#difference between bulk deals

[priyashareindia9]

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

[starshideurfics]

Thirsty Thursday - Buzzed

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

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

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

And Steve is happy for him!

Really!

He is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dustin!”

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

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

“Next weekend.”

“Dustin!”

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

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

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

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

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

Then he needs to squeeze his thighs together.

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

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

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

“Rooooob!” Steve whines, indignant.

“Steeeeeve!” she teases back.

“I just… Fuck, I need to get laid.”

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

“Rob!”

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

“Robin… I can’t think about that.”

“Sure you can.”

“I can’t.”

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

Steve’s taken aback by that. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Missed you, too.”

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

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

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

“Eddie…”

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

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

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

Steve cuts him off with a kiss.

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

And Robin will be home soon.

Part 2

Now expanded into a full fic! Read here

[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.

[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…”

[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

[butterscotchpiesandguys]

Bad Boys Get More

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[syrupfog]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…Defense?”

“Then CATCH” 

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

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

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

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

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

And the bundle squirming around in his hands. 

“You good?” Killer asks. 

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

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

Penguin gives the small child a thumbs up. 

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

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

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

“Cool,” says Killer. 

“You got parents, kid?” Penguin asks. 

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

Penguin frowns. “Family?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well,” Penguin hedges. 

“What the fuck,” says Kid.

“I’m keeping it,” says Killer. 

“Her,” says Penguin. 

“That makes you a grandpa,” says Killer. 

“FUCK no it doesn’t,” shouts Kid. 

The child laughs. 

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

“Well,” says Penguin. 

“You can’t tell me what to do, Mom.”

“Fuck you,” spits Kid. 

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

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

“My hair, though.” 

Ah, Penguin is the father. 

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

“I’d like a date first,” Penguin says

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

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

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

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

“You’re late,” Law tells him. 

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

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

[thenightisland]

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

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

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

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

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

[howtofightwrite]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's 37.

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

Dude can fucking arm wrestle the Terrasque and easily win.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-Starke

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[camaelczarka]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[unhetalia]

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

Context for this reply -

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

My headcanon that Alfred has a high IQ.

Headcanon on Alfred having autism and ADHD.

The idea that Alfred finds it hard to build muscle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[katbrando]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you cheating on me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m a slut,” Diego groans, “I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why did you do it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“‘Get out’?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unfortunately, you love him too.

[lazuliquetzal]

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

I AM SUMMONED? PLOT BRAIN SUMMONED?

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

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

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

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

You set an expectation

There are complications to the expectation

You meet the expectation

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

And One Last Important Thing:

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

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

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

[allisondraste]

I’m not convinced that Davrin would take issue with Lucanis over Spite. Sure, he would be wary and cautious, because a demon possessed person is always at risk of becoming a dangerous monster. However, he’d realize that in their current state, Lucanis (and Spite) are not monsters.

I do think they’d have conflict though, over two areas where they are diametrically opposed: principles and how they handle problems.

With regard to principles, we see a little bit of this occur post-Weisshaupt and in several banters, but I think the game could have capitalized more on this difference between them. Lucanis is an assassin, and regardless of how “good” the game frames the crows, assassins kill people for money and it is not always people who deserve to die. Davrin would take issue with this because he finds it dishonorable and callous. Lucanis would think Davrin is just self-righteous and full of himself.

This would be the bulk of their arguments pre-Weisshaupt and would fade as the grew respect for one another. They’d never agree on this, but it’s no longer personal.

When it comes to how they deal with problems , both of them are damn near allergic to talking about their emotions despite the fact that they clearly feel them very strongly. Lucanis responds by kind of giving in to a bad situation, shutting down, and refusing to have hope because hope means opening himself up to more pain. Davrin responds with anger and by refusing to accept the situation as it is, and stubbornly tries to do whatever he can to control and correct it.

This difference would only cause conflict during high-stress moments (e.g. while Rook and Neve/Bellara are missing). Lucanis would want to shut down and focus on finishing the job, not thinking about anyone or anything that is lost and may potentially be saved. He can’t cope with the distraction. Davrin on the other hand cannot move on with the next task while there are people he failed needing him to fix his mistake.

I imagine this would cause the most issues between them after Tearstone if Davrin and Rook are together and Lucanis and Neve are together and Neve was kidnapped.

Lucanis would cope by telling himself that Neve and Rook are either both dead or beyond saving, and that even if they were able to be saved, there is no TIME. They have to kill Elgar’nan and finish the job no matter what. It’s what Rook and Neve would want anyway.

Davrin would refuse to believe that either of them are dead and insist that they have to be rescued, because he is NOT losing anymore people. He is especially not giving up on Rook. Elgar’nan will be set back by Ghilan’nain’s death and will say they have time to both save people and give him what’s coming to him.

Even though I definitely enjoyed some of the Spite-related arguments, especially the one where Lucanis pretends Spite is taking over to get under Davrin’s skin., I would have loved to see more conflicts related to their actual fundamental differences.

[ceilidhtransing]

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

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