#Display Network Performance

[prasaddhumal82]

Google Ads Introduces Channel-Level Reporting in Performance Max Campaigns

Google Ads’ Performance Max (PMax) campaigns have been advertisers’ game-changers, leveraging AI to optimize ad placements across Google’s vast network. However, the lack of transparency regarding channel-specific performance has been a longstanding concern. Addressing this, Google has announced the rollout of channel-level reporting in PMax campaigns, providing advertisers with detailed insights…

[elinbean]

Pro-Palestine demonstrators disrupt the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, Nov. 23 2023 (x) (photo by Brendan McDermid)

[vismountain]

Pay Per Click (PPC) Vs Cost per click (CPC) in Ads

Introduction In digital advertising, two terms frequently come up: Pay Per Click (PPC) and Cost Per Click (CPC). PPC is a popular advertising model where you pay a fee each time your ad is clicked. This method is commonly used across platforms like Google Ads, social media sites, and various third-party websites. On the other hand, CPC is a metric that measures the cost-efficiency of these PPC…

[levyconindia001]

Understanding the Differences: Google Display Network vs Search Network

The Understanding between the Difference of Google Display Network vs Search Network product is a comprehensive guide that aims to provide users with a clear understanding of the distinctions between the Google Display Network (GDN) and the Google Search Network (GSN). This informative resource delves into the intricacies of these two advertising platforms, highlighting their unique features, advantages, and best practices for effective utilization.

[mochinomnoms]

In regard to interspecies romance

Humans have a fairly easy time pursuing the other species in Twisted Wonderland, though there are exceptions to that rule.

multi (separate) x reader [wc] - 2,252 [note] - one of the first things i ever wrote, though i never posted cause i didnt edit it. thought i would anyways cause its kinda cute. Edited 12/14/23 to add a readmore

Despite their animal like tendencies and courting methods, it's incredibly common to see human-beastmen couples and families. Perhaps it's due to how similar their behaviors are to their animal counterparts, but humans are fond of how beastmen flirt and display affection. Beastmen are offended by the comparison, but it's hard to deny how similar, and cute, they are to the common wolf, hyena, or lion.

Wolf and other canine beastmen enjoy being close to their mates. They like to be physically affectionate, almost playful with their partners. They'll nuzzle into the crook of their neck—no matter how much bigger they are compared to their human—lean against them when they walk, and will happily be by their beloved's sided at all times. Furthermore, they primarily show their effectiveness as partners by being great providers, regardless of gender, and showing off how tight-knit their packs are. After all, family is very important to them, and they'll expect to have one, no matter how big or small, with their partner in the future.

If you catch Ruggie trying to slyly and smoothly place a hand on the small of you back when moving through crowds, no you don't. If a person notices Jack momentarily grabbing (gingerly, mind you) your sides as he slips behind you to reach the potion ingredient on the shelf above you, don't mention how his touch lingers ever so slightly. Maybe take it with a grain of salt when Jack tries to invite you to visit his family over break, as friends, of course. And when Ruggie brags to you about how well he watched over the neighborhood kids growing up, how he'd make for a great family man, it's all hypothetical.

Feline beastmen are more reserved in their affections in public, especially compared to canines, and even more so for lion beastmen. It's more common for them to show affection in more subtle manners, such as buying their partner's food and drinks without being asked, going out of their way to help them when they're struggling at school or work, and are able to spend hours just in their general vicinity. As long as their beloved is around, they're happy. In private, though, expect to have their entire body draped over them, weight and all, shoved into their personal space to the point that it becomes a foreign concept. Leona embodies this to his entire core, too prideful to perform PDA, but just prideful enough that he knows he can take up all your time and space with no consequence. Unless that consequence is your love and affection, which he supposes he could suffer through if you hear him purring, don't point it out.

All lion beastmen hold their pride close to their heart (no matter how much a certain prince would deny it) and their partner is no exception. Their pride is an intrinsically developed social network made of an extended, but closed family network. It requires all new partners to be carefully and slowly introduced to the rest of the pride, more so in Leona's case due to the royal family being traditionally made up of Sunset Savana nobility. You won't be the first non-beastmen, but are the first foreigner in a very long time to be introduced. Don't worry, though, Leona is nothing if not patient, and his family are just happy to know that he's found someone.

On the other end of the spectrum, however, are human-fae relations. Uncommon, though not for a lack of trying on humans' parts, due to most of the fairfolk residing in the isolated Briar Valley. The complicated history between the two species, ancient to humans but still relatively fresh for fae, doesn't help either. There's also the unfortunate consequence of humankind's rather short lifespans compared to the average 1,000-year lifespan of the fae. Unless the fae is in their final hundred or so years, they'll almost always outlive their partner without magical interference.

It's not impossible though, and as younger fairfolk leave the valley to explore the world, more marriages have resulted in half-fae children, both human and beastmen. As partners, fae are devoted to the health and safety of their loved ones. Increasing tenfold into nearly coddling territory with non-fae. Compared to them, their humans and beastmen are awfully fragile and naive, and require their protection. This can cause animosity between them, however, and only fae that are willing to learn and change their old ways result in happy, long-lived marriages.

They're also generally known to have lengthy courting methods: not dating, that implies something casual, no they court. Once they've established interest in you, their end goal is marriage, no ifs, ands, or buts. Fairfolk are generous with gifting during courtship: all gifts are about an equal-exchange and your acceptance of their gifts is a reciprocation of their feelings. At the end of the courtship, you can expect a small feast to be displayed at a ceremony held between their and your family. This is an especially important ceremony when courting humans and beastmen: fairy food can often cause lasting damages to those that consume it without permission. By offering their food to you and your kin, they are welcoming you into their world and telling you that they will never intentionally bestow harm to you or your kin. If you choose to accept the food, then you agree to do the same til the end of your days.

Lilia is a strange case, having already lived a long life and being well traveled, a gleeful participant in the strange customs and traditions of humans and beastmen. He'd much rather participate in other's dating and courtship rituals than his own people's. It's fascinating how fleeting the process can be, yet it can result in everlasting devotion. Don't mistake his flexible nature for disinterest, however. He's still a fae, and if you start finding silly little knickknacks of his on their desk, you can expect to never be rid of him.

The Draconia family-line is steadfast in their traditions, even if Lilia raised the latest prince. So don't expect anything other than the previously explained rituals from Malleus, even if you're not aware of them. Taking gems, jewelry, and clothing made of the finest material you'll ever lay hands from his hoard means little to him if it means you'll accept the gift (and him). Even if you aren't aware of how courtship works, the moment you pick up the black ring with the big oval emerald and Briar Valley crest, you're practically engaged in his eyes.

The courtship is long, even for Malleus who was one step away at every turn to skip over the entire thing in favor of just eloping. All for the person who decided that the great and terrifying Malleus Draconia was actually just a simple Mr. Hornton, a friend, companion who just wanted someone to stay by his side. If it means calling you his spouse, his fellow ruler, and the only love of his life even a moment sooner, then he'd be willing to throw tradition and ritual out of the very tall tower window just to do so.

Many years later, when you reminiscing how the two of you first met, and how long it took you to notice his feelings, you'll offhandedly mention the random gifts you found at your doorstep. How you wish you knew who was leaving those precious stones and golden amulets with no indication on who the admirer was. Upon further questioning, you'll tell him that you didn't even know you were being courted until two months into the ritual. It'll then click in Malleus's mind how utterly lucky he was that the two of you even got together in the first place.

It may be surprising, but human-mer relations have been extraordinarily rare. Only a handful of them have popped up since the times of the Sea Princess, who left her home for a human prince. In fact, you could probably count them on one hand! Perhaps this is due to the difficulties of having a romance between land dwellers and undersea folk; after all, it's much easier for humans, fae, and beastmen to interact when they all live on land. Merfolk can come up to the surface, and have been doing moreso in the last century, but having a relationship with someone who quite literally could not breathe in the same air/water as you is near impossible. At least, not without significant effort on one or the other's part.

Nearly all the human-mer romances that have occurred in history resulted in either one or the other abandoning their home to turn into a human/mer and live the rest of their days with their love in their new world. Certainly a romantic notion to be sure, but it most definitely require their love to be truly eternal. Or else you might run the risk of resentment brewing between the two. With a slowly growing need to easy access transformation potions and spells for business and diplomatic reasons, such romance is not far from reach, at least for those with money to spare. The next issue though would be the significant difference between land dweller and undersea folk's courting methods.

Perhaps it can be contributed to the more...feral nature of merfolk. Most of them still retain more animalistic features and behaviors than the average beastman. The twins are no exception to this. Even if you were to remove their claws, mucus covered skin, and 6-ft tail, you're still left with eyes suited for a deep-sea predator, nose that can smell the tiniest drop of blood in a pool, and rows of razor sharp teeth begging to bite down on your neck. The deep-sea is not only cold, but quite ruthless. So, it'll probably come as no surprise that moray eels will prove themselves as suitable partners by fighting either their competitors or you. If they can prove that they can hold their own, protect you from the horrors of the deep, then they have the right to go for your heart. That's not to say softer sentiments don't exist, and while similar the twins are still two separate people with different tastes. These tastes show during courting, though mers have a more casual date-like ritual.

Like fae, merfolk court via gifts, particularly handmade or ones they found themselves, and Floyd is awfully fond if gifting you the strangest things. A tooth that was knocked out from the student who shoved you a little too hard, a rock you tripped over in P.E., or a sand dollar he found on a trip to the beach were a few of the many items he gave you. Jade is similar, though he's more fond of making his own gifts. A necklace made of seashells found at the beach you had your first date in, a terrarium he made from plants that remind him of you, but your favorite was the small garden he started tending to on your kitchen windowsill. Breakfast was particularly delicious when made with his fresh mushrooms. Expect soon after the gifts lots of physical affection, public and private.

Don't be mistaken, they'll still bully you. But each of Floyd's bone-crushing hugs will be accompanied by a soft headbump from his forehead to yours. Jade's teasing, mean remarks will follow with a swift, sweet peck to your knuckles. They'll grab your notebook and hold it above their head until you agree to give them a kiss or punch them in the stomach, both are acceptable responses. Be a little mean back, they like the idea of a sweet and cute little human that can throw a punch. Your their sweet little human, and you make life in the deep exciting. Just don't ask about their flushed face every time they see you yawn, they aren't quite ready to explain that one yet.

Azul intensely studied a variety of topics before coming to land, even briefly glossing over dating, romance, and marriage before deciding he wouldn't need it anytime soon. He regretted that soon after meeting you, though he made do with what he knew. And what he knew as food. A combination of octo-mer courtship and being the son of a cook, Azul will discreetly court you by personally cooking and feeding you your favorite meals. It's the result of the dangers of ancient octo-mers eating their spouses after mating. Afterall you can't eat more if your already full. While not something they have to worry about now, it's an old ritual still used today, Azul has hear the way to a person's heart is their stomach and can wholeheartedly agree.

What's surprised you the most was what followed after, especially for someone as physically reserved as Azul: octo-mers are extremely clingy and affectionate. He doesn't have the heart to do anything more than handholding and chaste kisses to your cheeks in public, but he yearns to wrap all 8 tentacles and two arms around you so tightly that your gasping for a breath that he steals with his lips. He won't mention it, but he can taste the salt from your skin and the pulse from your wrists with his suckers. Take it from someone who grew up with a refined palate, he thinks your taste is equivalent to ambrosia from the gods, though that might be the lovesickness speaking.

i have a hard time writing savanaclaw for some reason, but imma working on it now! also tagging for all the guys is stressful idk what i should enter, like fullname or just first name idk man!! pls reblog and comment! lmk what you time, xoxo

[commodorez]

Start Me Up: 30 years of Windows 95 - @commodorez and @ms-dos5

Okay, last batch of photos from our exhibit, and I wanted to highlight a few details because so much planning and preparation went into making this the ultimate Windows 95 exhibit. And now you all have to hear about it.

You'll note software boxes from both major versions of Windows 95 RTM (Release To Manufacturing, the original version from August 24, 1995): the standalone version "for PCs without Windows", and the Upgrade version "for users of Windows". We used both versions when setting up the machines you see here to show the variety of install types people performed. My grandpa's original set of install floppies was displayed in a little shadowbox, next to a CD version, and a TI 486DX2-66 microprocessor emblazoned with "Designed for Microsoft Windows 95".

The machines on display, from left to right include:

Chicago Beta 73g on a custom Pentium 1 baby AT tower

Windows 95 RTM on an AST Bravo LC 4/66d desktop

Windows 95 RTM on a (broken) Compaq LTE Elite 4/75cx laptop

Windows 95 OSR 1 on an Intertel Pentium 1 tower

Windows 95 OSR 1 on a VTEL Pentium 1 desktop

Windows 95 OSR 2 on a Toshiba Satellite T1960CT laptop

Windows 95 OSR 2 on a Toshiba Libretto 70CT subnotebook

Windows 95 OSR 2 on an IBM Thinkpad 760E laptop

Windows 95 OSR 2.5 on a custom Pentium II tower (Vega)

That's alot of machines that had to be prepared for the exhibit, so for all of them to work (minus the Compaq) was a relief. Something about the trip to NJ rendered the Compaq unstable, and it refused to boot consistently. I have no idea what happened because it failed in like 5 different steps of the process.

The SMC TigerHub TP6 nestled between the Intertel and VTEL served as the network backbone for the exhibit, allowing 6 machines to be connected over twisted pair with all the multicolored network cables. However, problems with PCMCIA drivers on the Thinkpad, and the Compaq being on the blink meant only 5 machines were networked. Vega was sporting a CanoScan FS2710 film scanner connected via SCSI, which I demonstrated like 9 times over the course of the weekend -- including to LGR!

Game controllers were attached to computers where possible, and everything with a sound card had a set of era-appropriate speakers. We even picked out a slew of mid-90s mouse pads, some of which were specifically Windows 95 themed. We had Zip disks, floppy disks, CDs full of software, and basically no extra room on the tables. Almost every machine had a different screensaver, desktop wallpaper, sound scheme, and UI theme, showing just how much was user customizable.

@ms-dos5 made a point to have a variety of versions of Microsoft Office products on the machines present, meaning we had everything from stand-alone copies of Word 95 and Excel 95, thru complete MS Office 95 packages (standard & professional), MS Office 97 (standard & professional), Publisher, Frontpage, & Encarta.

We brought a bunch of important books about 95 too:

The Windows Interface Guidelines for Software Design

Microsoft Windows 95 Resource Kit

Hardware Design Guide for Windows 95

Inside Windows 95 by Adrian King

Just off to the right, stacked on top of some boxes was an Epson LX-300+II dot matrix printer, which we used to create all of the decorative banners, and the computer description cards next to each machine. Fun fact -- those were designed to mimic the format and style of 95's printer test page! We also printed off drawings for a number of visitors, and ended up having more paper jams with the tractor feed mechanism than we had Blue Screen of Death instances.

In fact, we only had 3 BSOD's total, all weekend, one of which was expected, and another was intentional on the part of an attendee.

We also had one guy install some shovelware/garbageware on the AST, which caused all sorts of errors, that was funny!

Thanks for coming along on this ride, both @ms-dos5 and I appreciate everyone taking the time to enjoy our exhibit.

It's now safe to turn off your computer.

VCF East XX

[m0chisenpai]

Accessorize

˚｡⋆ lestat de lioncourt x black!fem!reader

in which Lestat and his little muse have a preshow ritual

Lestat picked you up in the beginning of his rise to fame. He heard you sing, and needed your voice. Over the screeching fans, he heard you sing to his song, and knew that your voice would be heard for centuries to come. The following day he would send one of his agents to pick you up from your hotel room. “Mr Lioncourt wants to negotiate a contract with you ma’am”

You were quick to deny it, but when they showed you the paperwork and pay you were going to receive, the thought of working for a tempered immortal that could snap you in half like a twig was the least of your worries.

They provide you with accommodations and cover all expenses to move you from your home state to California where he had already begun working on his next single.

You started working in back up vocals something you were already used to, but two recording sessions later and Lestat demanded your voice be on the song with him alone. He waved off the three singers demanding you were to stay. You could feel his eyes like a weight upon you as you read the lyrics in front of you over and over. Rock was the last thing you’d expect to do, could you even do it?

But you have little time to prepare before the sound engineers voice echoes in your ears, “whenever you’re ready!”

The song is something new, not necessarily metal or hard work. But you close your eyes and begin to hum lowly into the mic, whispering the lyrics into the mic until the song turns off. When you sang in the recording studio, his eyes remained on you unblinking.

Finally you break the silence speaking into the microphone for both men to hear. "Was that good for you, Mr. Lioncourt?" you tilted your head. He smirked pressing a ring clad finger to respond.

"Perfection, cherie" he can see the delicous shiver tingle down your spine. The song was a hit, no doubt the man was a musical genius, but he had to credit you as well, Your voice was the missing piece.

This new life was something new, something better. Who were you to deny it? You were making thrice more then you could ever in your life time. Add your new immortality? You were untouchable. You had an immortality lover, maker, companion, whatever he chose to label it by your side. Had Lestat known there was this new side to you with the Dark Gift he would have bestowed it upon you the year he began working with you.

You took to your thirst and instincts like a duck to water. Prowling the nights with your costar. Taking groupies back for meals. Walking red carpet appearances, and doing interviews in the most bold outfits.

You were made for this, made to be with him.

The tabloids and networks were reporting on the chemistry you two had stage. Were you a couple? No you were more than that. You and Lestat completed something in one another.

You sat beside him on the tour bus. It was designated just for you two and tinted windows protected you both. Your fingers scrolled on Instagram, reading the latest highlights and news from your last performance. In the high and rush of pre performance jitters, you bit him.

And the fans noticed it immediately as Lestat popped his jacket open proudly displaying it, and the smeared blood painting your lips making you look like a goddess on stage.

Tonight was an interview, and whoever it was peaked Lestat’s attention enough to get just the two of you on camera.

"It seems your previous work has begun to fade," Lestat sits up a bit on his elbows, his curly waves fall behind him. And he flashes you a fangy smirk. The bites you bestowed him have in fact begun to fade.

“Who are we to deny the people what they want,” you snicked, tossing your phone beside you.

Your crawl to him like the little minx you are are. Kissing your way up his stomach. Your first bite is just where his heart would be beating, and you take a small drink from the wound. You press kiss after kiss landing another biting right in his neck.

That's where you begin to feed, getting drunk off the ancient taste of him. He surrounds and intoxicates you. He’s panting and digging his nails into your hips, he always loved it when you fed from him.

When you are full you pull back, chest heaving and pupils wide like his own. You both would be late, using this time to satiate another hunger.

When you;ve arrived you are walking on cloud nine with your beloved, your manager in front of you both. Lestat holds your hand as you both enter the studio., guiding you like you are royalty.

Two seats are situated side by side but he immmediately pulls you atop his lap. Ignorong the staff member who fumbles to fix the set up.

Your nose crinkles at the chalice beside you. The blood smells foul. Lestat sees the distaste on your face, "my muse won't be drinking that."

A woman approaches him with a make up brush that he immediately moves away from.

“Do I look like I need you?” His sneer deterred the makeup woman immediately who moved to you.

“I touched up on the bus.” Your smile sends her away with blushing cheeks. They move to mic you both up, doing their best not to brush on the vampire. But their eyes do catch the fresh bite on his neck and the one just barely peaking on his chest.

“Can we uh…do you need to get that checked? Or covered?”

“Oh I think you know the answer to that,” you eye your work in pride, and Lestat smirks up at you. Perhaps he ought to give you a matching one.

[biancasaidstfu]

FAVE ANON HERE 😏

It’s been a minute since I’ve submitted but after the vitriol I have seen on Twitter this weekend, I felt the need to speak…

First things first, all of us are brought here with one definitive common thread - we are all fans of Bridgerton. If we were not, we would probably not find ourselves in this fandom at all.

With that being said, if you’re on this blog you are probably a fan of both Nicola AND Luke. More than likely, you want them to be together romantically or believe they already are. And if you don’t want any of that, I don’t know why you’re here reading this posts. This is how you become a troll.

You are allowed to be a fan of one and not the other. This is not a dictatorship and no one is holding a gun to your heads. But this is the point where it is VITAL for me to remind you how many times Nic and Luke have a real love for each other and at the core are best friends. WHAT THIS MEANS IS you cannot call yourself a fan of one of them while simultaneously spreading hate and contempt and overall nastiness about the other one all over social media.

Now I have approached the topic of the RUMORED insignificant others. Did you know that there is no general rule of fandom that states if you are a fan of a character performer that you must also become a fan of any performers they may date now or in the future? WHAT THIS MEANS IS THAT no one is required to become Jake’s #1 fan just because the rumor mill wants to say Nic is dating him. Hell no one has to become his #1 fan if Nic herself came out and said she was dating him. Again, there is no need to speak with malice about his looks or his talent all over the internet but you do not have to be a fan. Same goes for the dancer who shall not be named (I know it’s a trigger for many around here). And if they act in deplorable ways - such as the dancer has displayed in the past - you are allowed to speak out on it while using decorum.

This is ultimately bringing me back to why I wrote this today. Tell me why I’m seeing tweets talking about how Jake is a more successful and more talented actor than Luke. Tweets saying Luke can’t act and how amazing Jake is. These tweets are from Bridgerton “fans”. These tweets are from Nicola “fans”. Based on everything I’ve written up until now, the math ain’t mathing on the word “fan”.

I’m not spreading hate to Jake. Fact of the matter, he’s a 24 year old kid almost fresh out of drama school. He has had one season of a failed show on a streaming network riddled with failed shows. He now has a small part in a movie that probably is not even recognized yet out of this fandom and extreme movie fans - if we’re being honest. Luke is 31 and is on his 4th season of one of Netflix’s top shows. He was the male lead last season and the season broke records. He was on a Disney channel show when he was younger. He was on multiple stage shows on the West End. He’s had many other roles in smaller projects and just picked up a lead role in a new film. While it is considered an independent film, it is a LEAD role.

With that evidence laid out, how can anyone actually say with their full chest that Jake is the better and more successful actor? Oh right they can’t. What it comes down to is the fact that the “Jakola shipping” movement is not based on anything more than being an Anti-Luke Newton movement and it is GROSS. No matter what they tell you, there was no “relationship” being universally talked about prior to late summer. On August 25 those festival pictures were released and some very twisted narcissistic people in this fandom took them and ran with them. They created a narrative to help dictate what and who people in this fandom are allowed to discuss online. They’ve bullied creators off of TikTok and Twitter and gaslight the hell out of everyone when called on it. A 24 year old gay man (OMG I SAID IT) is being bullied on the internet and the blame is fully being put on “Lukolas” when the truth is that no one would be paying any attention to him if this narrative wasn’t perpetuated in the first place. (Side note: if you’re sending hate to Jake on behalf of being a Lukola, please stop. Please treat him like you treat every other one of Nic’s male friends. No one should be getting hate.)

The majority of the hate and toxicity in this fandom stems with the Jakolas Jackholes and those who blindly follow and defend a certain creator. I’m not going to say her name because I know how much she gets off on people talking about her (even when it’s bad) AHAH. This is the shit that everyone else is afraid to say out loud but it’s true. And for those of you in that discord reading this to report back, hiiii!

Oh and if anyone has a problem with this and wants to call me out for being on Anon, let me know and I’ll DM you because I’m not afraid. I’m grownup.

Xx

Finally seeing people with common sense!

My fave anon pulls through yet again.

Everyone say thank you fave anon.

[jcmarchi]

Save Now on YoloLiv YoloBox Ultra - Plus New Features and New Products - Videoguys

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[fans4wga]

SAG-AFTRA Takes Up Bethenny Frankel’s Fight To Unionize Reality Show Contestants & End “Exploitative Practices”

August 10, 2023

"SAG-AFTRA, which covers the hosts but not the contestants on reality TV competition shows, said today that it’s working “toward the protection of the reality performers” in an effort to end “the exploitative practices that have developed in this area” and “to engage in a new path to union coverage.”

“We are tired of studios and production companies trying to circumvent the union in order to exploit the talent that they rely upon to make their product,” the guild said.

The announcement comes after Bethenny Frankel, a former star of The Real Housewives of New York City, suggested that reality performers should go on strike in order to win residuals for their work and to combat abuses in the workplace. Reality show hosts, but not contestants, are covered by the guild’s Network Code, which is not part of its strike against films and scripted TV shows.

“Why isn’t reality TV on strike?” Frankel said in a recent TikTok video. “I got paid $7,250 for my first season of reality TV, and people are still watching those episodes.” Reality stars, she said, “are the stepchildren, the losers, the mules, the pack horses. The ones that the entertainment industry is going to rely on, right now, to carry the water and do the heavy lifting when real stars, real A-list Hollywood is on strike.”

She added, “Reality television exploits affairs, bankruptcy, falling off the wagon, not really having what you say you have, something inappropriate, risking cancellation every single time the camera goes on.”

To address the alleged abuse of reality stars, she’s engaged high-powered attorneys Bryan Freedman and Mark Geragos to investigate the alleged abuse of reality stars.

In a statement today, SAG-AFTRA said that it “has engaged in discussions with Bryan Freedman at the Freedman + Taitelman, LLP law firm who has been retained by Bethenny Frankel around the subject of treatment of reality performers. SAG-AFTRA is the union that represents reality performers. Depending on the structure of the production and the performers involved, we can cover these performers under our Network Code Agreement.

“We stand ready to assist Bethenny Frankel, Bryan Freedman and Mark Geragos along with reality performers and our members in the fight and are tired of studios and production companies trying to circumvent the Union in order to exploit the talent that they rely upon to make their product.

“We encourage any reality performers and/or members to reach out to SAG-AFTRA’s Entertainment Contracts Department so that we may work together toward the protection of the reality performers ending the exploitative practices that have developed in this area and to engage in a new path to union coverage.”

“Please be advised that the day of reckoning has arrived,” Freedman, working with Geragos, said in a letter sent to NBCUniversal on Aug. 3. “While our investigation is still ongoing, we have reason to believe that cast members and crewmembers on NBC reality TV shows have been subjected to disturbing mistreatment by NBCUniversal and/or its employees, contractors, and third-party affiliates.”

Building off Frankel’s union aims, the list of such mistreatment that Freedman lays out includes:

Deliberate attempts to manufacture mental instability by plying cast members with alcohol while depriving them of food and sleep.

Denying mental health treatment to cast members displaying obvious and alarming signs of mental deterioration.

Exploiting minors for uncompensated and sometimes long-term appearances on NBC reality TV shows.

Distributing and/or condoning the distribution of nonconsensual pornography.

Covering up acts of sexual violence.

Refusing to allow cast members the freedom to leave their shows, even under dire circumstances.

In response, an NBCUniversal spokesperson told Deadline that the company is “committed to maintaining a safe and respectful workplace for cast and crew on our reality shows. At the outset, we require our third-party production partners to have appropriate workplace policies and training in place.  If complaints are brought to our attention, we work with our production partners to ensure that timely, appropriate action is or has been taken, including investigations, medical and/or psychological support, and other remedial action that may be warranted such as personnel changes.”

@bethennyfrankel on Tiktok: This is a union. I’ve defined fair & reasonable terms & consider those making $0 on the bachelor to a housewife making millions. This is a 1st pass & how I’d negotiate, w/ my institutional knowledge & wisdom in this industry w/ over a decade on 8 tv, w/ 10 books, 5 podcasts, multiple businesses & what was the fastest growing spirits business in history. I know a contract. Looking into traditional TV residuals is like looking inside “a beautiful mind.” Content used later with no profit sharing & l exploitation of hard working talent is as archaic as calling empowered independent women “housewives,” a term setting back women 100 years then using them for drama.

This is the REALITY RECKONING aka THE REALITY REVOLUTION. The is the new BETHENNY CLAUSE. Reality TV has existed for decades & sustained entertainment during the last strike & exploded. This isn’t for people like me, who have thrived & succeeded and clawed their way to the top despite the odds. This is for the next generation. These are broad stroke terms subject to modification. This fight is just getting started. We’re rogue & nimble & not entangled & unwieldy. The intention here is to affect change, get things done and make history.

I’ve listed some names who have contacted me & want to get involved. People not on this list are Vanderpump rules talent & the Kardashians, ironically the most powerful entities in entertainment right now, with the most leverage. They should fight for others who paved the way & for those after them. Shows like Summer House and others in production should stand down. Viewers should not watch this content. This paves the way for nurses and teachers, essential workers, production members & glam teams that will be inspired to create a model of their own reckoning.

Change takes courage. I’ve alienated this industry & burned bridges with the entire network and streaming community in one fell swoop. This is not for the faint of heart but it’s for the greater good. This is correct. We will be sending these terms by email with the subject line: “Reality Reckoning” starting emails with: imwithbethenny Who’s with me?"

[tinyproprodigy]

"A Scientist and The Ballet of Hextech" - Viktor x Male Danseur Reader.

𖤐 ִֶָ 𓂃 🧷

The grand hall is alive with the hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses, and the soft rustle of silk and satin. Viktor stands near the back, leaning on his cane, his sharp eyes scanning the room with mild disinterest. Jayce had insisted he attend, claiming it would be “good for networking,” but Viktor would much rather be in his lab, tinkering with his latest project.

The lights dim, and the audience falls silent. The curtains part, and the performance begins. Viktor’s gaze is drawn to the figure at the center of the stage—the danseur. His movements are precise, fluid, and filled with an intensity that makes it impossible to look away. Viktor finds himself leaning forward slightly, his analytical mind momentarily silenced by the raw emotion on display.

But then it happens—a tiny misstep, so small that no one else seems to notice. Viktor’s sharp eyes catch the flash of rage in the danseur’s eyes, the way his jaw tightens for the briefest moment before he continues as if nothing happened. The performance ends, and the danseur strides offstage before the applause can even begin. Viktor watches him go, intrigued.

'Such passion… such fury.' He thinks as he mulls over the performance the remainder of the night 'It’s almost...' though he doesn't finish the thought.

A month later, Jayce bursts into Viktor’s study, his usual energy filling the room. “Viktor! I’ve got an idea—no, a vision! We need to make Hextech more accessible, more personal. And what better way to do that than through art?” he grins, waving a familiar flyer in his friend's face.

Viktor raises an eyebrow, setting down the tool he’d been using as he eyes the paper. “Art, Jayce? You want to combine Hextech with… ballet?”

“Exactly!” Jayce grins, clearly pleased with himself. “I’ve commissioned the danseur from the grand hall performance—you remember him, right?—to create a modern ballet piece inspired by Hextech. We hope to have people grasp it better with the pull of art and view it as a powerful and personal experience to unify Piltover to new changes rather than see it as the..." he thinks for a moment,"the apparent danger Heimerdinger describes.”

Viktor hesitates, his mind flashing back to the danseur’s performance, the fire in his eyes. “I’m not sure I’m the right person for this, Jayce. I’m a scientist, not an artist.”

“But that’s the point!” Jayce insists. “You’re the perfect person to bridge the gap between technology and art. Besides, I think you’ll find the experience… fascinating.”

Viktor sighs, but there’s a flicker of curiosity in his chest. He mulls it over for a moment, his thoughts drifting back to the danseur’s raw passion and fury. It might be worth it just to see him perform again.

“Very well,” Viktor says finally. “I’ll meet with him.”

“Trust me, Viktor. This is going to be incredible! You’ll see!”

The grand hall is quiet on later night, the only sound the soft echo of music and the rhythmic tapping of the danseur’s feet as he practices late into the night. Viktor hears the music as he passes by, his curiosity piqued. He follows the sound, his cane tapping softly against the floor.

He finds the danseur onstage, completely absorbed in his art. Viktor watches from the shadows, mesmerized by the precision and emotion of the performance. When the music stops, the danseur finally notices him.

“Who’s there?” He snaps, his voice sharp with irritation.

Viktor steps into the light, raising a hand in a placating gesture. “It is just I, my apologies. I didn’t mean to intrude. I was… captivated.”

The danseur raises a brow, his expression guarded as he sarcastically asks “Captivated? By what? My mistakes?”

“No,” Viktor says, his voice calm and sincere. “By your passion. Your dedication. It’s… remarkable. I can see why you lead as one of the well known in your profession. Well earned.”

The danseur studies him for a moment, his sharp eyes narrowing. “You’re the scientist Jayce mentioned. Viktor, right?”

“Yes,” Viktor replies, his amber eyes meeting the danseur’s gaze. “And I already know who you are. There’s no need for introductions.”

The danseur hesitates, then gives a curt nod. “Goodnight, then.” He turns on his heel and strides offstage, leaving Viktor standing there, watching him go.

'He’s like a storm—beautiful and dangerous.' Viktor can't help but want to understand what swims behind those fire eyes.

The tension in the room is palpable as you rehearse with the other choreographers. Viktor and Jayce watch from the sidelines, Viktor’s sharp eyes noting every detail. You push yourself too hard, your frustration evident in every movement. And then it happens—a misstep, a stumble, and a sharp cry of pain.

Viktor is on his feet in an instant, his hand gripping his cane tightly as he rushes to your side. “Are you alright?”

You glare up at him, your pride wounded more than your body. “I’m fine. It’s nothing.”

But Viktor isn’t convinced. He helps you to a guest room to recover, his mind already working on a solution. Once you are settled, Viktor returns with a temporary brace he’s designed using his knowledge of biomechanics.

“Let me help you,” Viktor respons in a calming tone, tentatively taking a seat on the end bed, his cane resting on the wall near before holding out the device. “This should aid your recovery.”

You hesitate, then reluctantly agree. As Viktor works, slowly slipping your foot from under the silk sheets and placing it on his lap to tend to, you watch him with a mix of suspicion and curiosity. “Why are you doing this?”

Viktor looks up, meeting your gaze. “Because I admire your dedication. And because… I want to see you dance again. I want to see you feel how you make your audience feel. I, being one among them.”

As you take a week off to recover, you find yourself fascinated by the precision and grace of Viktor’s machines. Viktor, in turn after a weeks recovery, is captivated by your ability to translate complex emotions into movement.

You spend more time together, Viktor’s quiet admiration for your talent growing into something deeper. You, who's usually closed off and short-tempered, find yourself softening around Viktor, who seems to understand your need for perfection in a way no one else does.

The day of the performance arrives, and the grand hall is packed. The air is electric with anticipation, the chandeliers casting a warm glow over the audience. Viktor sits in the front row, his eyes fixed on the stage. Your performance is breathtaking, a perfect blend of art and technology. The music swells, the lights dance, and you move with a grace and vulnerability that wasn’t there before. That you hadn't felt in a long time.

As the final notes fade away, the audience erupts into applause. Though you stay onstage, your eyes search the crowd until they land on Viktor.

For the first time, you don’t feel the need to run. You performed, strangely, not to establish dominance and meet your extreme standards but for the man sitting front row. The man who watches you with proudly adorned confidence and unhidden fascination in your performance. The man who has calmed the never-ending blaze within you, not by extinguishing it, but by giving it a new purpose—a new flame to guide you forward.

The man who watched his muse.

𖤐 ִֶָ 𓂃 🧷

The end!! Had a dream about this and had to write it asap! Also, apologies if there is a sentence that sounds silly. I struggle to explain exactly what i want to convey sometimes since English isn't my first language, but that's the point of writing. Learning!

© property of @tinyproprodigy . please don't claim, copynpaste or translate my work on this and / or any other platforms. Like and repost please!! Love u!! ⸜(⸝⸝⸝´꒳`⸝⸝⸝)⸝

[vandme12]

SPREAD HIS ROT - Ronin x G.N Reader

This is my first one-shot for Killer Chat! I'm so excited to finally take part in the event hosted on the official Discord server. I can't wait to share to write more for this awesome fandom!

PROMPT : SPREAD THE ROT

TRIGGER WARNING : Graphic Violence, Gore, Murder, Obsession, Manipulation, Death, Dark Themes

CHARACTER USED : Ronin from Killer Chat!

You are a journalist. A "Criminal Journalist." That's what they call you. You have to photograph every crime scene, chase every siren, dig your nails into every open wound of the city. And you hate it.

It's not the blood that really gets to you. It isn't the bodies, the way they slump against pavement like so many discarded mannequins. It's not even the smell—the acrid mix of gasoline, iron, and whatever someone had for dinner before he was reduced to a chalk outline. No. What you dislike is the paycheck. Because the paycheck is always inadequate.

$35 a shot. $50 if there's a face, a really good face—one that makes the morning readers spit out their coffee. If you catch the moment of grief, the mother screaming, the tears cutting through streetlight shadows, you might get $75. Big money. If it's a cop, even better. A dead officer brings in at least $100.

But rent is due in two days, and your pockets are filled with nothing but lint and cigarette butts. So you’re out here again, wedged between alleyways and car wrecks, chasing something worth it. Because it’s never enough.

Tonight's scene is run-of-the-mill. Liquor store, busted register, a guy with more holes in him than a bad alibi. You take the shots-angle the camera, let the lens tell the story. You could do this in your sleep. You have done this in your sleep.

The cops barely acknowledge you anymore. One of them, a rookie, side-eyes you with disgust. You ignore it. You don't care.

At least, that's what you tell yourself.

Because truth is, you do care. Not about him. Not about them. Not even about the dead guy cooling on the linoleum like a forgotten steak. What you care about is the fact that this? This isn't enough.

There was a time when it was. When sneaking under crime scene tape gave you a rush, when a good shot meant something. But now? Now it's just scraps. And you're tired of scraps.

You want more.

More than the measly checks. More than the dead-end calls from the editor. More than the half-hearted bylines that no one reads.

You want a story. A real one. A big one.

The kind that would make your name stick in people's throats like a hard pill. The kind that would make the networks pay attention. The kind that would make the money pour in.

So you begin to watch. Really watch. Not just the crime scenes, but before and after. Who shows up first? Who leaves last? Who lingers too long? Who pretends not to care? You learn the rhythms of the city's violence. You start predicting it.

It was getting late at night when you came across the scene. A body, twisted in ways that only seasoned detectives can cringe upon. The kind of thing which you would only have heard from the darkest corners of the internet but never thought to see middle suburban streets, thick with the stench of decay, the crimson rivers trailing out from beneath the body like a gruesome map marking the end of a life.

But it wasn’t just the blood or the brokenness of the body that grabbed your attention. It was the artistry.

The killer didn’t just murder this man—they played with him. The victim was arranged like a grotesque puppet, limbs contorted in unnatural positions, eyes wide and glassy, staring into the abyss of whatever hell the Butcher had dragged him from. Whoever had done this didn’t care about the man’s life. No, they cared about the display—the theatrics of death. You could see it in the way the body was laid out like a performer on a stage.

You stood there, looking at it, your breathing steady, heart detached. You were a member of this world, after all—an observer, an architect of stories. This was not meant to touch the horror in which others would splinter. It was just for what it is: an opportunity. An image.

Pulling your camera from your bag, you took the shot. Your hands had moved with a precision, the lens snapping the exact right angle, the perfect composition. The angle of the body, the pools of blood, the quiet devastation of a life snuffed out. And then, once you had it—that shot—you made the call.

The police were on their way, but you were already deep in the game. You'd sold your soul to this grind long ago, and when opportunity knocked, you answered.

It didn't take long for the scene to make headlines. It was gruesome, shocking, a real masterpiece of death. The caption screamed across every paper, every screen:

"Yet Another Killing from the Butcher: 600th Victim"

You felt that familiar rush, the adrenaline of knowing you'd made it. This wasn't just another shot for a local rag. This was the kind of image that would get you noticed. You hadn't just captured death; you've captured the moment. And it worked. The media ate it up.

But what happened next was even more unexpected.

A week later, your phone rang. It was a blocked number. The kind of call you usually ignored. But for some reason, you picked up.

"Is this the photographer from the Butcher's 600th kill?" The voice was low, professional.

"Yes," you answered, keeping your tone neutral, businesslike. It was all just another part of the game.

"We need someone to help us with the investigation," the voice continued, "and we think you're a good fit. You're good with cameras, and we think you might be good with… us."

There was a pause before the voice added, "You've got the knack for catching things, the kind of things we can't. We want you on our team."

You raised an eyebrow. Not what you had envisioned. "I have no interest in the investigation," she said. "I just take photographs."

"We're aware of that," the voice said, dripping with an amused understanding. "But we need your eye for detail. And we'll make it worth your while. We're paying double what you'd normally get, plus a few bonuses for the really interesting shots. We think you can help us get closer to the Butcher. What do you say?"

It was a tempting offer—extra cash, exposure, a chance to build something more than just another gig as a photographer. This wasn't the typical work for a freelance camera guy. And the extra bucks would help, sure. A name in the papers.

You agreed, naturally. It wasn’t just about the money. It was about what came with it. The access. The stories. The people who came with the cases. The murderers. The killers.

You were with the investigation team for weeks. They knew you were neutral, that you didn't care about their moral compass. Neither about the good guys nor about the bad guys. You cared only about the shot. Death, arrest, or slip-up—whichever it was. You were there for the story, for the image.

Now you became the lifeline of that team. Those photographs were not only for public display anymore but were also becoming tactical. You assisted them trace the pattern of the Butcher, picked details they had not seen—details so small and yet so large in their visibility. Your pictures were now an integral part of their strategy. The more they used you, the more they dragged you into their web, and the more you liked it.

The cases became personal. but for them. You'd see the tension in their eyes when they looked at the new photos. They were obsessed with stopping the Butcher, but you were obsessed with capturing his chaos, his carnage.

By the 30th victim, it all began to feel less of a job and more of a sick, almost morbid routine. You were no longer just recording the murders. You were investigating them, peeling away the layers of butchered bodies and their stories. With the body count of the Butcher rising, a disturbing pattern of these killings was beginning to appear. These weren't some random murders, but they had a purpose.

Most of the victims, in retrospect, were not so good people. I mean, at least in any conventional or traditional sense. There were abusers, predators, men who had been arrested multiple times for things that make your skin crawl. You found a pattern in their criminal records—domestic violence, assault, even worse crimes. These were men who lived off the pain of others and hurt those weaker than them, and somehow—somehow—they got drawn to the Butcher.

You started connecting the dots. The men, the pattern of their crimes, that they were easy to find—and almost as if they were looking for him. It didn't take long for you to conclude: the Butcher wasn't killing for fun. No, he had a method. A twisted logic. He had a reason. And that reason, as it appeared, was much more complicated than people had assumed: that most of his victims weren't exactly innocent. They were guilty of hurting other people, usually ways in which society either wasn't enabled to punish or chose not to. The more you looked into the pasts of his victims, the more you would find yourself wondering if maybe—even by default—he had a point. You certainly weren't condoning his actions. Murder was never the solution. But you could see why he picked these men. You could almost understand the reasoning behind it.

The Butcher wasn't an idiot killer, not really. He had his reasons—no matter how twisted, no matter how broken—and they made a sick kind of sense. But it wasn't enough to elevate him. You couldn't make a hero out of a man who solved problems with blood and violence. Normal people didn't solve their problems that way. But you couldn't deny that there was a certain kind of. appeal in the chaos he created. He was a force. A force that made people feel something—whether it was fear, admiration, or something else entirely. And that? That was powerful.

But there was more to it than just that. You could not ignore the sense that crept into your mind in the past few weeks.

Love.

You abhorred the word, but there it was. It was subtle at first, a quiet whisper in the back of your mind whenever you studied his work. You saw it, the way his killings made people care, made them look, made them pay attention. Now you were no longer just following the trail. You were investigating, learning, feeling. Now this was no game for you. No, it was personal. You found yourself almost rooting for the man even as you tried to keep your distance.

But there was more. The photos. The shots you'd taken—each one was feeding your reputation, making you a name, a force in the media, the same way the Butcher was in the criminal world. You had a strange feeling that, without his kills, you would have remained just another nameless photographer. But with him? With him, you had power.

And that was dangerous.

You started to feel like you owed him. It was twisted, perverse, but he was feeding you—feeding your career, feeding your hunger for success, feeding your need to be noticed. Every photo you snapped, every shot that landed in the paper, was part of his story. Your story was his. And maybe, just maybe, that was what you needed. Maybe you were as broken as he was. Maybe you both thrived in this world of rot, feeding off each other, pushing each other into darker, more dangerous corners.

You were obsessed. But the truth was, he was feeding your obsession.

The rot seeps in slowly, unnoticed at first, like a shadow on the edge of your vision, a whisper on the edge of your thoughts. It crawls through your mind, curling into the crevices where your ambition used to live, until it finds the darkness you never knew was there.

At first, you told yourself it was nothing—just a job, just another image captured for the cameras, another headline. But the truth tastes different when it settles on your tongue. It tastes like blood. It tastes like him.

The rot begins as a question, a fleeting thought: Why does it make you feel so. alive?

It isn't the death which attracts you; no, but it's about the purpose itself, the maddening madness through each slash he gives with that knife. Beautified carnages, art made from destruction lies before you – victims twisted in ways that go beyond broken human shapes, more like pieces falling into place because they were so meant to. It's because they were set there for just this sickened, twisted waltz orchestration.

You try to deny it. You try to look away, but the rot follows, creeping through the veins of your heart. It sinks into the muscle, spreading through the blood, until your pulse beats to the rhythm of his kills. You feel it in your chest, the cold gnawing hunger for what he creates. You tell yourself it's just the shot, just the fame, just the game. But you feel it. The thirst. The craving.

Why are you so attracted to him?

Why do you let his rot grow inside you? Like a seed planted deep, so far inside you can't tell where the darkness ends and where you begin.

The brain is a fragile thing, after all. And yours, for all its intelligence, is no match for the poison he's planted in it. The more you photograph, the more you study his art, the more it feeds you. And you've become so hungry for it, you can taste the rot creeping deeper, gnawing at your mind. Each photograph is a poison in itself, a drop of venom that sinks deeper into your veins until your body shakes with the need to capture more.

He's just not a murderer anymore. Now he is a lot more, a lot, much more to you. The muse, that obsession of art you can never look away from. And he scares you—as if one photograph more, study one body part more, can make you irrevocably lose yourself at his hands forever.

It's in your bones now, the rot and the need; the darkness will creep up like something living around your ribs where you can't catch a decent breath of the air in them. You find yourself trying again, but somehow it's almost impossible to keep going; maybe the air becomes so thick from the weight around your ribs: the weight chokes. So, it stays inside your soul.

You remind yourself that you're better than this, that you can walk away. But you can't. You just can't escape what is inside you now.

His kill, his art—it feeds you. It gives you a name, a place. It makes you someone. The world sees you for your pictures, your work. But underneath it all, you know—it's him. He is feeding you. His blood, his violence, his chaos, it's in you now. You've inhaled it, drunk it down, and it has lodged itself in the core of who you are. And you can't deny it anymore.

Why so addicted to him?

You're the thing you once feared becoming: consumed by the rot, driven by a need to capture it, witness it, and be near it. You once thought he was the villain. But now? Now you think maybe you always were the villain in your story. Maybe you were always wanting this darkness.

Maybe it’s you who’s been rotting all along.

You have to go now- To see if the butcher gifted you with another body.

The alley is deathly silent as you step into it. A hollow sense of dread crawls down your spine, a cold sweat forming on your brow. This place, this alley—it's where most of the Butcher's victims are found. His 633rd victim, right here. You hold your breath, the world suddenly too quiet, too still. And then-there's a sound. A soft, muffled sobbing. It breaks the silence, raw and full of terror. But then, impossibly, it's joined by something else. A laugh. Low, guttural, dripping with amusement. Your body freezes. That laugh. You know it now, deep in your bones. It's him.

The Butcher.

You've seen his work. You've followed his trail. But hearing him laugh, hearing that sound come from the shadows, makes everything real in a way you weren't prepared for. You creep forward, silent as a ghost, looking around the corner. There, in the dim light, stands a figure. The air seems to curve around him, suffused with something darker, something wrong. His presence is overwhelming—like the world itself is holding its breath. He's tall—too tall, standing just over six feet. His presence radiates chaos, a perverse kind of power that almost makes the air feel heavier. His dark burgundy hair falls messily under a black beanie, a devilish set of horns jutting out above it. The horns are almost laughable in their mockery of the devil himself, and yet—they're not. His leather jacket shines black in the sparse alley light. That's the kind of leather that crackles with menace, like it's soaked up too many sins. Scissors protrude out of the top, jagged and sharp, And the red 'X' pin on his chest—an enigma that's as much a part of his identity as the scars he's surely accumulated over the years. Safety pins dangle, like a string of symbols no one can fully decipher. His shirt underneath, emblazoned with a skull, a death's head reminder of the man standing in front of you. And his eyes—those eyes. Black as pitch. They pierce the shadows, and you feel like he sees you, even though you're still hidden. Those eyes are endless, voids pulling you into them. He plays with the man on his knees, a feeble, shaking figure caught in his hands. The victim's face is white, eyes open wide with terror. His voice is pleading, begging, but it's of no use. The man laughs, low and cruel, a laugh that freezes the soul. "Why didn't ya just do the world a favor? huh?" His voice drips with mockery, the words drawn out with a slow, deliberate menace. "So many. opportunities. *so many* chances for you to not mess up, to get away. But here you are, crying like a little shit." The laugh that follows is like a death knell. The man steps forward, and the air crackles with tension, under the palemoonlight, his crowbar glinting as if made of steel with the shimmer of an extension of his dark soul. The victim trembles; he knows—the feels—that the end is near. You're still frozen in place, hidden in the shadows, unable to tear your eyes away. And now you know that connection is undeniable.

This is him.

The Butcher.

The Devil.

His personality so well-crafted that even now, even standing in the midst of carnage, he is acting. Every movement, every word he says is part of the act. He is *playing*—but you can't tell if he's playing with the victim or with you. And then, as if he feels your presence, his head tilts slightly, those black eyes narrowing as they sweep the darkness, seeking. You inhale sharply, heart hammering in your chest. You’ve been caught. But what is it? Is it fear? Or is it something else? That glint of curiosity, that subtle tug in your chest—you’re fascinated. Not just by the violence, but by him. This man, this monster. He isn’t just killing for the sake of it. No, there’s something else there. Something almost. personal. And you’re afraid. Not of him, not yet—but of yourself. How did that happen? What drew you into him? When you're there documenting horror and madness, is it then where you become mired in this same mess you are recording and stuck on this thread of madness? You can feel it now-the pull, the addiction. The way the rot spreads in your chest, creeping into your heart. It's not enough to just watch anymore. You're part of it now. And you wonder,

is it too late to stop? He turns away, the Butcher, his steps measured, casual. He does not even look back; he leaves behind a dying man, like a discarded rag, casualty of his twisted performance. The sound of his footsteps fades into the distance, carried off by darkness, leaving behind only the groaning man on the ground. You are frozen, frozen in place, as the man on the ground starts to move, slowly, weakly, lifting himself on his quivering arms. He speaks and his words are just a jumble of incoherent mumbo-jumbo, blurred with blood and agony. "Help me." he whispers, barely above a whisper, a plea barely reaching your ears. But you hear it. You hear it like a siren's call. He needs help. He's begging for it, his face twisted in agony, still so sweet even in his bloodied state. A part of you wants to be disgusted by it, wants to feel the horror of the moment, but the truth is—you don't feel anything anymore. The part of you that was human, that was once connected to sympathy, to empathy—it's gone. And the worst part? You don't care. Your eyes lock with his, dead, empty. And for a moment, you almost laugh. Because here he is, pleading for help, for mercy, with all his innocence shattered, and yet—he doesn't even know how little he matters to you. He doesn't realize how close to death he is. Your eyes slide down to the ground, to a small rock. It's nothing. A simple thing. Lying in the dirt. But it is all you need. You do not even hesitate. You take it, holding it in your hand, the weight of it, cold, solid, filling the hollow place inside you. You approach him, the blood-soaked man who still thinks he can beg for his life. So sweet. So innocent. So stupid. He looks at you approaching, his eyes widening in a mix of hope and confusion. "Please. help me." he manages to croak, reaching out a shaking hand toward you. And it's almost laughable. He thinks you're here to save him. But you aren't. Not anymore. You smile. It’s not a kind smile. It’s not a smile of sympathy or warmth. It’s a smile that says, "You shouldn’t have asked for help." You place the rock on his chest, pressing down, the pressure against the bloodied skin making him gasp in surprise. His weak attempts to push you away are futile, and with a twisted satisfaction, you press harder, forcing the rock into his ribs, into his lungs. The sound of his breath faltering, the desperation in his eyes—it only excites you more. You hit him once. Then twice. And again, until his cries for mercy dissolve into nothing. Until the last breath escapes him, and he slumps into silence. You don't feel that rush of adrenaline you thought you would. There's just. peace. A stillness that settles over you like a blanket. The world becomes quieter, emptier, and you realize—you've crossed a line now. You've killed, just like him. Just like the Butcher. But it doesn't matter. You never wanted to stop. The man's body lies motionless at your feet. You look down at him, expressionless, but a hint of satisfaction. You don't want him to crawl to the police. You don't want anyone to expose the Butcher. Because now, in a way, you are part of it. You're tangled in his web, drowning in it. You move away from the body, as if savoring the movement. Your movements are slow, deliberate. No racing heart, no fear or guilt.

The world slants, as if shifting ever so slightly, in your acquisition of him. One photograph at a time. Early on, you had harbored the briefest of reservations. But these fade away in the shadow of your obsession. The photographs are no longer about bringing the truth to light, about illuminating his murders. They are your collection now. His murders become a series of images, each one a little closer, a little more intimate, a little more personal. Each picture captures more than death in it; he is an artist, and you are just an unspoken observer, a notary of his sick masterpiece.

Each time you click the button, it feels like you have locked a little bit of him into your life. The photos fill your bedroom, heaps of them, thumbtacked onto the walls, strewn around the floor, a museum of decay and gore. The images are not murders; they're art. You look at them with a twisted, sick smile-one that feels like it's becoming your permanent expression. There's something exquisite about it, about the way the bodies lay, the way he moves through the scene, like an angel of death in black.

You've stopped photographing the victims in their final moments. That's his work. His art. You photograph the aftermath, the rotting remains, the decay, the beauty of it all—the perfect, graceful disintegration. Each mangled limb, every blood-streaked face, every violent distortion of life. it's beautiful in its chaos. The beauty of rot. It's the most honest thing you've ever seen.

You smile as you take another photo. How blind you were, you think, to believe you could reveal him. He was no beast. No, no. He was the Devil. The only thing to be worshipped. The way he carves through the world, killing with such grace, with such purpose—it mesmerizes you. How could you not have fallen for him? How could you resist the call of someone who truly understands the art of destruction, the art of chaos?

And yet, you never think about the implications. Never think about the danger, about how close you are to the edge. A part of you knows the truth—you're playing with fire. A serial killer. He might kill you if he finds out you're watching him, photographing him, collecting him. But that thought doesn't scare you. It excites you. The danger is the best part, isn't it?

You know how to hide the evidence. You’re good at this. Really good. You’ve studied, you’ve watched, you’ve learned. Lou Bloom’s tricks are now your tricks. How to manipulate, how to twist things so that they work in your favor. You’ve made it almost impossible for anyone to tie the killings to him. The photos are perfect—framed, timed, never too much, just enough. Each one is carefully staged, in a way that leaves no room for suspicion. The investigation? It won’t even get close to him. The police are laughingstocks. The public mocks them. The world has no clue. They’ll never catch him.

And the best part? You’re the one who gets to keep him. He’s your secret, your possession, your Devil. The only one who truly understands you. The police will never find him. And even if they do, what evidence could they possibly have? Every picture you've ever taken, every picture of his work, becomes twisted into your story, your narrative. He's just a shadow in the background, a blur in the world's eyes. You made him invisible.

The more you read in the beauty of these photos, the more you see it-the rot. It's everywhere now. In your room, inside your mind, inside your veins. You are the rot. You can almost be able to taste it on your tongue as you flip through each picture. Rotting, dying, mutated beauty of all of this. You are addicted to this. You feel nothing else now but the rush of something dark, something real. This is all that is left for you. This is all that matters now.

You're in love with him. Obsessed. Every waking thought is consumed by him, by his art, by the way he moves through this world leaving death in his wake. Obsession grows like a disease inside you. You don't care that you are losing yourself. The world's a mess; it's broken-and in that mess, in that broken place, he's the only real thing.

So you capture it. You capture the beauty of rot, the beauty of decay, with each shot of your camera. His killings, his art, his legacy. it's all yours now. And the best part? No one will ever know. No one will ever understand. You'll keep it all, locked away in your room, in your mind, in your heart.

And as you keep snapping pictures, you come to realize the most frightening thing of all. You are no longer just an observer. You are becoming him. You are becoming the Butcher's echo, his disciple. And you don't even care.

The rot has already spread.

It is a night heavier than it ought to be, as if the world itself held its breath in expectation. Every corner of your mind is drenched with his shadow. This is your obsession, your need, your unrelenting quest for beauty in his darkness. You have gotten used to the violence, the brutality-it has become your life now, your purpose, your twisted little obsession. His 666th killing on Valentine's Day, of all days. How sweet you'd looked, how just for the occasion. You'd dreamed of candy chocs to give him, of some gesture of affection to offer your warped muse, your idol. No, though, that might get you killed, and you weren't ready to go out with the best yet. Not when the story had just started.

You rushed to the scene, expecting thrills, expecting the moment of the kill; instead, there was the quiet of a deed done. The victim, now nothing more than an object to your camera's gaze, crumpled on the cold concrete, stained by blood. It was such a waste, but there was beauty in it all. Death curled around him like an old lover, softening his sharp edges with an aura of familiarity.

But something was different tonight. Change in the air, tension, pull toward something… something strange. You crouched down in readiness with camera, already thinking ahead to that shot, when you came upon something you hadn't counted on. A heart. Red hand-drawn heart, ink as red as blood—how perfect, how devilish.

A note was tucked beneath it. A message.

Your fingers were always a little shaky as you reached out to touch the paper, your heart racing with an odd mix of excitement and dread filling your veins. You carefully unfolded it, trying to keep back the rising tide of curiosity, the frantic hunger for whatever he'd left behind. Then, you saw it.

. Your breath catches, the edges of the paper smudged with something dark—a trail of blood, or was it something else? You don't know anymore. The note, delicately folded, reads as if it's written just for you, "How was your lil wish coming along, Y/n?"

Your mind freezes, your pulse racing. It's a whisper from the shadows, in his handwriting all too familiar. You never thought he'd take notice of you, not that he'd leave a message especially for you. Your heart thumps against your chest as you realize-he knows. He knows you've been watching. He knows you've been obsessed, cataloging every one of his killings, keeping them in your private collection like a warped trophy. But the idea of him knowing you personally fills you with a sense of excitement mixed with terror.

Everything becomes very quiet for an instant. Time stands still and it seems to bend a bit to the other way; noise and all becomes dull and suppressed. There comes that sick sort of intimacy again; it seems like he invites you into his world: that is, one of death and chaos and beauty. His gift lies in a crimson-stained heart lying upon the ground-a statement in kind saying, "I see you. Do you see me?

But before you can even process the rush of emotions tumbling through you, you hear it. A faint scraping sound, distant at first, like the dragging of metal across pavement, but then it grows louder, closer, more real.

Click. Click. Click.

A crowbar, dragging on the ground, the sound of metal scraping against asphalt like a slow death march. You turn, your stomach twisting in knots, and there he is.

The Butcher.

He stands in the shadows, a silhouette framed by dim streetlights. His presence is more imposing than you could ever have imagined. The faint glow from the flickering lights catches on his black leather jacket, the metallic glint of the scissors in his shoulders, the pin with the 'X' shining like a warning. His burgundy hair is wild and uncombed, falling in waves around his face, while his black eyes, those bottomless voids, pierce straight through you. You feel it in your chest, that shuddering gasp, your body betraying the mix of fear and desire that floods your veins.

The crowbar drags, leaving a line of marks in the dirt as he steps into the weak light. A cruel grin spreads across his face—half mocking, half something darker, more hungry. He's taking his time, letting the sound of his approach echo in the alley like a countdown to something you can't escape.

His voice is low, dripping with that same dangerous charm and yet carries with it an unnerving note of affection, like he's discovered a lost toy to play with.

"Well, well," he drawls, taking a step closer, his eyes never leaving yours. "What's this? My little photographer has been busy. haven't you, Y/n?" The way he says your name makes your heart skip, the intimacy of it feeling more like a threat than a compliment.

You can't say a word. Your mouth's dry, hands shaking as you let the camera slip from your fingers and feel it dangle loosely at your side. The thoughts scatter before you like smashed glass as you try to fit everything together: he shouldn't be here, he can't be here; but the note, the heart, the watching—how you feel he has been watching for all this.

“You’re quite good at this,” he muses, his voice smooth like silk but laced with an edge that makes your skin prickle. “Could almost say you’ve earned the right to be in my gallery.”

Your breath hitches at that—his gallery. The thought of being included in his twisted world, to be immortalized alongside his art, fills you with a sick satisfaction. You want it. You want to be closer to him. To know him, in the way only a few get to.

You’ve already given yourself over to him in your mind. You’ve already become part of his world—his chaos, his destruction. But now, he's here, standing right in front of you, and the way he looks at you. you’re not just an observer anymore. You’re a part of the performance.

His smile grows, and you can see the glint of madness in his eyes. He takes a step further; his crowbar is dragging behind him, and the scraping he leaves with it cuts across the electric tension in the air.

"Didn't think I'd find you so easily," he muses, going around you like a predator who's sizing up its prey. "But then again, you've been leaving quite the trail. haven't you, Y/n?"

And you know that, in a split second of clarity, that this isn't just some dark coincidence. This man has observed you, even studied you - as you so keenly would do with him. He can see your obsessiveness, this fascination. So now, play he wants.

The excitement in your chest builds and your pulse drums in your ears as you gaze into his face, your body shaking with the fear of something and yet being so hopeful.

You do not want to run. You can't run.

He's here. He is right in front of you

You stand there, speechless, eyes wide in shock and something else—something dark and exhilarating—as he steps closer, his presence overwhelming. You feel trapped, pinned against the cold brick of the alley wall, unable to move. He knows. He knows. His black eyes pierce through you like a dagger, and for a moment, all the air seems to leave your lungs. His grin is wicked, stretching across his face as he leans in, his breath warm against your skin. You can feel the weight of his words in the air before they even leave his mouth.

"I know about your little. incident," he says, his voice low, dark, teasing. "You thought you could hide it, huh? That rock you used, the way you finished him off. Cute. But you know what?" He presses closer, his breath cold now, a smile twisting at the edges of his lips. "I've been doing the same thing, just. slower, more artful."

The words crash into you, syllable by syllable, as if each word is a needle piercing your skin, but you don't even flinch. You can't. Instead, you find yourself hanging onto every word, every dark admission, every flicker of his twisted affection.

He's been watching. He's always been watching, just like you've been watching him.

And now, his hands are on you.

Oh god.

The raw electricity of it sends a jolt through your veins as he presses you harder against the wall, his strength overpowering, his body close enough for you to feel the heat of his skin through the layers of clothing. You can hardly breathe, trapped under the weight of his gaze. His fingers dig into your wrist, pulling you into his personal space, forcing you to feel the undeniable connection between the two of you. It's suffocating, thrilling, terrifying all at once.

A laugh, dark and mocking, slips past his lips. He knows you. He knows exactly how obsessed you've become, how desperately you've followed his every move. He sees your fascination, your twisted need to be a part of his world, to belong to him in some way.

"You're so fucking obsessed with me," he says, laughing again, like he finds the whole thing utterly amusing. "You're falling in love with death, aren't you? With the concept of it. And the best part?" He leans in closer, his lips brushing across your ear, his words slicing through the hollow of silence like a whisper of poison. "I'm the one gonna give it to you. I'll make you feel alive, even if you are dead inside."

And then, as if the entire tension breaks and he finally exhales, his voice is laced with something dangerous, a teasing edge that will cause your heart to double its pace,

"Wanna touch me?"

You hesitate just a second before your hands shoot out, trembling and determined, almost against your will. You want to touch him. You need to touch him. And when your fingers brush against his leather jacket, you feel that you have just signed your own death warrant—and yet, you want it.

"I want you to touch you to death," he whispers. "Make me feel like I'm breathing. Make me feel like I'm human."

You swallow, letting the weight of his words drop deep into your chest. You thought you were in control here. You thought you could be the one exposing him. Now. now you realize something warped and vile. You're his. You have always been his.

You wanted death, perhaps you even craved it, but now you see something else. This man, this butcher of souls, this twisted, grotesque force of nature, is beautiful.

The way he moves, the way he thinks—every action, every word, every killing, it's all a twisted artistry. You've seen it now. The beauty in the rot. The beauty in destruction. And you are more than willing to drown in it. You're willing to live for it. Or, maybe. die for it.

"You're already dead," he whispers again, this time with that same sickly sweet tone. "And so am I."

The world fades into nothingness, as you sink further into this madness. In your mind, you hear his voice—soft, seductive, dangerous—as the words become a mantra that you'll never escape.

"Darling, his looks can kill, so now you're dead. Maybe."

You smile, completely unattached, completely in love with the nightmare of it all. Your fate doesn't matter anymore. You're his now. His masterpiece, his creation. You can already feel the rot settling in your veins, the decay becoming a part of you, and you welcome it.

The perfect rot. The beautiful rot.on

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Insecurities

Insecurities - feelings of anxiety that make you question your worth, accomplishments, and values.

This lack of self-confidence impedes personal growth, relationships, and decision-making.

Different factors trigger feelings of inadequacy; however, some common causes of insecurities include a recent failure, past trauma, or unrealistic expectations.

While insecurity is a natural feeling to experience, chronic insecurity can harm your mental well-being.

Signs of Insecurity

Insecurities result in physical, mental, and emotional symptoms.

Common signs include anxiety, low self-esteem, depression, and self-isolation.

In a work setting, signs of insecurity include both perfectionism and low performance. While some people display job insecurity through an inability to recognize progress, others allow their insecurities to inhibit their performance.

Types of Insecurity

Different forms of insecurity have distinct effects on an individual’s self-worth. Below are a few common types of insecurity:

Body image insecurity: Those with body image insecurity feel insecure about how they look. Constantly comparing your outward appearance to unrealistic beauty standards is a common cause of a negative self-image. Severe cases of body image insecurity can result in disordered eating.

Job insecurity: Anxiety surrounding your professional life is also a type of insecurity. Job insecurity encompasses any form of self-doubt relating to your work life. This type of insecurity may include doubting your performance and worrying about factors outside your control, such as inflation and economic depressions.

Relationship insecurity: Unstable connections with loved ones can also result in insecurities. Relationship insecurity occurs when past experiences or feelings of doubt prevent you from feeling safe in your close relations. These feelings of self-doubt prevent individuals from trusting friends, family, and significant others.

Social anxiety: Feeling nervous or self-conscious in social situations is a common insecurity. Social anxiety describes feeling insecure in the presence of others. This type of insecurity typically stems from a fear of judgment and can prevent you from speaking up at work or interacting with friends and family members.

Impact of Insecurity

Insecurities can impact both your professional and personal well-being.

In a work environment, insecurities reduce self-confidence and hinder job performance.

From a personal standpoint, feelings of inadequacy negatively affect your relationships, resulting in jealousy and self-sabotage.

Allowing insecurities to dominate your mindset also prevents you from believing in yourself and achieving your goals.

How to Overcome Insecurities

Give yourself time to reflect and change as you overcome your insecurities. Consider the following tips for improving your mindset:

Build an uplifting social network. Developing healthy relationships with friends, family, and colleagues prevents insecurities associated with negative attachment styles. Set clear boundaries in your relationships, so you feel secure and valued in your connections. Engaging with loved ones is also a strategy for preventing negative thoughts and self-isolation.

Focus on meaningful hobbies. Dedicate free time to ventures that fill you with a sense of purpose and happiness. Stepping outside your comfort zone and learning something new provides you with a level of self-confidence that helps you overcome insecurities.

Foster positive thinking. Overcoming insecurities starts with how you interact with yourself. To build self-confidence, replace negative thoughts with positive affirmations that highlight your strengths. When you catch your inner critic thinking in a negative cycle, take a moment to stop and reflect. Forgive and remind yourself that mistakes are an opportunity for growth.

Practice self-care. Prioritize your emotional and mental health through mindfulness. One way you can incorporate mindfulness into your daily life is by practicing self-compassion. This form of self-care stems from treating yourself with the same level of kindness and care you dedicate to those around you.

Source ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[mlqueen89]

Glossary of Terms linked to (i love you) it's ruining my life - jake "hangman" seresin x f!oc

Ace (Flying Ace or Fighter Ace) = Military aviator credited with shooting down five or more enemy aircraft during aerial combat.

Avionics = Advanced processors and networking systems to fiber optics and conformal wideband antennas, etc.

Bandit = an aircraft identified and verified as enemy.

Bogey = radar or visual contact whose identity is unknown and not yet verified as an enemy. Bogey can also be a friendly once identified.

Break (right/left) = when an aircraft is instructed to sharply turn left/right, essentially "breaking" away from its current flight path to the left/right side

HUD = "Head-Up Display," for fighter pilots is a transparent screen in the cockpit that projects critical flight information directly into the pilot's line of sight, allowing them to view essential data like airspeed, altitude, heading, and weapon targeting details without needing to look away from the outside environment, maintaining situational awareness during flight operations. 

Lt. = Lieutenant (rank)

Lt. Cmdr = Lieutenant Commander (rank)

LTJG = Lieutenant Junior Grade (rank)

Preflight checks = a thorough inspection that pilots perform on an aircraft before each flight, meticulously examining its exterior, systems, controls, and documentation to ensure it is in a safe condition to fly, identifying any potential issues that could compromise flight safety by checking for damage, fluid levels, proper functionality of components, and reviewing necessary paperwork.

Qual(ification) hop = refers to a flight performed by a pilot to demonstrate proficiency in a specific skill or maneuver required for certification or qualification. In the military aviation world, pilots must complete these hops to be officially qualified to perform certain missions, fly specific aircraft, or execute advanced tactics.

RADM = Rear Admiral (rank)

RIO = Radar Intercept Officer (now known as WSO)

SAM(s) = Surface to Air Missile(s)

Splash = typically refers to the moment of impact when a bomb or missile hits its target, essentially signifying the detonation or "splash" of the explosive upon contact.

Tally = communication used to tell a controller they are about to engage enemy aircraft. Also used to announce to the squadron leader (or other person of command in the flight) the spotting of an enemy aircraft.

Telemetry = the collection of data from a remote and usually fast-moving device for measurement purposes. It is used in aircraft/missile testing to track moving objects in action or collect data provided by instruments and sensors on the test object.

Tone = fighter pilot speak for a missile or weapons lock. When a pilot is tracking a target the computer will beeping as it acquires a lock-on, which changes to a continuous tone when lock is established.

VFA = Strike Fighter Squadron

Weapons envelope = the area around the bandit where your missiles or gun can be effective.

WSO = Weapons System Operator (formerly known as RIO)

NATOPS F-18 Manual

Am I missing any? Send me an ask!

[teeheeandhaha]

Malibu

Joost Klein x reader

summary: six months after the breakup with Joost you are set to perform at Eurovision, but there’s one thing you didn’t expect: he’s competing too. When you find out through a Eurovision Instagram post—after months of no communication from him about it—your emotions erupt.

a/n: let's act like you wrote the song Malibu by Miley Cyrus I've been listening to it on repeat and came up with this

♡-------------------

Months of preparation and rehearsals have led you here—to Eurovision. But you never imagined it would come to this. Starting out as a YouTuber and streamer, you never thought of yourself as a "real" singer. Sure, you’ve uploaded a few songs to Spotify, but you didn’t exactly promote them or talk about them when someone mentioned it. It was just a side project—nothing to make a big deal about. But now, here you are, competing on the grand stage of Eurovision with Malibu—a song full of memories you wish you could forget.

It was six months ago when you and Joost broke up. A mutual, friendly breakup. You were still talking, sneaking into each other’s houses when a party got too out of hand, drinking too much, and waking up in his bed. That was until three months ago, when Joost started talking to somebody else. You’d only met her once, and it didn’t last long—just three weeks. You found it almost comical how quickly it ended. But what stung the most was that he tried to reach out to you after, but you were done.

Joost sent texts every now and then—casual, almost like nothing had changed—but you kept your responses short. “I’m fine. Hope you’re good.” That sort of thing. Eventually, the texts stopped coming. You haven’t heard from him since.

But you remember clearly telling him about Eurovision. You’d shared your excitement, your nerves, how much it meant to you. You hadn’t expected him to be overly excited, but you did expect him to acknowledge it. To care. Instead, he said nothing. Nothing at all.

As you sit on the couch scrolling through the Eurovision hashtag, you freeze. Your thumb stops moving. You blink. There it is—Joost Klein. A picture of him with his name and Netherlands next to it, proudly displayed in the official post.

He’s performing.

Jesus fucking Christ.

A bitter laugh escaped your lips as you stared at the screen, your heart a mess of anger and disbelief. You’d given him space to move on—hell, you were moving on too, even if it didn’t feel like it most days—but this? This felt like a punch to the gut. He knew how much this meant to you, and yet, it was like he didn’t even care.

You leaned back, staring at the ceiling, trying to calm the storm inside you. Eurovision was supposed to be your moment. A fresh start. And now, Joost was part of it too, whether you liked it or not. The thought of having to face him, especially knowing he had kept this huge detail from you, made your stomach churn. 

The night before the first performance was always the wildest at Eurovision. Fans and performers alike were all gathered at the lavish pre-show party. Glittering lights, loud music, and the heavy buzz of excitement filled the air, everyone trying to get in one last bit of fun before the nerves hit for real.

You hated it.

You didn’t hate the excitement or the glittering lights or the music—it was the one thing you could never get used to. The crowds. The noise. The fake smiles and small talk. It was supposed to be a celebration of your hard work, but instead, it felt like a carnival of everything you wanted to avoid.

You’d told yourself you were ready for this. Ready for the competition. Ready for the performance. But tonight? Tonight, you just wanted to be anywhere but here. Maybe you should’ve stayed in your room, but your manager had insisted you come. Networking, they’d said. It’s good for your image.

Yeah, good for your image—if you didn’t mind pretending to be friends with people who were more interested in how many Instagram followers you had than anything else.

But there was something else nagging at you, more than the crowds or the fake smiles. The thought of him. Joost.

You hadn’t expected to see him tonight, honestly. With the way you kept your distance from him over the last few months, you figured he’d stay in the VIP section, ignoring everyone in the public crowd, just like he always did. But there he was, standing by the bar in the corner of the room, casually talking to someone, his broad shoulders leaning against the wooden counter.

Your heart skipped a beat. He looked good. Too good. Dressed in his signature style—slightly messy hair, and a casual yet sharp jacket that made him look effortlessly cool. It wasn’t even that he was just attractive; it was the way he carried himself—like everything was perfectly in place. And, that was what made you want to break something.

Taking a deep breath, you turned away from him, keeping your distance as you made your way to a quieter corner. No way were you going to let this night be ruined by him. You were here to make a name for yourself, not to fall into old patterns.

You needed space. The music, the laughter, the flashing lights—everything about the party felt like it was closing in on you. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think straight. Joost was here, in the same room, and you couldn’t avoid him any longer.

Grabbing your coat, you made your way to the nearest exit, slipping out into the cool night air, hoping to find some solace.

The fresh air hit you instantly, and you breathed it in, feeling a little more like yourself. The chaos inside felt miles away now.

You reached into your pocket for a cigarette, flicking the lighter open with practiced hands. You never used to smoke—at least, not like this. You’d occasionally share a vape with friends when they came over, or maybe grab a drunken cigarette at a party. But it wasn’t until Joost came into your life that the habit became real. He’d always be outside with his cigarette, leaning against something casually, as if the world outside didn’t matter. It made you want to be a part of it, too. Before you knew it, you found yourself lighting up as well, the action feeling strangely comforting.

You took a deep drag, the smoke curling into the night air, and tried to let go of the thoughts swirling around in your head.

But you weren’t alone for long.

“Hey.”

You turned to see it was Alanis—Joost’s best friend and one of your own, too. She gave you a tentative smile, her eyebrows furrowed in concern. Of course, she’d come after you. Alanis always had a way of showing up when emotions were running high.

“What’s up?” you asked, trying to keep your tone neutral.

She leaned against the railing next to you, crossing her arms. “You okay? I saw you slip out. It’s... a lot in there, huh?”

“Yeah. A lot.” You took another drag from your cigarette, looking down at it as if it would answer all your questions. “Why’s Joost here?”

Alanis’ eyes softened, a familiar look of understanding in them. She knew how this was for you. How it used to be.

She sighed, glancing at the party behind you before speaking quietly. “Eurovision’s been his dream since he was a kid, you know that.”

You exhaled sharply, flicking the ash off your cigarette. Of course, you knew that. Joost had never shut up about Eurovision. He’d talked about it endlessly, the way it had been his escape, his hope. For his parents, he’d always say, and every time, you would nod along, because you understood. You’d been there with him, supported him every step of the way. He had always dreamed of this, but now?

Now, the anger welled up again. The same familiar frustration you hadn’t felt in months. You could feel your blood beginning to boil.

“I know, Alanis. I know,” you said through clenched teeth. “But why the hell didn’t he tell me he was performing? Why didn’t he mention it to me when I told him about Eurovision?”

Alanis’ expression faltered, her lips pressing into a tight line. She glanced around the street, clearly uncomfortable. “He’s always had this... this fear of disappointing people. You know how he is. Maybe he didn’t want to upset you, especially after... well, everything that happened.”

You shook your head, frustration bubbling over. “I know it sucks. He should have said something, you should have heard it from him, but—”

“But what?” You cut her off, tossing your cigarette to the ground. “I mean, seriously? I told him how excited I was. I told him I was going to be here, doing this. And he says nothing.”

Alanis seemed to hesitate for a moment, her gaze shifting uneasily. “Maybe... he didn’t know how to handle it. Maybe he thought it would make things worse, or... I don’t know.” She shrugged, eyes softening. “He’s still figuring things out, just like you are.”

You turned away, running a hand through your hair. “I’m figuring things out? What the hell does that even mean? What’s left to figure out, Alanis?”

Alanis stepped closer, placing a hand on your arm gently. “Look, I’m not trying to take his side. But... Joost’s been through a lot. Eurovision’s the biggest thing in his life, and I think, for him, it’s not just about the performance. It’s for his parents. You know, the ones who never got to see him achieve this. He wants to make them proud. He’s always wanted that.”

You stood there, the weight of her words sinking in. You knew all of that—knew it intimately. You had heard him talk about his parents, seen how much their memory shaped everything he did. But that didn’t change the fact that he hadn’t told you. And maybe that hurt more than the rest of it combined. He had always kept you close, shared his dreams with you... but this? This felt different. And you were angry.

You stood in front of the mirror backstage, the weight of the moment pressing down on your shoulders. The buzz of the crowd outside, the excitement in the air—it should have been exhilarating. But instead, all you felt was the crushing weight of the tension, the gnawing uncertainty.

Your fingers hovered over the makeup kit in front of you, but your mind was elsewhere. You should have been concentrating on your look, but instead, your thoughts drifted to Joost. He was out there now, performing his heart out on the Eurovision stage. You couldn’t help it. You had to know.

You put down the makeup brush in your hand, wiped your fingers on a tissue, and made your way toward the small TV monitor at the edge of the room. A few other performers were gathered around, nervously talking to each other, but you ignored them, your gaze locked on the screen.

The familiar sound of the crowd cheered as Joost’s name was announced, and you instinctively held your breath. You could feel your heart racing in your chest, your eyes glued to the screen. You knew it was happening, but somehow, watching him step onto that massive stage made everything feel real.

With a deep breath, you turned away from the screen, trying to shake off the lingering feelings. There was no time for distractions. You were here for a reason.

The stage was a sea of lights, bright and blinding, but you hardly noticed them as you stood at the center. The weight of the microphone in your hand was grounding, the feel of the cool metal a subtle reminder that this was real. You took a deep breath as the first chords of the song played softly through the speakers. The gentle strum of the guitar filled the arena, and you closed your eyes for just a moment, letting the music pull you into the moment.

The audience was a distant hum, but your mind—your heart—was somewhere else entirely. Somewhere in the past, to a time when you thought you had all the answers, before everything between you and Joost changed.

You started the first verse, your voice clear but soft, the words so personal they nearly caught in your throat.

It was like a weird cruel joke that the universe was playing on you, you had three dancers up there with you two dressed in black suits and one in a blue suit an annoying coincidence that Joost was also performing in blue, You weren't ready for all the questions after the performance something your manager tried to help you through but now with Joost here it'll only be about your past relationship with him and being put on the spot 24/7.

After the performance, your manager noticed you staring, their hand lightly pressing against your back as they guided you through the maze of people. "Hey, focus," they said, trying to get you back on track. "Remember, this is your moment, alright? Let’s keep it positive. Let’s not get caught up in—"

"Do you think they’ll ask me about him?" You blurted out, cutting them off before they could finish.

They hesitated for a moment, clearly trying to pick their words carefully. "I can’t stop the press, but you don’t have to answer any questions you don’t want to. Just... stay focused on you. Stay focused on your journey."

But that didn’t reassure you, not when you saw the flashes of cameras and the reporters hanging around the edge of the crowd, eager to ask about the relationship that had been the talk of the town for months. The breakup. The tension. The fact that, once again, Joost was right there—right in the middle of your moment.

You took a few deep breaths, trying to clear your head. But it was impossible. Every time you looked around, you saw him. There, in the distance, talking to some of the other contestants. Laughing with the same easy charm you remembered, the one that used to make your heart flutter. It made the anger and frustration surge inside you, like a storm rising.

The reporters were swarming now, looking for their next headline. They zeroed in on you immediately, microphones and cameras raised high, ready to ask the questions they knew would get the best reaction.

"How do you feel about Joost Klein also being here?" one reporter asked, their voice dripping with a mix of curiosity and anticipation.

You could feel your chest tighten at the mention of his name, but you forced yourself to smile. "I’m focused on my performance," you said, your tone sharp, but not giving away the anger bubbling underneath. "I’m here for me, and this is about my journey."

But they wouldn’t let it go. They never did. One reporter pressed, “Everyone’s talking about your past with Joost, the way your relationship ended—do you think that affects your chances here?”

The words hit you like a slap to the face. Of course, they would. The press loved drama. They lived for it. And all you wanted was to be left alone, to exist on this stage without being reduced to your past.

Every question about Joost, every lingering glance in his direction, would bring the same pain flooding back. You could already feel the endless loop of questions that would follow you everywhere: Do you still talk to him? Are you getting back together? How does it feel to perform with the same intensity as your ex?

It was a sickening feeling. And the worst part was that you didn’t know if you were strong enough to shut them all down, to fight back against the narrative that everyone seemed so eager to write for you.

But then you caught yourself. You had fought so hard to get here. To this moment. And no matter how much Joost or the media tried to pull you back into the past, you weren’t going to let them steal your future.

You forced a smile, shaking off the bitterness. "I’m just here to perform. That’s all I want to do."

And with that, you took a step forward, your manager beside you, ready to shield you from the rest of the madness. 

The chaos of the press, the frantic energy backstage, the constant questioning about Joost—it all started to blur together as you took a deep breath. You needed a moment to yourself, a place where you could escape the circus of Eurovision. You hadn’t prepared yourself for the wave of emotion that came crashing down after your performance.

You stepped away from the crowd, slipping into a quiet corridor that led out to the back of the venue. The cool air hit your face as you leaned against the wall, closing your eyes and letting the silence engulf you. You’d done it. You’d given the performance of your life, poured your soul into every note—but that wasn’t what was consuming your thoughts right now.

It was him. Joost.

The silence between you and Joost was heavy, more so than you had expected. His face was inches from yours, the vulnerability in his eyes making your chest tighten.

You had hoped, when you decided to take a step outside for a moment of peace, that you wouldn’t have to face this. But now that he was here, standing in front of you, you felt the weight of everything you’d left unsaid.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You found yourself asking, the words coming out sharper than you intended. “Why didn’t you tell me you were here? You knew I was coming. We talked about this, Joost.”

He hesitated for a moment caught of guard by your directness “Im sorry.. I really am i shouldve told you” he said softly, as if trying to explain away the silence. "I thought it would be easier if I just stayed out of the way, gave you space."

“Staying away? Joost, this is a big deal! You talked about this all the time. We could've done this together!” You couldn’t keep the edge from creeping into your voice. Your pulse was pounding, frustration mounting as your words cut through the tension between you.

Joost’s eyes widened for a moment before a hint of frustration flashed across his face. He stepped forward, his voice rising slightly, his hands clenched at his sides. “Really? Three months, and you haven’t even tried to make a normal conversation with me. For three months, nothing! And what about the three months before that? Sure, our relationship wasn’t the same, but we were still talking. You’d sleep over at my place every now and then! Did our relationship mean nothing to you?”

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself as Joost’s words hit harder than you expected. He was angry, and it was hard to keep up with his pace. But the frustration was bubbling up inside you, too. It wasn’t just the breakup anymore; it was everything that came after it—the silence, the feeling of being abandoned by someone who once cared for you.

Joost’s face fell slightly, the anger in his eyes fading, replaced by something else—regret, maybe, or guilt. “I didn’t know what to do! I didn’t know how to fix it... I was scared. I thought that if I gave you space, if I just let you breathe, maybe you’d want to talk to me again. But instead, you shut me out.”

Your hands tightened into fists at your sides, trying to calm your racing thoughts. “Space? Joost, you disappeared when I needed you. I didn’t need space. I needed you to show up, to talk to me like we used to. But I never heard from you. And when you started seeing someone else, I thought maybe... maybe I could finally move on, too.”

He exhaled sharply, taking a step back, his gaze shifting away from yours for a moment. “It wasn’t like that. It didn’t work out, and I didn’t want you to feel like I replaced you. I never wanted to replace you.”

“But you did,” you said softly, almost too quietly. “You didn’t tell me what was happening in your life, and it felt like I didn’t even matter. I kept waiting for you to reach out, but you didn’t. And then, when you did, it was only because things fell apart with her. It felt like you only cared when it suited you.”

Joost looked down at the ground, the weight of your words settling between you. He seemed lost, not knowing how to respond. His voice, when he finally spoke again, was quieter, almost apologetic. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I swear I didn’t. I just didn’t know how to keep going after everything that happened. And now... now it’s like everything I do, it just makes it worse.”

You let out a shaky breath, the anger draining from your body, leaving you exhausted. “Joost, I’m not asking you to fix everything. I’m just asking you to be honest. To stop pretending like I don’t matter. You had your chance to tell me what was going on, and you chose to stay silent.”

There was a long pause. Joost opened his mouth, but no words came out. His hands fell to his sides, defeated. For the first time in a long time, you felt like you were talking to the Joost you once knew—the one who didn’t hide behind walls or silence.

“I didn’t want to lose you,” he said quietly, finally meeting your gaze. “I still don’t.”

♡-------------------

Pt2?????? 👀

[daemon-in-my-head]

Bout that essay titled 'A study of Gortash's twisted love of humanity'- yk what fuck it here goes nothing. Back into a facists megalomaniacs mind we go. Spoiler; this is long.

But first of all; let's do a thought experiment. Let's just assume, for shits and giggles, Gortash's position would've somehow been swapped with any other the other chosen or another Banite:

Let's start with the Banites: if we had gotten anyone except for Gortash Baldur's Gate would've been fucked. Like genuinely. Banites are cruel, vicious, unashamedly gaudy (they suck ass at infiltration missions) and they exploit loopholes perhaps even better than fiends. Any other Banite would've simply reveled in the fear caused by rampant myrkulites and bhaalists and probably stoked that fire by employing some of their own forces. And depending on whether the Zhents join the winning side or not they would've probably used and abused the black network to absolutely dominate trade and potentially choke out every non desirable in the city itself by fun activities such as grand scale slavery, starving an entire city, or simply employing enough mercenaries and some Bhaalist to get the job done. Banites fuck everyone over so hard they usually don't even stop at themselves, and prideful cruel beings who know absolutely no bounds in their desire for power commonly don't hesitate, especially not Banites who thrive in backstabbing. So the other chosen and the grand design are fucked cuz they will most certainly get removed for the sake of someone more desirable the second they somehow irk Banes favourite toy. Which in some specific cases (all of them) would be in 5 minutes flat. If you thought the local nobility was bad just wait until you see a Banite in their natural environment.

Ketheric: Yeah Baldur's Gate is fucked. Ketheric cares about one thing and one thing only; Isobel. And he employs a bunch of sadistic necromancers who have no concept of personal boundaries or consent for that matter, so chances are he'd let them roam freely in Baldur's Gate, making the streets a huting ground for his followers to find prime subjects to perform inhumane experiments on all while he turns a blind eye; either busy trying to get Isobel under his (mind-) control, reviving her or treating a brainless puppet that looks and once was his daughter like his one true solution to decades of grief and fucking up. He wouldn't care about what happens to the city, to the other chosen or even the grand design. He'd follow his gods orders but thats about it and no matter whether that's still Myrkul or Bane; everyone's fucked cuz surpringly the guy who adores lichdom more than life and the other guy who'd rather 'burn everyone's fields than loose' aren't about to give out any orders that will benefit anyone but themselves.

Orin: Another great case of 'yeah Baldur's Gate is fucked'. Orin wants one thing and one thing only: recognition. Preferably from Bhaal but she'd take anyone at this point. The problem about this whole thing is, she's been conditioned and instilled with so much self-loathing my dearest murder princess can't even begin to realise when she's getting shown any sort of adoration anymore and immediately understands it as mockery, see, for example, her butler. Is what I would say if their corpse wasn't chilling in Durges old bedroom. All Orin would do is stage ever grander and more elaborate public massacres and involuntary 'anatomy displays'. Baldur's Gate wouldn't simply be fucked; give her a week, and the majority of it would be dead. This works well for Bhaal, but for anyone else, it would kinda suck. Including the other two of the dead three. And the cult would probably still loathe her simply due to her not being a true Bhaalspawn, so cue Orin's madness reaching an absolute boiling point. She doesn't and would never care for any of the other chosen or the grand design. Unless she's reigned in, she's a utterly loose canon, even more so than she was already, with Gortash or Durge at the helm, respectively.

Now time for my favourite of the reckless murder hobos; Durge. Given the few in game notes we have Durge had a thing for obliteration. Including but not limited to every living being + themselves. So let's just assume Gortash’s cocky upstart charm and Orins assassination attempt didn't work out as planned and they are still the de facto leader but now without any leash. Baldur's Gate is probably obliterated. Alongside whatever else remains of the sword coast. Or Troil. They'd probably also have some weird ass fuck relationship with the brain cuz they already did without being the undisputed leader. And the brain would probably discard the grand design themselves cuz somehow Durge has that effect on things (might be the innate charm magic of Bhaalist priests that they use to convince people to join a literal murder cult). Either way, with Durge not giving a single damn about the other chosen, any plans but Bhaals (or their misunderstood version of it) and a dramatic love for self-obliteration, it may finally be time to remedy the elves' mistake and rip Abeir-Toril apart properly. Ao hates this trick, alongside everyone else, probably including Bhaal himself.

Which is all my longwinded way of saying; Gortash is the lesser evil. In any set of circumstances he displays enough leniency, monster fucker vibes and rationality to somehow keep this ruined, sinking ship from hitting the sea floor immediately. He has enough of a twisted love for humanity left, compared to the others, to a degree that he doesn't blindly follow orders or actively seeks the destruction of everything, let alone 'true' domination the way Bane intends to have it.

But yes, indeed, Gortash performed fucked up and cruel experiments. No doubt about that. And yet it was still on a lesser scale than a mad massive hoard of necromancers could, and his experiments, for the most part, actually yielded results, didn't they? Presumably, the Coginator and the remote control brain mechanism used for the Steelwatch. After all, there are zombies(?) in there, controlling that shit. However, the experiments on loving families were probably one of his selfish indulgences and his sorry attempt at figuring out if he was just born loathsome and his family sucks ass or if that's normal and humanity doesn't deserve a second chance. Or a 30th. FR lore is fucked up.

This is also a great transition to exhibit B of my thesis why Gortash does in fact love or is at the very very very least heavily intrigued by humanity; the sole existence of the Steelwatch. Listen, my guy serves Bane. Bane hates planning. He likes immediate results. So much so he actively pisses off his situationship Bhaal for it. Repeatedly. And he likes fear and tyranny. So what do you think the chances are that the black hand would actually enjoy the thought of a mecha army patrolling the streets of Baldur's Gate, keeping them save, and worst of all, instilling hope in the hearts of the populous, peasants and nobles alike? Yeah, absolutely fucking none. And yet Gortash did that. And he's not even just a regular banite. He's Banes chosen. He carries a part of Bane's divinity within himself. He has the de facto highest position in the local faith. He's Banes favourite toy rn. He's the centre of attention and he still goes out of his way to use things that could 1000% inspire fear and hatred to sow fucking hope and a sense of safety of all things in plain sight? I bet his adorable wrinkly ass that Bane wasn't happy and that even a thousand rituals to redeem his leniency won't save him from getting tortured extra hard for this fuck up. And considering the state of the Banites scriptures we found, and his entire character, Gortash is smart enough to know this is something Bane absolutely loathes. And yet my guy did that.

Another thing is the hive mind. Bane would probably not hate it outright, as its still 'burning the fields' by turning souls illithid, but it's wasted potential. Because there's so many great things you can do with a hivemind and the remote control over people's thoughts and emotions, for example instilling fear and terror the very things Bane loves. But that's, once again, not Gortash plan. If the notes and one of the evil endings is anything to go by the hivemind doesn't trap people in a state of torment, it does the polar opposite. People are happy, enjoying a better, simpler and nicer life. Enjoying an idea of what their life could've been like. They're smiling, happy, enjoying a casual market stroll and the bountiful rewards of the fields. Which is all things that a good Banite should hate and never inflict on someone. AND YET that's presumably Gortashs plan. Create a hivemind where everyone can dream happily and do soulless labour without noticing it while the world goes to absolute shit but the people do not. It's basically noah's arc. It's paradise in hell. The people are 'saved' while the gods continue to fight their petty games, and Gortash alone lords over this perfect dream. Protecting it answer using it to advance further.

Now, about the busts found in his office. Most of them depicted rather unsavoury, cruel people. Except for one. Which honours a self made person who took pity on those who had less. On those considered lesser by the upright and honourable citizens of the Gate. It's weird how, between all those symbols and testaments to cutlery and tyranny, there's still a sliver of empathy, renegade justice and even care for fellow humans imbued, isn't it? And what's even weirder, all of them are found in Gortash's most private place? His own little office hidden far above the grandeur of the throne room and the Fortress, where he sits at the helm, lording over his subjects and scheming his little plans? This is an excellent example of show, don't tell btw. It's hitting you over the head with the implications. But just in case, this might very well be a reflection of Gortashs mind itself and the visible expression of him being incapable of letting go of humanity as a whole, still carrying it somewhere not even that well buried between the resentment and cruelty but out in plain view for everyone curious enough to touch it because what others reason would he have tob'play the benelovent ruler' in a place where no one sees it? Where only his most trusted and fellow Banites mingle?

And, ofc, as I am a durgetash truther, another exhibit. Him fucking Bhaals gore baby and putting a leash on it prematurely. You see, I've already talked about Banes likes and dislikes plenty so it should come as no surprise that the Edgelord Surpreme wouldn't hate carnage wrought upon foolish mortals by idiots who follow lesser gods than himself, since it would still somehow contribute to people being scared and panicking. But Gortash, being the ever faithful fuck up of a Banite, reigns in the Bhaalist and even the Myrkulites enough for that to kinda never really happen. He stopped the carnage from happening altogether, in fact, by giving the others enough scraps to keep them satisfied and from acting out but not enough freedom to fuck up his plans. I mean, heck he was apparently so convincing he managed to get Durge, again, biggest fan of self-obliteration, from going on an apocalyptic rampage cuz 'daddy I like his brain and I don't mean for dinner'. Him doing that actively contributed to preventing another Bhaalspawn crisis, which could've very well happened with Bhaals resurgence and revival, 2.5 loose canons and no ward of a random old guy in sight. But also him providing a clear goal and orders for Ketheric kept the lich from giving in to the sweet release of just not caring at all whatsoever. Everyone had their designated roles and boundaries and that was perhaps the only thing keeping this group of mentally unstable creatures from unleashing an apocalyptic nightmare; which again would've worked in their gods favour and technically didn't need any prevention.

And about the Gondians... Yeah this is gonna sound fucked up, cuz it is, but Gortash is actually treating them exceptionally nice. Their families are actually still alive and its not just a lie he's telling them, we don't actually see anyone getting flayed, strung up or tortured in some other way outright, they actually get to wear clothes and presumably they're fed enough to a degree that most of them can still somewhat work and the collar and the threat of your head exploding does suck but he could've also simply chained them to their work stations but they aren't. Let alone use charms or other beguiling and fucked up magic to force them into complacency. And they're not being resold or redistributed or forced to serve some random ass guy. The Gondians are, from a Forgotten Realms and probably Bane's perspective, treated exceptionally well. As are their families. Still undoubtedly fucked up and kinda sadistic with the whole explosion collar but objectively speaking he's one of the nicer slave masters. And they do allow him to produce the Steel Watchers en mass which once again contributes to the overall safety of Baldurs Gate and its other citizens. Still the lesser evil.

Though to be fair; Gortash also did some things Bane would really celebrate. Like somehow cheating his way into obtaining the Iron Throne, fucking Bhaals favourite and most fucked up """"child"""" and of course, keeping his parents alive and in agony to eternally fuel Banes fear kink. Except, it's only Sally who's afraid. Dravo is basically a blue screen of death personified at this point. He's a hollow, numb husk, isn't he? So somehow this once again doesn't align with Banes goals and Gortash's duty as a Banite. He's fucked it up again. But Gortash could've also simply killed them if all he wanted was revenge. Why go out of your ways, program elaborate scripts into them, keep the very place that testaments his fucked up past in good condition? Because a quick death would be too merciful? But then why is he so quick to turn on Durge if they betray him in a much smaller scale than his parents did. Well, perhaps he chose not to simply kill the very people who prepared Belladonna in the kitchen when he came to visit because he himself still needs them. Because underneath all that rage and spite there's still a broken boy who wants to hear his parents, albeit empty praise, and who wants to prove to them that he can be better? That his useless playing around actually helped better humanity, that he himself helped countess people and made lives better when all they thought he'd be useful as would be a pawn?

So, is it twisted? Yes. Is it rotten? Absolutely. Is it anything you'd consider to be 'conventional'? Absolutely not. But he does hold some wildly fucked up 'love' for humanity, if only as means to a grander goal (that being himself, ofc) or perhaps cuz he's genuinely incapable of letting go. Whether it's that, to spite Raphael, Bane and his parents or someone else, who knows. Probably nobody. But the shit he does is unorthodox and oddly self-sacrificial in a way where I just can't go, 'yeah no he absolutely loathes the sheer existence of the concept'.

I still think it's a missed opportunity he's not trying to build a spelljamming port though. I feel like he would absolutely do that somewhere down the line, if only to limit the black networks influence.