#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.

[kentwos]

SAY YOU WILL — lessons

cw. simon riley x f!reader. situationship.

#05 guilty pleasure | masterlist | #07

You’re in bed when Simon finally asks.

The anticipated question, both curious and confused all the same. You figure for him it means something different to how others ask it, a want to understand you and the patterns of your life. Maybe even entirely selfless as he asks, waiting there, looking up at the ceiling as you do the same and not pressing or demanding or turning to try and gouge every wrinkle and twitch of your face. 

It’s what compels you to give him that explanation, sighing deeply next to him, dragging a hand over your face as you figure out where to begin.

“It was the first guy,” you smile to yourself, bittersweet. “You know he was great, first love kind of thing. Thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with him. We had everything planned out, the house and kids and careers. Even what pets. I loved him and sometimes I think that I still do, but we outgrew each other. I’d known him since we were teenagers, and that time we spent together was good but by the end we were different people. We needed space to grow.”

You hear the faint sound of the pillow rustling next to you, feeling the way Simon nods and then hums after a few seconds in acknowledgement.

“And then, you know, after that it’s never really been the same as the first time.”

“Yeah,” he whispers.

He doesn’t ask for more from you, the air thin as he remains still, mimicking your body language as though to make you feel safer. You get the sense that he’s still mulling over your words, piecing together fragments of your life like a puzzle and working out why the pieces connect the way they do. Always calculated in that sense and somehow it makes you more curious about him.

Simon’s like a clamshell that you can’t pry open no matter how you try. Shoving a knife between the slips in his facade has nudged him slightly, only for the faintest sign of weakness to clamp him shut again. You’ve tried, God knows you have, and although you respect his space you can’t conceal your own curiosity. Spending nights without him savouring little details he’s given you. Warm smiles, cups of tea, a chain around his neck that disappears somewhere a few minutes after you’ve seen it, the scars, God. The scars all over his body. The muscle. The turmoil. The bulk of him.

“How about you?” A shot made in the dark.

“Oh,” he exhales. It’s quiet for a long while, something you expected yet can’t bear to deal with. An urge to crane your head and watch him: just the way you’ve despised others doing to you in anticipation of their judgement. You wonder what you’d see if you did give in. The colours of longing written over his features or maybe a glint of hope, sparkling so bright in his eyes.

“There was someone,” it comes out breathy, followed by a small laugh. “Long ago. But her parents didn’t really see me in their daughter's future.”

Your heart sinks and thumps that much harder against your ribcage all the same. “I’m sorry, Simon.”

“Don’t be,” you can sense his smile in the words. “Learned a lot of lessons from that. You know, we tried so ‘ard to make it work. Both of us sneaking out at night. She thought she could convince them, y’know. That I was good enough. Not that I ever mistreated her.”

“Mhm.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to get carried away.”

“No, it’s okay. I want to listen.”

“There’s not much else to say really.” He sighs. “One night I was helpin’ her back into the house through the window and her dad was waiting for us. Never thought there’d be a day where I’d run as fast as I did that night.”

You huff, amused, your hand on your chest rising and falling with your heavier breaths: more aware of the way your body’s reacting to his stories.

“Got a phone call the next day and it was over. Parents sent her off, can’t even remember where anymore. Never spoke to her again.” A pause, him shifting, then repeating your own sentiment: “It’s never been the same as that first time.”

Smiling you reach for his hand across the bed, fingertips brushing over cotton until they reach his forearm, working down until you find the roughness of his knuckles. He twists his palm and then makes space for your fingers to link together, hand hot and heavy in yours but grounding.

“It’s easier like this,” you say, turning to face Simon, the long profile of his face darkened. There’s stubble dotted along his jaw that you know he’ll shave away before he gets in the shower; the purple trace of the scar that he’s yet to tell you about. Your gaze must disturb him, his head falling to the side so his cheek presses into his pillow, amber irises burning through you.

You watch with strange happiness the way his face moves when he speaks.

“Without the labels?”

“Yeah,” you nod slowly. “Yeah, I mean. I don’t want to go on a tangent but it’s like, all these guys I’ve been on dates with, they don’t see value in themselves if I don’t say I love you. It’s like I could give them everything they want, but if I don’t mention love they can’t understand why or how I do these things. I don’t know….I just get frustrated with them after a while because they expect it from me like it’s a requirement for a relationship. But I don’t think they even understand what love is, you know?”

He rolls his lips together, says: “I think so.”

The room falls quiet and you notice your heartbeat in your ears, how warm you feel now even though it’s cold outside. You watching Simon. Simon watching you. An unrecognisable force telling you to move closer towards him: so you do. Shuffling closer and closer until your body is pressed against him, not a single protest made against it.

“I like this,” you murmur.

“Yeah?” Simon smiles.

“I do, really. You’re really nice, Simon. And cool.”

He chuckles then, squeezing your hand in his, folding it upwards so your hands are close to his lips, wet breath over skin. “I dunno about cool.”

“Cooler than any other guys I know.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Clearly don't kno’ a lot of guys then.”

Faking exasperation you roll your eyes. “I know enough, trust me.”

He brings your connected hands up to his mouth, placing a kiss on the back of yours, cracked lips somehow so soft against your skin. You sigh, content, closing your eyes. Then you feel his lips brush over each eyelid and you melt into the bed.

In your ear he whispers I trust you.

[saphronethaleph]

The Dragon's Fire

Smaug, the Dragon Dread, the Terror of the Lonely Mountain, furled his wings and chuckled slightly as the last of the smoke rose from his muzzle.

That, he was sure, was one wizard who was not going to be sniffing around here again. Gold was scattered all across the floor to the sides of his mighty hoard, coins and artworks that he had piled up to serve as his bed and that had been cast aside when he had burst from the gold, but the surprise had been either total or as near as made no difference at all.

Leaning down, Smaug examined the scorch mark, which was glowing faintly as the stonework cooled and which had a drift of ash around it… unfortunately, his experience with the clothing of mortals was not sufficient to actually work out in any detail what he was dealing with here.

Clothes, perhaps? In the moment’s glance at the wizard, as his intense flames reached out, he had seen… robes, a hat, and a staff that glowed with light and might and power.

Perhaps it was the staff that was part of it?

Regardless, either the wizard was dead or he had received a clear warning to never return. The light was dim, here in the depths of Erebor, and there was smoke aplenty, but the glow from the scorch mark was sufficient that Smaug could identify two of the burning cinders as parts of a snapped wooden staff.

But there was something else odd, as well, and Smaug leaned more closely.

The glow of his scales, sign of the flames that burned within him, flared a little lighter. It illuminated the stonework, and Smaug’s paw picked up the metal circlet.

In the dim light, it looked… quite pleasant, really. Understated, a golden band with a red ruby set in a housing. Perhaps it was some sort of diadem, if wizards were prone to wearing such things… and, more than that, it was a trophy of his victory.

Toying with it, Smaug realized after a few seconds that it was of a size to fit onto his foreclaw, and slid it into place. It fit quite snugly, and he chuckled.

If wizards were going to bring him such trophies, he could almost look forward to the next visit.

-Smaug awoke with a jolt.

His paws clenched into claws, and he growled, then shook his head.

There had been something he was dreaming about – something that had woken him up.

But what had it been?

He tried to remember, turning his mighty mind to the task, but it was a struggle… for all that he tried, it seemed that the details attempted to slip away regardless of how much effort he put into holding onto them.

It had involved… flying, Smaug was sure. Soaring above the earth below, with clouds all around him, such as he had not done since he had first burned his Devastation many years ago. Flying, wings caressing the air, carrying his immense but light form in sweeps through the clouds.

And there had been… other dragons, as well. Drakes of different sizes and colours, winged cold-drakes and fire-drakes alike, soaring between the mountains that ringed the Withered Heath…

...but as he tried, the last elusive details slipped through his claws, and Smaug’s paw smote the gold of his hoard. Gold coins and halves of gold coins flew everywhere, and there was a minor avalanche, but Smaug cared little.

There was an ache in his heart, and it took him a long moment to work out what it was.

Loneliness.

He growled, and thrashed his tail against the wall.

He was a mighty fire-drake, greatest of the dragons. He should not be feeling this pain over loneliness!

Smaug needed nobody else.

Smaug had nobody else.

And that had never bothered him before.

The faint light filtering into the hall told Smaug that it was during the day. The dwarven hall was well designed, and it allowed shafts of light in so that the burning torches that would have thrown light were an adjunct, rather than truly necessary. They would have needed them by night, but not while the sun was in the sky or even when the clouds veiled it.

And Smaug rested his great bulk up on one of the high places, a mezzanine thirty feet and more above the main hall which was filled with his hoard, and he glowered down at it.

As if it had offended him.

As if it posed an impossible challenge.

Because… in the final analysis, what was he going to do with it?

He was a mighty dragon, that much was obvious. The greatest of the dragons that yet lived upon Middle-Earth. He had won this hoard, mighty gold and treasures almost beyond counting, himself.

It was his.

And yet… since winning it, all he had done was sleep in it.

“This is foolishness,” he growled, then almost winced at the echoing sound of his own voice – so long had it been since he had had cause to speak.

But it was foolishness.

He had everything a dragon could ever desire! As a young drake in the Withered Heath, he had dreamed of wealth, and the hoard of the Lonely Mountain was greater even than he had dared to dream.

And all he had done was sleep on it, sleeping away a hundred years and more. He wasn’t even sure of the exact number, just that… he had dreamed his dragon dreams submerged within the wealth that had been his goal, and it no longer brought him the least pleasure.

It might as well have been a pile of rocks.

After a moment’s thought, Smaug shook his head, for – no, it was not the case! Gold was gold, and rock was rock, and no dragon would ever sleep on a pile of rocks!

Except… all the others.

If there were others.

His thoughts were going around in circles, and he growled, then looked down at the hoard again.

What was he going to do with it?

Sleep here, buried in gold that would never again do anything, until he was too large to fit through the door? Or until the ages of Middle-Earth had turned again, and again, and the Lonely Mountain itself wore away and there was nothing left? Never gaining anything from the gold beyond a sleep that was troubled by unquiet dreams anyway?

Or go elsewhere, use the gold to do something?

The idea felt like a sore tooth.

Anything else he tried to do with it would mean giving it up, surrendering it, letting it slip out of his control. It was… a sickening thought, one that made his stomach roil.

What else could a dragon value but his hoard?

But… in what way could a dragon value his hoard?

It was a bed.

A bed.

Smaug yawned, wings half-flaring, and clambered down from the mezzanine.

He was tired, and sleep might bring him more insight. Or a solution to his conundrum.

Though it would… probably not. He had had these thoughts too often, lately.

The feeling that something was missing. And that what he had was… nothing.

Sunlight slashed into the main entrance of Erebor’s dwarf hold, and Smaug held a fine coat of silvery mail in the light. It was tiny, to him, a mere trinket.

But he knew what it meant.

He knew, roughly, how it would have been made.

Every one of the links was made of mithril, a metal that was difficult to find and difficult to smelt. First it would need to be mined, the ore taken from the ground, by miners who tunnelled through the rock with pickaxe and hammer and chisel, and that would give them rocks.

To smelt the metal would have required… charcoal, or coal, cut and burned once to make it into truly black material that could be used in a forge, and then burned again to fuel the forge. Turning the ore into a bloom of the metal, then shaping the metal into wire, then turning the wire into links of tiny metal.

The links of this particular coat were so fine that Smaug could barely see them, even when he looked his closest, and there were a lot of them.

Then they would all have to be fit together, tens of thousands of rings, all assembled and held together with tens of thousands of rivets.

And it was just one item. One part of his hoard.

The artisans of Erebor had been able to make so many things, with their skills at working wood and metal and stone. Beautiful things. So many things that were so beautiful, not merely mining out gold but then shaping it into the things that were far more appealing.

He would not have been so pleased with a bed of lumps of solid metal. It was that they had been turned into coins, or finer things, that gave them much of their value.

And… he had killed so many of those dwarves. Struck them down with flame and tail and claw, and driven out the rest.

For what?

For his hoard, of course, which was his by right. But… Smaug could not help but look at this tiny, exquisite suit of mail.

And wonder what they could have made for a dragon.

Wonder if something that had been made for him, at his direction… would have closed the ache inside him.

Wonder why he had never even considered it, before.

“Are you sure that this is a good plan, exactly?” Bilbo wondered, looking up at Thorin.

Thorin grumbled.

Bilbo supposed that, really, that was all he could hope for.

The original plan had been for each of them to get an enormous part of the share of a dragon’s hoard, and Bilbo’s role had been… well, to put it simply, to be a thief.

But they had been captured by Elves, and one thing had led to another, and after a rather significant amount of negotiation and a rather more significant amount of arguing between Thorin and Balin and Gloin, with Bilbo’s assistance, the way it had all worked out was that now the shares they were going to get of the dragon’s treasure were somewhat less enormous – but still sounding like quite a large amount of gold, all things considered.

The Elves would be getting some, for their own help – a fine way of saying that they would release the Company from captivity and accompany them to Erebor, while keeping them safe from spiders and goblins alike in the dangerous Mirkwood – but they would not be getting the Arkenstone that Thorin so valued and they would not be getting the mountain itself, either.

Bilbo still remembered the decisive question that had turned the trick – which was when Balin had asked Thorin what he would give to restore Erebor to its old glory.

And Thorin had admitted… he would give much. Even, when pressed, half the treasure from the dragon’s hoard… a deal which Thranduil had rejected, as too generous to the Elves.

Bilbo didn’t quite like Thranduil, because he could only compare the Elven king unfairly to Lord Elrond of Rivendell who was rather more like the sort of Elf that Bilbo liked. But he was rather taking a shine to the Prince.

Not least because Legolas seemed willing to actually tell him things.

“Is it a good plan?” he asked, then, looking back at the noble Elf.

“Perhaps,” Legolas replied, with a slight shrug. “A lot depends on if there is a dragon there.”

“Do you think that likely?” Fili asked.

“It hasn’t appeared in over a century,” Dori noted.

“I think it more likely that goblins have moved in,” Legolas suggested. “And if they have, we will be glad of our outriders.”

He looked up. “...though it seems trouble may be on our way.”

“Why do you say that?” Thorin asked, roused out of his general sullen mood.

“Hoofbeats, moving fast,” Legolas explained, then looked around. “There’s a ridge – there. We should get a good look.”

He scrambled up the rock with a grace that was enviable for anyone, and especially enviable when the one doing the envying was a Hobbit, and Bilbo did his best to follow.

Then Dori picked him up, and did his best to follow, which worked a little better.

By the time they reached the top of the ridge, though, Legolas was already scanning the northern horizon in worry.

“There,” he said, pointing, and Bilbo squinted.

There was a sort of smudge, he thought.

Thorin’s expression was stormy.

“A goblin host,” he said.

“Yes,” Legolas agreed. “I make it eight or nine thousand.”

Bilbo looked back at the Elven army, which was significantly weaker – maybe sixteen hundred, all told. They were better armed and equipped, he knew, but a difference of this size was going to be a large problem.

“We should find a place to deploy,” Balin said. “Set up where they can’t-"

“They’re closer to the Mountain than us,” Thorin pointed out. “If they’re going for it, we need to try and head them off.”

“They have wargs and warg riders,” Legolas warned. “We have scarcely a hundred horse, we don’t want to fight in the open plain.”

He pointed. “Our outriders are coming in. Father will be asking them…”

His voice trailed off.

“What is it?” Thorin asked. “Out with it.”

“Dust, on the horizon,” Legolas said, nodding to the northwest. “There’s another army coming this way – I doubt they’re friendly to us.”

“It’s the wrong direction for the Iron Hills, that much is true,” Balin said.

Then a flash of movement caught Bilbo’s eye, and he turned to look – and his jaw dropped.

A massive creature with red-golden scales was emerging from the mountain, huge wings flaring, rising into the air like a hawk taking flight, and it had to be well over a hundred feet in length though Bilbo didn’t have a great sense of scale. It circled once, then swooped down towards the goblin army, and Thorin made a grim sound.

“We will have to sell our lives dearly,” he said. “Elvish prince – can you or your elves put an arrow through the scales of a dragon?”

“It’s not something I’ve tried yet,” Legolas admitted, as the dragon – as Smaug – hovered over the goblins, presumably having some sort of fell conversation. “But I’m sure I can find my mark.”

He reached for his bow, then paused.

“Look!” he said.

Bilbo followed Legolas’s gaze, and a jet of green and scarlet flame flashed down from the enormous dragon… and doused the goblin army in flame.

“They were loosing arrows at it,” Legolas said. “At him. Then he just… destroyed them.”

Bilbo could only see smoke, now, hovering over the ruin of what had once been a mighty force of goblins. Then Smaug’s wings cut the air, sweeping away the smoke in coils, and he approached them at speed.

It had to be at least two or three minutes that the dragon took, to reach them, but to Bilbo it felt like an onrushing avalanche. Then the massive creature landed on the far side of the slope, wings flaring before they furled like those of a bat, and Bilbo found himself regarded by a head that rivalled for size the largest entire creatures he had seen.

“Greetings,” Smaug said. “Hmm… two Elves, thirteen Dwarves, and a creature I know not. And an army, besides… what brings you to the Lonely Mountain?”

“Revenge,” Thorin replied.

“Revenge, is it?” Smaug asked, sounding quite amused. “Revenge, on me, I’d assume? Well, I’ll admit that I assaulted your mountain, and slew many Dwarves – and Men, as well – but I don’t recall killing any Elves, and nor do I know what that other fellow’s race is at all. So what brings hither the Elves, and their army, terrible with banners?”

Thranduil had ascended the hill, as well, and Bilbo realized that Legolas must have informed his father about the… battle… that had its smoking ruins in the distance.

“We are here in alliance with the Dwarves,” the King of the Mirkwood Elves declared, and Smaug nodded.

“A reasonable thing to do,” he said. “If, that is, you were planning to fight goblins. But one of the goblin armies here has been destroyed, for they made the mistake of attacking me – and that is something I will not abide.”

His eyes flashed. “Of course, I could leave you to fight the other goblin army yourself, if you wished. They seem at least twice as strong as the one I destroyed, and I do not think you would have brought so few to fight so many… so let us dispense with the subtleties. You are here to reclaim the Lonely Mountain, and to take from me the hoard that I took from the Dwarves of Erebor so many years ago. Am I wrong?”

“Revenge is not the least of our motives,” Thorin said, displaying a lack of concern for his own safety (and the safety of everyone else who was in flaming range) which quite worried Bilbo, but Smaug raised a paw to his chin.

“But not the most of it, either, I think,” he replied. “As you would have brought far more if you wished to fight me.”

Incongruously, Bilbo noticed something on Smaug’s forepaw.

It was a ruby ring, which caught his eye, though he knew not why.

“So consider this,” Smaug went on. “What makes me different from someone else, who came in with fire and the sword to conquer a land and make it their own? The Men and Elves and Dwarves did the same, as did the Orcs and the Goblins – history is a long tale of battles fought and agreements made.”

“Do not try to bewitch us with your words, worm,” Thorin said, and Bilbo noticed that several of the other Dwarves were edging away from him.

“Would you prefer we argue?” Smaug replied. “But, very well, then… the mountain is yours, and the contents.”

It was such a sudden shift that Bilbo practically fell over.

“...what?” Thranduil asked, completely baffled, and not the only one.

“However,” Smaug continued. “I will be offering protection, in return for which I would appreciate tribute. Not acres of gold, but… fine things, few in number and wrought with a purpose.”

“You give us back our ancestral home, and then ask for some of our wealth back?” Fili asked. “I’m – don’t get me wrong, I’d rather not be set on fire, I’m just very confused.”

“What is a kingdom?” Smaug asked, his voice stern. “An empire? Any state, or monarchy? It is, at the core, farmers who grow food, and an organization which takes the surplus food from them, in the form of tax. Surplus Men and Elves and Dwarves, to work its armies. And it uses that food to support those who do not farm, for a purpose… and that is how art is made, and how you all can enjoy yourselves, and march to war wearing weapons and armour and clothes that would take you all years or decades to make yourselves… if you can. You offer protection, and you take tax, and sons, and horses, and that is how your kingdoms work.”

He stretched his wings.

“I am proposing the same thing… but I will not demand sons. All else, all the specifics, are negotiation.”

Thorin still did not look happy.

But… Bilbo had seen that expression before.

It was quite possible that the Dwarf could be… brought around.

The peak of the Lonely Mountain was just the right size, and – after decades – there was now a ridge around it, in just about the right place. It was perfect for a dragon to rest on, and to curl around, and that was exactly what was happening.

King Smaug the First, Smaug the Golden, King Over Mountain and Dale and Lake, was looking out over the Long Lake, at the spot about halfway from the nearer end to the further.

Water splashed and fire spurted, and though it was far too far for him to hear, he could imagine the shouts of laughter and growls of protest rippling across the smooth waters of the lake.

Two of the six young dragons down there, he was fairly sure, were his children. His journeys to the Withered Heath had resulted in a few dalliances, and a few recruits only, but… the example was slowly taking hold.

The amount of gold and treasure a dragon got from the new arrangement was far less than it would have been under the old. But he now bore a chain of electrum and gold around his neck, and a mail coat of his own, and they were really quite precious to him.

The other four young drakes down there… cold-drake or fire-drake, they were young, and they were interested. And, right now, they were playing.

Smaug lay his muzzle on his paw, feeling fond, and lounged in the evening sunlight… then his head twitched, as he heard the sound of someone ascending the stairs.

A white-robed figure, white-bearded and carrying a slender white staff with a latticed shape at the top, came into view, and halted some steps below the top of the mountain.

“Greetings, King Smaug,” he said, sounding pleasant enough. “I must ask you the same as I asked King Thorin – have emissaries of the Dark Lord come this way?”

Smaug considered, then nodded slightly.

“They did,” he confirmed. “I bade they leave immediately.”

Smoke leaked from his nostrils. “Then they offered me one of the remaining Dwarven Rings, and I set them on fire.”

The white stranger nodded.

“I see,” he said. “Thank you for your answer.”

Smaug tilted his head, slightly.

“You are Gandalf, aren’t you?” he asked. “At first I thought you Saruman, but the staff is wrong…”

“Quite,” Gandalf confirmed, pleasantly enough. “I also wished to ask you if you were willing to help with the defence of the Free Peoples, beyond the Mountain, Dale and Lake. There is a war coming, and it is not known where the Enemy will strike.”

Smaug frowned.

“I will think on it,” he said. “I have a responsibility here.”

Then something occurred to him, and he raised his paw – showing the ruby ring.

“Do you want it back?” he asked. “I… suspect that this is yours… originally, at least.”

Gandalf smiled.

“I don’t think I do,” he said. “You have been gaining quite the benefit yourself, and I would not wish to punish you for becoming who you always could have been…”

[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

[radioactiverats]

Mentor Starscream x seeker!reader (32/?)

Inspired by this post about how Starscream's frame is really heavy compared to other seekers because he's paranoid, and reinforced his armour to be thick af.

I'm working on some angstier stuff, so a quick moment of peace here in the meantime :,)

---

It takes five taps to Starscream's shoulder before you realize it's not working. He'd barely realized you were there until you called for him - what was the deal with his plating? Extra-thick armour? Perhaps that explained why he'd become accustomed to using his voice so often. Despite the dangerous position he was in as one of the leading Decepticon officers, you still doubt that he'd layer on that much extra armour. He'd constantly scolded you for carrying extra weight, after all, so... surely not?

Your suspicions coalesce into complete and utter certainty the night Starscream's leg had decided that the most comfortable position was squarely on top of your frame.

There you were, snoozing happily away, when a massive weight had thunked down across the tender mesh of your waist. After frantically counting your blessings that your cockpit was still intact, you squint in the darkness to locate the offending object that had so rudely jolted you from recharge.

Leg.

You stare at the object - namely, Starscream's leg - laid across your torso, now clearly the source of the weight that was crushing your internals out of shape.

"What the hell," You wheeze. You were pretty certain you weren't dreaming, but his leg weighed practically as much as you did.

You shove lightly at his leg. It does not budge. Even as you feel the ever-increasing pressure sink down on your waist, you're reluctant to wake him up - he must be recharging deeply, and it had been a while since he'd been able to do that. Surely your internals could survive a few joors with what must be a couple tonnes squishing them. It was the better of two evils - a choice between the indignity of being squished into disrepair by your berthmate (and being laughed into dirt by Knock Out), or the embarrassment of waking him up and asked him, as politely as you could, to move his leg because it was crushing you.

It is then, by sheer luck, that Starscream grunts in recharge, brow plates furrowing, before he reaches out, searching - quickly finding his target - and shifting until he was curled comfortably around you.

Damn. You never thought threats to your existence could come from the inside.

---

They were targeting the air forces.

As Starscream's flock grew, the air forces had naturally gotten stronger - united by a sense of cohesion once believed to have disintegrated alongside Vos. The Autobots, not knowing the true reason for the sudden strength in the Decepticon air forces, were only able to see that the air force posed a greater challenge than before - and had taken to trying to down the jets.

In response, Starscream insists that you bulk up on armour.

You want to argue that the Autobots know it's you, but the words die in your vocaliser when you are somberly reminded that it's a war, and there are few moments which allow exceptions to the rule. You are, after all, on the opposing side.

It is with this sobering thought in mind that you let Starscream make the necessary adjustments to your frame - that is, until you realize the extent of his worries.

"Sir, I think that's enough armour..."

"There is no such thing as 'enough'," Starscream says briskly. "When you have a target on your back, you'll know."

"But it's so heavy..."

"A light price to pay for survival."

"You wouldn't let me carry the welder-!"

"This is different," Starscream snaps. "This is necessary weight. And-"

"And the welder isn't?"

"And," Starscream says pointedly, ignoring you, "All that training just to tell me that a few extra tonnes is too much?"

A few extra tonnes, my aft, you want to scream. Your newly reinforced armour is so thick that few conventional weapons would be able to shoot clean through in one go. Then again, you grudgingly admit that it is a benefit - in your opinion, however, massively outweighed (ha) by how ridiculously clumsy you feel.

"Do you want to get shot? No," Starscream says, emphatically, before you can even get a word in edgeways. Of course you weren't going to reply in the affirmative, but. Still.

You whine.

"Come off it," Starscream snaps, trying to hide the waver in his voice. "My armour weighs ten tonnes. Am I offlined yet? No. Precisely."

"Ten??" You splutter. "So if you just happen to roll over in recharge, I'm essentially as good as a pancake?"

Starscream's frame produces a simultaneous cacophony of clicks and hisses that very clearly translate to outrage beyond words.

"...Not if you become accustomed to these upgrades," He finally bites out.

Upgrades.

Okay.

"...But you're saying that in the past, I was literally at constant risk of becoming a pancake."

"Bear in mind," Starscream hisses dangerously, "that I can demote you to the soldiers' barracks to recharge at any time."

"Hey," You say, servos up. "All I'm saying is that this could have been avoided if I recharged on top of you."

"I- you-"

You feel no shame in the pleasure you take from rendering Starscream speechless. A little payback for this impossible weight that lay fresh on your frame.

"Keeping in mind your concerns about being turned into a pancake, as you so eloquently put it," Starscream begins, "have you extended such considerations to me?"

You're not buying it.

"All that training just to tell me a few extra tonnes is too much, eh?"

Starscream's optics narrow dangerously into glowing red slits. He opens his intake, but before he can dole out a hundred drills in some unsavoury maneuver, you shoot out of there like a bat out of hell - not caring that you're violating a ton of protocols by activating your thrusters at full power inside the base.

The lightness you feel almost makes you forget how heavy your new armour is - you could probably get used to this.

Getting on Starscream's last nerve, that is.

Previous / Next

(I'm thinking that Starscream's plating is less sensitive as a result, and the paranoia behind the added protection is which is why he's so hesitant to expose any internals or mesh - so we can gnaw on him all we like, and in the process realize that the way to get him to squirm is to dip your digits past the edges of plating, into extra-sensitive mesh. Wings are still considerably sensitive, sensors having adapted to feeling every little change of the winds during flight. If he were to shed all that extra armour... you wonder just how sensitive he'd be.)

[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.

[yesimwriting]

Since things between bestie reader and Armand are becoming more explicitly romantic, I’ve been thinking about how it might’ve been different if Louis was back with Lestat before meeting her. More specifically, if it was Lestat that had a romantic interest in her then how would it play out and what would Louis’ reaction be? We saw in the show that Louis was NOT a fan of Antoinette, but that was a drastically different situation and it was in the beginning of his vampiric life, so he was still clinging onto the idea of monogamy. And even though I do believe he loves both Lestat and Armand, the degree of love and how it’s expressed is different. I’m not sure how he would feel if bestie became a part of his relationship with Lestat, especially since Lestat has a tendency to be forceful and just spring things on Louis rather than the way Armand approaches trying to get his way.

oh this is SO interesting to think about omg.

Okay, so if the situation involved bestie meeting Louis during the early 1900's era, and that version of Lestat was interested in her in any capacity, things would definitely be a lot more chaotic.

So let's discuss:

During this time period, especially during the early stages of Louis being a vampire, I think they were both extremely protective of their roles in each other's lives. Yes, Lestat did like acting single whenever it felt convenient to, but I feel like even then they shared an unflinching awareness of the fact that at the end of the day, it would always be them.

Bestie being introduced to this dynamic in any capacity would be extremely volatile. I think Louis's reaction to Lestat being romantically interested in bestie would be very layered and complicated. He'd definitely feel jealous (especially at first) but he'd also be worried for bestie.

Louis knows how intense and persistent Lestat can be. I also believe that during this era, Lestat would constantly use bestie's life as a bargaining chip by threatening to hurt her during arguments with Louis when she first becomes important to him. Louis isn't just going to forget about that because Lestat suddenly decided that he feels something for her.

It's also important to note that I think Louis places bestie on a bit of pedestal. He basically believes her incapable of any wrongdoing, so any anger about Lestat's feelings for bestie are directed at Lestat.

Even if bestie were to do something 'wrong'/without Louis's explicit permission (extremely unlikely), Lestat is still getting the bulk of the blame. I mean, who is Louis going to believe/side with--his darling, angel of a best friend and platonic soulmate or the companion that's already proven to be prone to infidelity and manipulation? (he still wouldn't stand up and leave him though 🙄 but that's another conversation).

I can also see Louis thinking that Lestat is only expressing interest in bestie as a way of hurting him, especially if they were dealing with other conflicts right before (like maybe if Lestat suddenly decided he wanted bestie after the "I heard your hearts dancing" moment, but I can see Louis assuming Lestat has negative intentions over smaller fights as well). This plays into your point about Armand's slow way of introducing Louis to what he wants vs Lestat's much more abrupt attempts at getting his way.

Also, I'm not saying Louis wouldn't be upset with bestie at all. I do think he'd struggle with thinking through his relationship with Lestat and the way that he internally defines relationships in general (because he cares about bestie in a way that feels beyond the realm of traditional friendship, so it's complicated in other ways as well). I can see him being a bit passive aggressive towards bestie while the wound is still fresh.

However, even if Louis were to be mad at bestie, he'd still be protective. Suddenly, Louis cares about supernatural age gaps and manipulation.

Also, total side note, I think Louis's instinctual desire to 'protect' bestie would lowkey hurt Lestat. The way that Louis sees bestie would make bestie Lestat's 'Lacy' in some ways, and it'd be hard to know that Louis doesn't think he's 'good enough' for her.

Worst case scenario, Louis would ask bestie to choose between him and Lestat and run off with her for a few months before getting drawn back into his marriage (this also feels a little overly optimistic, but let's pretend).

This was really fun to think about, I could see myself writing a bestie AU fic/drabble about this at some point if anyone's interested :)

[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.

[horseimagebarn]

https://archive.is/LAwFB <- Here is a link to a 2023 National Geographic article about horse slaughter in the Americas. You might be interested to know that thoroughbreds actually make up only 10% of horses exported for slaughter. The vast majority of retired racehorses in the US and the UK that aren't kept for breeding purposes go on to second careers or are simply kept as companion animals. This is *NOT* to say that the racing industry doesn't have horrific problems, but rather that even when they don't succeed on the racetrack, the horses are still worth more alive than they are as food. Quarter horses, on the other hand...YEESH. Let's just say the Jockey Club keeps meticulous track of how many thoroughbreds are foaled every year. The AQHA...doesn't.

for context this ask is referring to this post i made yesterday

i have much to say on this and ended up just rambling about horse which i love to do when given an intriguing ask so here we go

punctuation and capitalization usage for ease of understanding GO!

sorry if this makes no sense i just went crazy and hate proofreading

Thoroughbreds are not the only racehorse, their racing is just the most popular kind in the States. Quarter horses are actually a bit faster than thoroughbreds, but that makes their races quicker and less entertaining to rich betters. Standardbreds and arabians are also popular racers, but standardbreds are used more in harness racing, and arabians for endurance. 

"Pinhooking" is a popular thing in horse racing. According to horseologyinc.com, "Pinhooking is a fancy term that describes the practice of buying a horse at one stage of development and selling them at the next." This makes it difficult to track every single horse's purchase history, because there are just so many transactions being made. The Jockey Club can track births, sure, and it can do its best to track deaths, but the births of potential successful racehorses are much more interesting to the organization than the deaths of former ones. Even if deaths were monitored with the same vigor, horses would slip through the cracks, and oh brother, they already do. It's impossible to expect an organization that facilitates the often-fatal exploitation of horses to be stalwart advocates of its victims' aftercare. Even if they witnessed the slaughter of thoroughbreds in Canadian slaughterhouses, what's the difference between a horse that died for meat and a horse that died for the entertainment of the bourgeoisie? They both end up dead, and the Jockey Club doesn't deal in dead horses, it deals in eventually dead horses.

Many racehorses are later sold out of the industry once they've served their two potential purposes: racing and breeding. Once a horse is sold to a private owner that isn't involved in the racing industry—including the Amish, who often buy ex-racers as work animals—the Jockey Club's influence, if there is any, can falter. Sure, some are treated with a lavish retirement at Old Friends or Akindale or even Puerto Rico, but many, many horses do not have that privilege. Horses do not have the pull (pun intended) they once did in American society. They are a luxury to most, as their cost of upkeep and maintenance often outweighs their function when compared to machinery that performs similar jobs. Kill buyers—those who buy horses in bulk to export for slaughter—buy horses private owners either cannot or do not want to keep investing in their companion. More often than not, they don't register their purchase of horses for slaughter with the Jockey Club, nor really with anyone, as laws surrounding horse slaughter and export are murky at best and nonexistent at worst. I want to provide you more evidence of this, but the Jockey Club's website keeps timing out for me, so I'll try later.

USA Today estimates that 7500 thoroughbreds are slaughtered for meat each year. When compared to the 57000 total horses slaughtered annually, this resembles the 10% number you gave me. Compare this to the 600 thoroughbreds estimated to die each year in race-related accidents. The racing industry is constantly criticized for its mistreatment of its horses and the deadliness of its sport, and yet, slaughter claims over 12 times the amount of thoroughbreds each year—likely more. I personally believe that it is very unlikely that kill buyers accurately judge the breeds of the horses they slaughter. These buyers process thousands of horses each year and transport them in large quantities. They do not care what breed the horses they process are. It's the meat that matters. Similarly, these kill buyers are not checking the lip of every horse they buy to see if it's a former racer. Some might, if they're looking to "ransom" some of their horses off—sell the horses to non-slaughterhouse buyers for much higher than the ~60 cents/pound they get for their meat—but it's unlikely. Mike McBarron, a long-time kill buyer in Texas, told USA Today Sports, "It’s just a job to me. I mean, I don’t attach myself to them." He went on to say that he has "bought and sold retired racehorses for slaughter [and] sent tens of thousands of horses to slaughter plants," generating "millions of dollars in revenue." To kill buyers like McBarron, these horses are products to be processed and shipped, not beings whose personalities and histories are meant to be known, or whose breeds are significant to their new function: becoming meat.

And this is just thoroughbreds. Quarter horses are the most popular breed of horse in the U.S., and, like you said, there's even less regulation of the sales of other breeds. I just think it's unfair to say that the Jockey Club cares enough about its horses that they don't end up in slaughterhouses.

By the way, I don't think it is morally wrong to eat horses. Cows, pigs, goats, sheep, chickens, and other livestock animals can have just as much personality as your average horse and are not afforded the public outcry horses receive when it comes to their slaughter. Horse lives are not worth more than other "farm" animals just because they are viewed as companion animals while the rest are not. I instead have a problem with the fact that horses used for meat are often severely mistreated, just as they are in the racing industry. Regulations have been put in place to improve the lives of many meat animals, and yet, the government largely shuffles its feet when it comes to regulating the production of horse meat. This encourages kill buyers to do shady business and mistreat their animals, exploiting a loophole in the government's weak implication of a ban on horse meat: in their 2006 budget, U.S. Congress decided to simply forbid the USDA (United States Department of Agriculture) from using taxpayers' money to inspect horse slaughter plants. This sort of banned horse slaughter by preventing horse slaughter plants from being USDA inspected or approved, making them functionally illegal, as they require regulation, but meant that kill buyers could instead simply collect horses and then sell them to slaughterhouses in Mexico and Canada for slaughter. This encourages a shitty, shady business of horse exportation, leading to horrible temporary holding conditions as horses wait to be transported across country borders in equally horrible trucks and trailers. If the industry was legal and faced the same regulations as other types of meat production, these horses would have much better lives. Though I am very aware of the many, many flaws of the meat industry, denying horses even those basic protections that are applied to meat animals, especially large ones like cows, only encourages abuse and mistreatment. Big advancements in animal welfare in the meat industry have been made in the past few decades, and it is not the ethical win many think it is to force horses to live in horrible, barely-legal conditions because it is hard to accept the facts that:

Horses are large, hard-to-care-for animals whose main function in American society has mostly become obsolete 

Even in their current major societal role, racing, they face massive amounts of abuse and mistreatment

There are a LOT of horses in the world (so many, in fact, that they sometimes become pests or invasive species)

Every single horse will not have the privilege of a forever home that can provide for them the utmost care

Some horses can live satisfactory lives as PROPERLY CARED FOR meat animals if given the chance

Horse meat is a valid, valued food source for many people

I know it's crazy for The Horse Blog to say they support horse meat production and consumption, but honestly, I've tried my best to express on this blog that no being is greater than another and all things deserve equal love and appreciation. It would be hypocritical of me to condemn horse meat consumption when I myself eat the meat of cows, pigs, and chickens, who are just as valuable as horses in the grand scheme of the universe. All living things have value that is not contingent on their perceived purpose or use. Meat consumption is a necessity for many in the world, both human and inhuman, and the consumption of meat on its own is not unethical. To live is to consume, be it meat, vegetation, oxygen, water, time, space, etc. and I believe that we should strive not to abhor consumption but do it ethically, in alignment with our world's fragile, functional balance of creation and destruction, and with utmost respect for that which we consume. Horses deserve that respect.

anyway yeah feel free to engage with me on this i like discussing stuff like this and spent way too long thinking and researching and stuff

Sources: "Horses go from racetracks to slaughterhouses: 'It's just a job to me'" by Josh Peter with USA Today

"Horse racing deaths mount as states spend billions to keep tracks alive" by Frank Esposito and Stephen Edelson with USA Today Network

"What is Pinhooking? The History and Practice of Pinhooking." from horseologyinc.com

"Horse Racing Fact Sheet" from fundforhorses.org

ps this wasnt made as an attack on you anon or anything i like to write horse essay style posts sometimes like this and this because its honestly super fun for me and i love receiving these types of asks i am always happy to talk about horse stuff at length like this because i end up learning a lot about these subjects too as i go

[theresattrpgforthat]

Do you have any (solo, duet or more players) that deal in some way with the relationship and feelings between a knight (or knights) and their liege?

Theme: Knights and Lieges

Hello! I have a few games that I think work for this; some of these games are specifically about romance, while others employ romance as an option among many. I hope you find something you like here!

For the Queen, by Alex Roberts.

Build your court of 2–6+ players and weave together a tale of devotion, secrets, loyalty, or betrayal of your Queen. Create your own Queen, or choose from one of the 25 gorgeous illustrations to inspire the journey of your story. Using the 91 included cards for game-play, there are an endless number of stories. In the end, decide if it is your protection or betrayal that makes you declare, For the Queen!

For the Queen is one of the simplest ways to introduce someone to roleplaying, as it mostly consists of drawing cards and answering prompts in order to tell your story. However, it's also really emotionally deep and resonant, asking you, the Queen's retinue, why you love her, even when there are moments when she might not deserve it. At the end of the game, the Queen will be attacked. What will you do?

Avalon Society, by Martian Machinery.

Avalon Society is a game about courtly love and intrigue, and the conflict between passion and duty. You'll play knights, lords, ladies, upstarts, pretenders, unknowns, or possibly a changeling or a sorcerer. Pull swords out of stones, break curses, ascend to the round table, duel your rivals, or even fall in love with them. It’s up to you.

As a Penned to Good Society expansion for the Jane Austen tabletop role-playing game Good Society by Storybrewers Roleplaying, Avalon Society requires Good Society to play. Avalon Society adds the tools to create characters and tell stories in the Arthurian vein, whether in a traditional mode or in modern re-telling of the tale. A new mode of play shifts the story cycle to a seasonal court, and tables are given the ability to define their own codes of honor.

You do need another core rule-book in order to play this game, so I think Avalon Society is a great option if you love games about relationships in general. Good Society games care about character connections, reputation, and the way your characters communicate with each-other, so if you can see yourself wanting to relish the nuance that can come in a simple glance, or the brushing of fingertips, you might find your home in this game.

A Goodly Knight, by MKailus.

A storytelling micro-game to be played with friends. Requires scratch paper, writing utensils, a randomizer (a coin to flip will be fine), and a standard Tarot deck.

In this game, you and your friends will, inspired by prompts from a Tarot deck, tell the story of an underestimated knight, a heroic adventurer torn between Honor and Passion.

Inspired by Arthuriana like the poem Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, the lais of Marie de France, films like The Green Knight and Legend, and games like Shadow of the Colossus and Bluebeard's Bride.

This game is about a singular knight, though their story is told by your group. A forbidden romance with their monarch is definitely a possibility, though it is one among many. The bulk of the game revolves around using tarot spreads to determine how knight's quest will resolve. The game also uses two traits to pull the knight into two different directions: Honor and Passion. Over the course of the game, you'll have to decide whether their actions reflect on or the other, and whichever trait they favor will determine the way the game ends.

If you want a communal storytelling game that allows you to dive into your personal interpretation of the cards, you'll probably like this game.

Hearts of Camelot, by Adrian Randall.

Hearts of Camelot is a game of Arthurian romance, telling tales of battle and heartbreak, with players in the roles of champions, errants, lieges, paragons, sorcerers, and villains.

Inspired by Lowell Francis' Hearts of Wulin, Hearts of Camelot is standing on good bones if you want fraught romance and the burden of honor. The conflict between characters isn't merely a romance between a Knight and a Liege, but the space is there for it, and you could complicate the relationships by having multiple characters all in love with the same person, or have heroes and villains feel pulled towards each-other.

Right now the game is still very much in development, but the rules and all of the characters are available in an Excel spreadsheet if you want to check it out.

Other Thoughts...

Misericorde, by Andrew White, is a game of knightly romance, but you are a squire pining for a knight, rather than a knight pining for their liege.

My Chivalric Bromance, by R. Rook Studio, is a game of queer and thirsty knights in exile, inspired by LUMEN!

The Oaths We Swore Amid Autumn Leaves, by ehronlime, feels adjacent to this request.

Grail, a 24XX game by dandibuja, has hints of a chivalric romance, although it never overtly dives into the relationships between sovereigns and their loyal knights.

Princely by Michelle Jones and For Her Lady's Hand by Lynne M. Meyer are sapphic twists on the genre, about women risking everything to be with the one they love.

If you like what I do, you can always leave a token of appreciation at my Ko-Fi!

[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.

[mollysunder]

I've said this and that about Mel meeting Swain, uprooting the Black Rose, and just dealing with family politics, but I may be most excited with how she deals with Vladimir. To me, Mel and Vladimir have really similar stories, where they're sent away by their parent for political gain, achieve incredible magical strength under extreme duress, and ultimately kill their parental figure. The difference between the two is that under the weight of everything, Vladimir became the thing most people inaccurately accuse Mel of being.

Vladimir is a charismatic aristocratic manipulator who is completely and utterly looking out for his own self-interest. Despite being an incredibly consequential person to the very existence of Noxus, a co-founder of the Black Rose, and having helped seal Mordekaiser away, he was actually pretty checked out by the time the Swain's coup against Darkwill happened. Now he's just using the situation to bulk up his own cult, the Crimson Circle, and maybe carve out his own kingdom from Noxus at some point too.

Vladimir is just such a clear antithesis of who Mel could be if she didn't care, if she lost her compassion and gave into the cynical nature of power. And I think Mel's new title as a champion, "The Soul's Reflection" is so interesting when you include Vladimir in the dynamic. Vlad's a blood mage with vampire-coding, and vampires don't have reflections, and Mel doesn't need to "reflect" Vladimir because they're already so similar.

Also I think it's neat that Mel and Vladimir are the only Noxians with base designs that make them look like they're going to a ball. Is it the same ball? ?...Maybe?

(Extra also! Mel has sun related powers while Vladimir is as close to a vampire as you can get).

[butterflytarot]

Broke Witch Hacks

Listen! I get it. Money's tight, times are tough, and witchcraft - though very important - has to take a backseat to the mundane sometimes. Though there isn't always an alternative to everything or a cure to struggling financially, I thought I'd include some tips for broke witches and practitioners!

Before getting into this, I do want to clarify: For many practices, you don't need any tools or resources in order to practice, but I know that tools and whatnot can be very useful and may align with your traditions, so I wanted to highlight budget-friendly recommendations with this post! Thank you, and I hope this helps some of you, because it helps me!

SMOKE OPTIONS

Incense can be a very cheap option depending on where you live. In fact, some shops even sell boxes in bulk for under $2. I recommend getting them in-person from small shops, but you can find good deals online too! This is a great alternative to candles if candles are too expensive for you.

Additionally, tealight candles! They're often cheaper, and sold in bulk. You can also get those talls candles - you know, the ones that usually have religious imagery? - at places like flea markets, dollar stores, etc! If you don't agree with the religious imagery they depict, you can cover it with paper, peel it off, write on it with marker... and so on!

CRYSTALS

Crystals are often very expensive, but sometimes, they're WAY more cheap than you'd think (you just gotta know how - and where - to look)!

First and foremost, look up open and closed mines. If a mine for a specific crystal is open, you're going to find it on the cheaper end of its usual price scale. If it's closed, ways a few years until it opens again, otherwise it'll likely be more expensive!

Secondly, be mindful of shops you buy from. Any shop could overcharge you, so learning about the quality of different crystals is important.

Thirdly - be mindful of CALCITES! Some people will sell you a calcite (which is usually $15 or under) but say - or truly believe - that it's a different crystal (which is usually more expensive). The tell-tale sign of any calcite is that the crystal looks "wet." Look up the difference between green calcite and aquamarine - commonly confused for each other - and you'll see what I mean!

Lastly, ETSY ETSY ETSY! Etsy is going to be your best friend when it comes to crystal shopping! You'll want to apply the price filter, otherwise you'll find more expensive stuff. I recommend shopping in the U.S. specifically - the quality of crystals is higher than other places, like Hawai'i or Indian, but it's more inexpensive than places like the U.K. Some crystals you can even find free on Etsy, such as selenite.

Commonly inexpensive crystals can be certain calcites, selenite, sodalite, tiger's eye, and howlite! Crystal chips can also be quite expensive (I once got genuine turquoise chips for under $10)!

You can learn more about shopping for crystals here and you can learn more about tiger's eye specifically here.

HERBS

Let's be honest, having your own garden can be really unrealistic, and buying genuine herbs can be pricey. Instead, I recommend buying tea at the store! Your average tea bag has various herbs in it which you can use for your workings.

You can also do energy work with your basic drinks - tea, milk, even water - as well as your food (that's part of kitchen magic)!

Your average cooking seasonings (salt, italian seasoning, pepper, garlic, etc) are all things you can also use! (It's actually common for normal household items in general to be used!)

WATERS

Using water in your practice can actually be huge. Even if you don't have clean water, even if you'd rather just use rainwater.

Rainwater on your window can be used for divination. Moon and sun water can be used for various practices - medicinal, cleansing, offerings, etc. Regular water or salt water for cleansing... Salt water is also great for protection. And so on!

PENDULUMS

Pendulums aren't always the fancy, triangular jewelry you can find online. You could use almost anything for a pendulum - even a pencil tied to a string! Just know your positioning and have your protections up!

BURNING PAPERS & ELEMENTAL WORK

Sometimes, writing your intentions or prayers on regular paper and then burning it can be very helpful for spellwork or manifestations.

Additionally, whispering to wind or trees are also options people lean towards - Whether it be kindly asking the elements to carry out your wishes to the rest of the universe, or just having a friendly nature spirit being a listening ear, any elemental force or spirit you have a good relationship with may be a great resource to you in dire times!

If nothing else, putting energy and intentions into what you speak or think can sometimes be the most powerful magic you can do! Not everyone throughout time had fancy bowls or effective candles, but magic and witchcraft were still practiced. Learning chants, prayers, dispellings and verbal banishings, and much more, can really be helpful to you!

You might like to review this resource on mantras!

SPELL JARS

Spell jars can be difficult to find, but an alternative I like is using mason jars! Usually you can just clean them out from any residue food or juice, and places that give out free food often have stuff in mason jars. Otherwise, lots of people tend to give away mason jars free, on sites like Freecycle or Facebook Marketplace. And sometimes, mason jars can be cheap when you buy them as food at the grocery store, even the dollar store!

Speaking of the dollar store, you can easily find mini jars at the dollar store sometimes too, depending on where you're from! Usually they come in sets of 4-8! They're often very tiny, but great for mini jar spells that you can easily slide into your purse after buying & doing some spellwork with them!

Lastly, you can use other dishware or containers for spell jars! In my practice, I almost never close spell jars actually, so things like cups, bowls or plates work just fine! If you prefer to close your spell jar, simple food containers work lovely as well! If you can't afford food containers, you can re-use some from certain foods - for example, deli meat at the store (usually the cheap brands) sell their meats (like harm or salami) in hard plastic containers, which you can clean and reuse! You can also use Altoid (mint) cans, any cans you wish to reuse actually, and so on!

SEX MAGIC

Sex magic requires literally nothing but knowledge and your body (and sometimes, not even any work with your physical body is required)!

ALTARS

Hidden altars can be made with everyday items, decor, shoeboxes... Learn more about it here, if this interests you!

Additionally, the home in many cultures can be seen as a temple. How you treat your guests and fellow residents, how much love you put into the home, and things like taking care of yourself inside all matter. Relaxing is very important psychologically within your home. Dancing and singing can put out good energy. And so on. You don't need filled bookshelves, fancy floorings and extravagant food to make your home a happy place, a holy place, a spiritual place to be.

You might enjoy learning more about how the household was regarded in ancient Greek and Hellenism, which you can do here!

SHADOW WORK

Shadow work can simply be just a pen and paper! But also, you could use your phone notes.

Another method of shadow work only involves TRAIN OF THOUGHT! It's all about self-reflecting in the moment, following associations, and consistently asking yourself why you feel things the way you do and/or see things the way you do! You can get pretty deep when interrogating yourself internally, without pressure of writing everything down!

SPIRIT WORK / WORSHIP

Spirit work, and worship, is free! You don't always need glamorized art, bowls of water and incense offerings every night, to worship a spirit (like a deity). In fact, sometimes devoting acts to them is a way of worship, like studying, resting well, crying, or even going outside!

Additionally, spirit work and making deals with worship sometimes is all about the energy and effort you put into it. Depending on what transaction you're making, no physical items are required!

Just make sure you're staying safe, and that you're respectful of all spirits involved!

THANK YOU!

I hope this was helpful to some of you! Please feel free to comment if you need help finding a low-cost alternative to something! <3

[doctormohansamira]

Heyyyy <3 I feel like I've been showing up in your inbox a lot 😭😭

I was wondering if you had any thoughts on the dynamic between Santos and Mohan?? I saw you talk a little bit about Collins in regards to the perceived the risks of departing from established standards (which is very true, and I can see the vision 👀👀) but that reminded me of how Santos is. Kind of the opposite direction of that, and how that could be an equally interesting and compelling dynamic?? Mohan and Santos lowkey have a very similar value system that manifests in opposite ways I think, and they both have crazy walls separating themselves from others, but it presents differently, and I just think it's a fascinating dichotomy, in a very thesis + antithesis = synthesis way?? Those are my views, but I'd be interested to hear your thoughts!!

Also, there's this banger video with the two of them <3 https://youtu.be/v3qLnrXu7qg

Hi!!! <3 <3 <3

I think Santos and Mohan definitely have a fun dynamic. I also think it's interesting that I can't recall a single scene Santos has with McKay, because in some ways, I think McKay also has a very similar value system to Santos and Mohan, also manifesting differently, and closer to Santos than to Mohan.

Samira's whole deal is that she's both very driven by personal history and determined to not let herself be driven by personal history. It's why she is constantly intellectualizing and justifying everything to herself. It's why her cases are less directly relevant to her personal experiences than everyone else's: who she is as a doctor is built around this personal experience with a hospital's failings, and it manifests everywhere, not just in cases that are immediately obviously similar. She has cases like a sickle cell patient or a patient experiencing opioid withdrawal, who remind her in some ways of her own family history, but indirectly enough that she can mostly focus on the data – explaining what sickle cell crisis does to the body and what a low hemoglobin means; pointing out the symptoms of opioid withdrawal. Contrast that with, say, Langdon and the child that ingested his father's pot gummies; Mel with the woman whose daughter was a burnt out caregiver; Santos with the man who was abusing his daughter; Collins with her multiple pregnant patients; McKay with her recovering addict patient with a strong relationship with her daughter.

Part of this is we straight up know less about Samira's life than we do the other characters, making it hard to see where there's a direct connection – we don't even really know all that much about her backstory. We know her father died as a result of mistreatment in the ER, but that could mean a number of things. Based on Samira's behaviour, we can infer that it was a result of symptoms being dismissed and a misdiagnosis. That means the most similar case she has is Nandi – it's not similar enough that she can guess what's going on through experience, but she sees this woman begging to be taken seriously and refuses to let it go.

And part of this is the nature of being a woman in the workplace! Especially a woman of her level of empathy and concern for connecting with patients! It's my favourite part of the show, so I feel like I'm constantly pointing this out, but – she and Robby are fundamentally so much alike. She's not just who he used to be, she's who he is in the time of the show. And her emotions, if outwardly expressed, would not be received with the same grace as Robby's are. She knows intellectually that she got into medicine because of her father. But she compartmentalizes. Her colleagues are not her friends. She focuses the bulk of her emotional energy on her patients.

In contrast, Santos...kind of wears her heart on her sleeve? She's prickly, she's defensive, she's brash, she tries to see her patients as just problems to be solved unlike Samira and her determination to view them as people. But like Samira, she has these incredibly strong protective instincts, applied to both her colleagues and to her patients. She's really bad at the whole impersonal thing. Where Samira is trying to intellectualize everything and considering it a failure when she can't be detached, Santos is bringing her entire self into the ER and utterly unapologetic about it. Which is quite similar to McKay, who is a lot more driven by direct personal experience and who has a lot more life experience to bring to her work.

I think it's cool that in the beginning of the show, we have Samira essentially taking Whitaker under her wing at work, coaching him through losing a patient, helping build his confidence back up, and firmly correcting him when he's in the wrong, all in this very professional, detached sort of way, and in the end, we get Santos doing the personal side of it – offering him a place to live, unable to really convince herself that he's not her problem.

My favourite Samira dynamic is probably always going to be the fraught mentor-mentee, funhouse mirror, same person in different fonts relationship that exists between her and Robby. However, it'd be really cool to explore further the ways in which she and Santos are similar and different.

...what was I talking about? I don't know, maybe those are my thoughts. Forgive me; I ramble.

[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 ludicrous, 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.

[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.