character gets sucked into the Hive Mind Dimension and has a conversation with the entity controlling it. The entity genuinely believes that what it is doing is for the betterment of humanity, and has to be convinced that human weaknesses and differences are something to be embraced rather than eliminated.

Also idk the parallels between the "we'll finish this together" moment and the "we've got this" moment.

From a thematic perspective, a lot of the really interesting stuff set up early on about societal inequality, corrupt but well-meant leadership, and growing tensions between the upper and lower cities gets kiiinda overshadowed in the end by the whole "we all need to band together to deal with this goddamn hivemind" thing, and (in my opinion) doesn't get an especially satisfying conclusion in either case.

Smaller stuff

Amputees with magi-tech prosthetics

Magic Twink that dies and gets revived multiple times (at least once by his partner) and ends up with cool white hair.

"What If We Had A Gay Love Confession In Your Post-Death Mind Palace"

Kooky old mad scientist side character who actually ends up being pretty plot relevant and having some surprisingly solid emotional beats.

Moral debate over whether or not it's worth it to shut down the Very Sketchy Dangerous Machine that also supports a huge chunk of this world's economy and infrastructure.

Various orbs

Evil (?) magic flower

Post-canon lesbian domestic bliss!!!

"It's fun when a Lawful Good character edges over the line into full-blown fascism"

Zolf is Vi but I can't explain that one. It just is

Rqg still wins because Arcane doesn't have Mr Ceiling or Bertie MacGuffingham. And frankly I'm disappointed by the lack of blokes

[changingplumbob]

Consider this your intro to Silver. It recaps events written by @cawthorntales from Grayson's point of view here, as well as details given in Silver's visit to Grayson. Once again all the lore of this world comes from his imagination, I'm just riffing off of it.

Willow Creek was an odd place. While Windenburg, Britechester and Henford-on-Bagley focused their architecture on stone, most of Willow Creek was wooden. It was as if the settlers had decided to show off just how many trees they could cut down. The first time Silver had visited here it looked rather different. The trees had stretched down to the river and the houses were few and far between. Foundry Cove had been a clean sweep from the canal to the railroad, now there were houses.

Silver gazed in to the fire and tried to calm down. Seeing Grayson had been the right thing, he was certain. Even if it was hard for him it was best for Grayson. He loved his brother, he had been his favourite person before everything happened. It was right to have put him first.

Silver remembered one night in Moonwood when there had been a fierce storm. Their father had always told them they needed to be strong, infallible, but the thunder sounded like hunters and he was terrified. His whimpering woke up his older brother who came and hopped in his bed. Silver tried to protest, dad would get so mad, but Grayson promised him he wouldn't fall asleep. Grayson watched over him so he could rest, and swore he'd be back in his own bed before dad could catch them. He was true to his word.

Grayson had always had his back, but when the time came Silver didn't have his. The hunters had gotten bolder, and more violent, wiping out packs and leaving a trail of bodies far bigger than any the werewolves were responsible for. They had caught his dad and four other pack members, forcing his older brother into the role of alpha at sixteen.

Their dad had always pushed the importance of maintaining the pack. To Grayson that meant mounting an attack on the hunters compound. Silver begged to go with him but Grayson insisted he go with their mother and most of the pack into hiding. When he hugged Grayson goodbye and joined the group howl sending off their alpha and their twenty fiercest members, he felt sure he'd see him in less than a day. He was wrong.

Silver had waited with the lookouts at the edge of the emergency hiding zone, waiting. The lookouts slept in shifts but Silver was determined to stay awake, for his brother and his father, he could be a stubborn fourteen year old. When they appeared on the horizon it was clear the group was smaller. Much, much smaller. Neither his brother or father were in it. When they got close enough to talk Silver asked Francine if they had survived the hunters.

Francine: They're alive but... your dad is talking to Grayson. He'll be back soon

Relieved and exhausted Silver went back to his mom and fell asleep. He had thought Francine meant Grayson would be back soon. She didn't.

He remembered waking up to yelling, his mom and dad were fierce when they got going, dealing verbal blows to each other.

Mom: How could you? He will die out there on his own. He's just a boy, he can't survive the hunters

Dad: He was sentimental and selfish. He should have left me but instead his recklessness cost us sixteen pack members, an alpha cannot put self interest before the pack. He's no son of mine

Mom: Tell me you didn't say that. Francine said he was hurt, he needs to be with us

Dad: I'm the alpha and what I say is law. He is not to set foot here again

Mom: I'll find him, I will

Dad: You bring him back and I swear I will rip his heart out myself

That's when Silver's training started. Grayson had always been meant to be the alpha and had received the bulk of their dad's attention. Silver was happy to simply tag along and mimic the training Grayson was getting, a smaller shadow. But with Grayson gone their dad honed in on him like a missile. Early mornings, late nights, relentless exercise and lectures on how his brother had failed them. His dad passed on his skills sure, but he also passed on his rage.

Silver's heart had truly broken when his mom had been killed. On a search for Grayson she had been captured by hunters, the wife of an alpha was a trophy prize. The nature of the pack changed then. What had once been caring and supportive became strained and distrustful, his dad telling anyone in hearing how Grayson was to blame.

Eventually his dad got careless and the hunters got him to. It should have been up to Silver to keep the pack intact, strong, but he'd felt there was nothing left to save. It fell apart, and he carried on alone. The more he thought about it over the years the more he began to think that his dad had been wrong, Grayson hadn't been to blame. If Silver had been the older one he would have done the same thing.

So he went through life, moving from place to place, feeling the weight of guilt grow heavy. Guilt for believing his brother, his best friend, could have ever acted against the interest of the pack. Guilt that he hadn't been with his mom when she was captured, he would have been a better prize for the hunters and she would be alive. Then, more than a century later, he was sat in a bar when he saw his brother on TV. He was alive! And more than that he was looking for love.

At first Silver couldn't stop himself crying with joy, the barkeep threw him out assuming he'd had too much. He had set out for Henford, determined to make things right. The closer he got, the more his guilt whispered in his ears. Sure that Grayson wouldn't forgive him he camped out near the house, just far enough to not be detected, and caught up on the show in one of the more run down pubs. He thought Glenn was rather cute and hoped he would get far, even if a little voice inside him dreaded Glenn winning, he liked seeing him. Clive though, he was always putting his brother first, Silver was grateful for that. Grayson was different from what he remembered, and Silver had to stop himself howling in anguish when his scar was revealed. Mom had been right, he was injured. When Grayson chose Clive Silver knew it was time to stop hiding, he had to go face his brother.

It went better than he expected. Grayson forgave him! But he had to tell him what happened to the pack and their parents. That's the thing about grief, you think you've got it handled then you have to tell someone a soul is gone and all the feelings rise to the surface again. He had to get out of there. He loved Grayson, but his brother was rebuilding his life, growing his own family and Silver couldn't bear to destroy it with his his own issues. So he'd done what he'd made a habit of doing, he ran away. The woods in Willow Creek may be smaller but he had some good memories here, hopefully the air would help him stabilise. Normally he camped out in the park but when he passed it this time he felt a strange aversion, like it would be wrong or dangerous to go there. He was sure it was just in his mind, soon he would go there and push through the discomfort. The view of the river there had always soothed his soul.

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