#[ is reflected so much in your grandson

[marinehero]

oh i was NOT expecting them to say it outright

#{ ooc } ✗ 「 wenp reporter 」 #opla spoilers #[ 'reminds me of another pirate we knew back in our glory days' 'don't say it' #[ opla is giving me so much vindication like you would not Believe???? #[ i have been winning So much on the old man front #[ but also just Slams Fist on FLOOR. #[ garp @ roger head in Hands #[ just!!! how do you cope that a man who's your greatest enemy on paper who you couldn't help but love #[ is reflected so much in your grandson #[ wanting to protect him to the point of suffocation etc etc #[ sighs #[ fucked up though go on a dinner date only to talk about your ex-- /lh /lh #[ head in god damn hands #[ they can't just bring up old gen stuff and expect me to be Normal about it this isnt Fair #[ going to sleep bc its. 3am and i have class in the morning but MAN. #[ <- might cave and add an LA garp verse bc the concept of garp being that much more overprotective is increasingly fascinating to me #[ kind of thing that i'd do for an au except its A version of canon now......

[marinehero-a]

     once again thinking ab au’s where garp actually acted during ace’s execution </3

#{ ooc } ✗ 「 WENP reporter 」 #[ just #[ shakes fist #[ do i think it should have happened emotionally yes realistically no #[ i absolutely adore garps character and how marineford rly reflected his conflicts (coughs at this entire blog---) #[ but just. what ifs.... what /ifs/ for real #[ in helping to save ace he loses Everything and he Takes so much #[ just already talked ab everything b4 from consequences as the marine hero to betraying his closest friend sengoku etc etc #[ but just. thinks ab it still #[ when you throw away your entire life legacy relationships and more for your grandsons #[ and you cant bring yourself to regret saving them because you do love them but how do you cope with the fact you uprooted #[ and stabbed in the back Everything and everyone you've stood for and also loved #[ by simply avoiding it ofc but also shakes peepaw #[ there is no world where garp doesn't lose and i think thats neat of his character <3 its ab the tragedy in a bastard clownshaped old man #[ and just #[ always thinking ab how he wanted for ace n luffy to be strong marines so that they would be safe despite their blood #[ even when he Knew that it would've suffocated them and they wouldn't have been able to thrive but at least they'd be safe #[ at least he could protect them #[ he doesnt Know or Understand how to be a good guardian so he does things his way and he is So bastard for it!! he tries but its not enough #[ and instead of trying something else he tries harder and he rly needs to be shaken like a rat but he cant tell anyone ab it so he wont #[ simply! #[ thinks ab him a normal amount real

[lemonlover1110]

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐬

Satoru Gojo

[Chapter 11] Date

← Previous Chapter - Story Masterlist - Next Chapter →

Pairing: Satoru Gojo x f!Reader

Discord +18 - Twitter - Ko-Fi

“I’d love to go on a date with you.”

You find yourself all giddy the next morning when you’re at the Gojo estate, trying your best to pay attention to your boss. Mrs. Gojo is trying on a dress, trying to see if it’s the best fit for the charity event that’s coming up– You remember it being two months away, but she begins to prepare for it now. 

Working for her has been a delight since you don’t have to do much around. She wants you to stay away from Satoru. However, she called up this weekend for this. She tugs on the sides of the dress and tells you, “Call the tailor, I spent too much money on this dress to not wear it. Also I need you to send flowers to the Inumaki family and make sure they’re coming.”

And the more time you spend with her, you realize that she’s practically running the company by making sure the connections the family has are intact. The more you do, the more you realize that the majority of people don’t believe Satoru is adept enough to take over his father’s job. He was going to take over the company someday anyway, everyone knew so, you’re not sure why so many people are against it.

It almost makes you feel bad for Satoru, but you don’t. It’d take a lot more for you to feel bad for that man. You hum in response, and write down a reminder for yourself. She lists a bunch of other things that you have to do, and you write each one down, and what she notices from the reflection of her mirror is that there’s a smile on your face, “What is up with you?”

“Um… Nothing, ma’am.” You respond. You watch from the reflection of the mirror as her brows furrow. She walks away from the mirror and grabs her glass of water. She takes a sip of her water before putting it down again.

“What has my son said to you?” She asks, and you’re not sure what she’s talking about since Satoru hasn’t really talked to you. You haven’t even gotten the chance to see him this morning, so you’re not sure why she asks that question.

“I haven’t spoken to him.” You answer, and she wants to believe you. But there’s a reason you have a stupid smile glued to your lips, and she’s certain it’s because of her son.

“Then why are you so smiley today?” And your brows raise. You find yourself confused as to why she thinks her son has to do with your happiness. She should know better than that. Her son has caused you anything but happiness in the past five years. 

“I have a date tonight, it has nothing to do with Satoru.” You end up sharing, which she has no problem believing. Satoru is busy tonight, and she knows that it’s not with you. She won’t pry about your personal life, unless it becomes serious and the man can become her grandson’s possible step father.

“Alright.” She responds, and you worry that she’ll push the subject, but she doesn’t seem to care. “Did you already handle catering?”

“I did.” You answer. She begins to ask about stuff that he has handled, stupid trifling details. You feel as if she’s worrying about the most trivial things. Satoru might be new at this, but he isn’t a complete idiot. “You don’t have to worry about anything, ma’am, your son has it covered.”

“Are you sure he does, though? He’s not a man that seems to care about tiny details, and they’re important. Especially in this world.” She responds, and you know better than to refute that argument. She might be right about the fact that tiny details are important, but she underestimates her son. You’ve seen Satoru work his ass off and he seems to care about every tiny detail, but you aren’t going to waste your breath defending Satoru; you doubt that he’s ever defended you, and you’re not going to risk arguing with Mrs. Gojo for him. “I don’t need you anymore. Do what I told you to, and then you can leave.”

“Alright.” You begin to walk to the door, but you hear her voice which makes you stop in your tracks.

“How’s Ren, by the way?” She asks.

“He’s fine.” You respond. She doesn’t say anything else, which makes you exit the room. When you get to the stairs, you hear your name. But it’s not your boss. Neither of them. You take a deep breath before turning to see Sayo, wearing yoga pants, and a sports bra. She has her ebony hair up in a ponytail, and she’s extremely sweaty– Your eyes are staring somewhere they aren’t supposed to. 

“It’s so nice to see you!” Sayo has a smile on her lips. She has a towel behind her neck and she uses it to wipe off the sweat that’s everywhere. Even without makeup she’s simply stunning. “Are you doing alright?”

“Yeah…” You answer. Maybe you should ask the same question to her, but you really don’t want to engage in conversation right now. You just want to get home, spend some time with your son, and then get ready for your date. 

“Are you doing anything tonight? I’m going out with Shoko, and I meant to ask you if you wanted to join us.” She says when you don’t say anything else. She doesn’t seem to have too many friends, and you genuinely feel bad for being so cold to her, but you don’t see yourself being friends with Satoru’s wife, especially when you have a son that he doesn’t know about.

“I already have plans tonight, I’m really sorry.” You tell her, and she lightly nods her head. Your eyes fall on the man that’s walking behind her, he’s walking your way. You quickly look back at her and sheepishly smile, “Maybe some other time.”

“Yeah… I’ll talk to Shoko to see what we can set up!” She effortlessly smiles back. Satoru really hit the jackpot with her, and it irks you. You wouldn’t be able to smile so easily while disappointed, and maybe this is one of the reasons she’s ideal for Satoru. She can uphold the image of his family, while you wouldn’t have been able to. She ends up turning on her heel and walking down the hallway to go to her room. She doesn’t acknowledge her husband, and her husband doesn’t acknowledge her when they walk past each other.

You try not to stare at Satoru, turning to walk down the stairs. He catches up to you and walks behind you. You begin to walk towards the front door but he takes the opportunity to speak up since from here he won’t be heard by anyone– Except by you and the workers downstairs, but they all know you have a history together. They literally know more than Satoru himself.

“I know that maybe she isn’t the ideal woman to spend the night with but… She’s trying to be your friend.” Satoru speaks up. You come to a stop, your brows furrowing. You turn to look at him, and try to act unbothered.

“I don’t want to turn your wife down, Satoru, but I do have a date to go to.” You share with him, and his brows raise. His hands go to his pockets and he tries to think of how to respond to that, but he doesn’t have anything to say. Nothing nice at least. Nothing smart.

“Uh… That’s nice to know.” He ends up saying, awkwardly looking elsewhere. Since you have nothing else to say to each other, you end up walking out of the house. His feet are glued to the floor and it takes a lot for him to lift his feet up and walk away.

“I love you, Ren.” You kiss the top of his head, and he doesn’t pay too much attention to you since his eyes are glued to the television. He doesn’t seem to realize that you’re going out tonight, and even if he did, his show is more fun and important than his mother, apparently. “Bye bye, Ren.”

“Bye.” He responds, waving his tiny hand, his head not even facing you. You almost roll your eyes and turn off the screen, but you’d rather have this than him crying. You hug your mother and then walk out of your apartment. Suguru is in the lobby of the building, waiting for you to show up. He offered to pick you up at your door, but you don’t feel like it’s appropriate with Ren being right there– You feel like you’ll owe your son an explanation about everything, and it’s too early for that. You have no idea what’ll result with Suguru.

Your eyes land right on him when you get to the lobby, he’s awkwardly glancing at his phone, and you call out his name to catch his attention. He looks up, putting his phone in his pocket and smiling at you as you walk over to him. He gives you a side hug before you walk out of the apartment building.

“I’m so excited for this.” You confess, and you try your best to suppress just how eager you are to be doing this. Maybe when you were sixteen you had a tiny crush on him, but nothing quite like how you felt for Satoru. Looking at a picture of Suguru would make you giggle and maybe your face would get warm, but you felt your heart skip a beat at a picture of Satoru.

But that’s not you anymore… At least that’s not who you’re trying to be. You can actually trust Suguru, which you hate to think about; thinking that you can’t actually trust Satoru is heartbreaking considering you’ve loved him for so long–

“I’m also really excited.” Suguru says, grabbing your hand as he walks you to his car. Your fingers intertwine, and you have the biggest smile on your face. You don’t even remember when was the last time you held hands with someone that wasn’t Ren, trying to stop the child from running off. “You look stunning, by the way.”

“Thank you.” You smile, and you feel your face warm up. You get to his car, to no surprise it’s a rather luxurious car (one similar to the one you have, one that you didn’t buy but your boss). He opens the car door for you, and you mutter another thank you before getting in. Your leg begins to bounce, and you wonder if maybe you are a tad bit nervous. It would be weird for you not to be, you don’t remember the last time you went on a date; additionally, this isn’t Satoru. You’ve only ever dated Satoru. This is the first time that you’re on a date with someone else.

Suguru gets into the driver’s seat and you take a deep breath. He starts the car and begins to drive. For the first minute you’re quiet since you’re visibly nervous– At least you bite your bottom lip, your leg bouncing and you’re looking elsewhere. He clears his throat and he asks, “How’s Ren doing, by the way?”

“He’s fine! He was watching some stupid show when I left and barely paid attention to me.” Your speech comes out a little too fast at first, and it’s hard for him to make out the words but he figures it out. You have to give it a minute to get used to these sudden nerves that overcome you. “He reminds me a lot of Satoru when he was of similar age.”

“Not gonna lie, I forget a lot about the fact that you’ve known Satoru for just as long as I have.” Suguru shares, and you chuckle. Your chuckle turns into an unintentional frown though, and you try to shake the thoughts that come to your head… But you can’t, so you share them with him.

“Not anymore. We’ve lost years of friendship.” You say, and you try to change the subject since you’ve made the conversation awkward. “How are you liking your job so far? How’s your residency going?”

You watch as he smiles, even though he tells you he’s tired. He likes what he’s doing, and you try not to pity yourself. You’re happy for him, you tell yourself that over and over again. You were supposed to be in a similar position and maybe if…

You’re happy for him. You’re happy with your baby boy and what life has given you, even if it isn’t ideal.

“God, she’s stressing me out.” You comment, referring to Mrs. Gojo. You have no idea how you got to this conversation. Slowly you’ve gotten more and more comfortable with each other, and you finally ended up in the topic of your boss who happens to be the grandmother of your son. “She was fine and then she– I don’t know, man. She’s micromanaging every single one of Satoru’s moves, and I’m the one that ends up with double work.”

“She’s always been a nightmare. Every time I have a nightmare she appears in it.” Suguru jokes, which makes you laugh. You have no idea why you were so nervous at first, you haven’t had this much fun in a while. He clears his throat and says, “The hospital I’m working at needs a receptionist, if you’re interested.”

“She pays too well and covers all my costs. As much as I’d love to leave, I don’t think I can.” You respond. “She got me the same car you have but in a different color, and it’s in my name. As stressed as I am, I’m living great.”

“And she paid for it? Shit, sign me up.” Suguru laughs. He proceeds to add, “What do I have to do? Fuck Satoru?”

“Have a child with him too.” You tell him, and he raises a brow and pouts his lips. He takes a moment to think about it.

“Hmm… That’s a challenge, but I’ll figure it out.” You both burst into a fit of laughter. You want to do this again. There’s an awkward moment of silence, and Suguru’s finger begins to tap the table. He has something to say, and you stay quiet so you can hear his question. “Do you… Regret any of it?”

“That’s not a conversation for a first date, is it?” You ask and he mutters an apology. He’s about to change the subject, but you proceed to answer the question, “I don’t regret any of it… Sometimes I think I do but Ren is–”

He loudly begins to cough, and you look at him weird, until you notice his eyes stare behind you. You turn your head, and you roll your eyes seeing the last person that you want to look at right now. He’s with his mother, most likely dealing with some business matters. Satoru doesn’t seem to notice you, his hand going up and waving at Suguru as he approaches your table.

“Hey, Suguru!” You turn back to look at Suguru, hoping that you’ll be able to hide because you’re certain this will be awkward– And it’ll certainly cause problems to arise. 

“Satoru! Hey!” Suguru tries to act like nothing is up, maybe Satoru will just greet him and walk to another table. 

“Don’t mean to interrupt your date, just wanted to greet you.” Satoru says, which is ironic since he doesn’t stop walking until he’s right behind you. Satoru just sees the back of a head, and when he tilts to try and get a look at you, you move so he’s not able to see you. “I hope you have a great–”

It takes him a moment but he remembers that you also had a date. It can’t be you… right? He says your name, and your eyes widen. You turn to look at him, and you swear you can see as his heart drops.

“Hi, Satoru.”

“I–” His brows furrow. He tries to think of what to say, but he doesn’t gather the right words to say. He doesn’t know what he feels. Overwhelming emotions take over, and he doesn’t know how to react.

So he walks away.

#[changes] #gojo saturo #satoru gojo #gojou satoru x you #jjk satoru #gojou satoru x reader #jujutsu kaisen gojo #jjk gojo #gojo angst #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo satoru #jujutsu gojo #gojo x reader #gojo fanfic

[foxgloveprincess]

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x Female Reader [Second Person Narrator]

Summary: You didn’t mean to catch Ransom’s attention, and you’ll do whatever it takes to lose it. 

Word Count: 8.1k

Attic Wives Anonymous Masterlist

Warnings: UnBeta’d, Dark, Dubious Consent (Kissing, Blow Job, Vaginal Sex, Overstimulation, Mild Degradation/Humiliation, Praise Kink), Coercion (Payment for Sex), Stalking, Fear/Paranoia, Yandere Vibes, BDSM (Dom/sub, Exhibitionism, Rope Bondage, Suspension, Aftercare, Leather Cuffs), Pet Names (dear, birdie, pidge). Minors do not interact (18+).

A/N: Hope you enjoy it. Let me know if I should continue it! Up next is A.W.A. Meeting (#2), then hopefully Lloyd. 

I love feedback, so go ahead and reblog if you want. However, I give no permission to copy, translate, rewrite or post my work on any third party website or app. Seeing my work posted anywhere beside my blog, my library blog, or my AO3 account (FoxglovePrincess) means it’s been stolen/plagiarized.

I don’t do tag lists, so follow @foxglovefics to sign up for notifications on my fics. 

Please DO NOT click ‘Keep Reading’ if you are not 18+ years of age or if you are uncomfortable with the pairing, themes, dynamics, or warnings. You are responsible for your own media consumption. Thank you!

The song has been stuck in your head all day. Soft and sweet and romantic, it buzzes past your lips in a quiet hum while you end your work day by tidying your space.

“You know,” Harlan says as he leans back in his chair, contemplation narrowing his stare, “my offer still stands to make you my full-time personal assistant.”

You sigh and continue to clean up your papers, clipping them in neat packets for easy access when the research becomes relevant. “And you know I have other commitments.” You glance over your shoulder with a grin and shrug. “I can’t leave Chase hanging.” You snort at the unintended pun and continue working. Your hand brushes a spec of fuzz from the corner of your table, leaving it immaculate.

Harlan makes a noise of agreement and sits up before standing. “Well, if things ever change.”

“You’ll be the first to know,” you agree. The final clip snaps onto your last packet. “Now,” you address your boss with a playfully stern finger pointed in his direction, “don’t mess this up.” You nod toward the space set aside as your desk. Pens, post-its, and papers neat in a row.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” There’s a mischievous twinkle in the man’s eye, and you know you’ll be reorganizing on Monday morning, but you don’t mind. Not when Harlan’s done so much for you, and you know he’ll inevitably make your job easier somehow.

The dogs start barking outside. The front door slams and heavy steps thud toward the kitchen. No greeting, no real indication of who it might be. But you’ve worked in the Thrombey house long enough to make an educated guess.

“Looks like your grandson’s paying you a visit,” you muse while packing away the last of your belongings. “Don’t tear each other to pieces, alright? I still need this job at the end of the weekend.”

Harlan chuckles and shakes his head. He’s a good man, kind but indomitable. You admire him a moment longer. Fond warmth reflects back at you in his gaze. You’ll never forget how lucky you were he decided to take a chance on you.

“Goodnight,” you bid with a smile.

Harlan sends the same after you as you turn to the stairs, waiting for his grandson to make his surely dramatic entrance. The Go board already in hand. You wonder if he will take his grandfather up on the challenge.

Passing Marta and Fran on your way out the door, you say your farewells. And you almost make it out before coming face to face with the notorious ass—Hugh Ransom Drysdale. To think you’d been able to avoid him for so long. You should have taken the back exit through the patio.

“Who’re you?” he asks, inspecting you like a blot of dirt on his Beemer.

“Hello, Mr. Drysdale,“ you greet softly, short and professional. His head tilts and his gaze narrows at the address. “I’m expected elsewhere. If you’ll excuse me.” But you don’t wait for him to move, skirting around his broad frame before making it out the front door. His stare burning into your back the whole way. Constant, uncomfortable.

Safe and locked in your car, you’re able to shake it off. At least for a moment. When it starts to creep back up your spine while pulling out of the driveway, your hand reaches over to flick on your stereo, blasting the feeling away. You sing along, belting out any lingering unease. Getting yourself ready and letting the week’s stress seep from you.

The drive back into the city winds long, but passes quickly. Only forty minutes. But part of that convenience is negated by the absolute bear it is to find parking downtown. Another ten minutes of struggle before you get out—the urban parking gods not on your side tonight. Your car beeps with the lock and you sigh. It’ll be a longer walk.

The sun sinks behind the buildings and the orange glow of the streetlights paint the sidewalks. You bundle yourself in your jacket, shift your duffle higher on your shoulder, and start marching. One foot in front of the other. Glancing at familiar storefronts and navigating around the few passersby finding their Friday night adventure.

By the second block, you pause. The hairs on the back of your neck prickle. Eyes bore into you from behind. Heated, focused. You spin on your heel, but find no culprit. You swallow and breathe deep. Just your imagination, surely. Maybe.

“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath and turn to begin walking again. Quicker.

Your steps beat light on the pavement, though you don’t want to seem rushed. Trying to find a steady, rapid pace that doesn’t signal your distress. Still, the sensation doesn’t cease.

The evening gets darker and you see Chase’s studio in the distance. The industrial building looming and dark, intimidating. But your safe haven. The back door stands just within reach. You knock a rapid shave-and-a-haircut on the wood and wait for it to open. Phantom fingers dance along the back of your neck and you whip around. The alley stands empty save for a grimy dumpster and a few trash bags. Yet your heartbeat continues to thunder in your ears.

“There you are,” a gruff yet relieved voice exclaims. Long fingers wrap around your bicep and pull you in, the door closing behind you and cutting you off from your paranoia.

“Sorry,” you reply automatically, distracted before you shake away the adrenaline and turn to your friend. He beams brightly and lets his hand slip down to yours. With a turn on his heel, he guides you through the hallways to the back room. “Minor delay and had to find parking a few blocks away.”

“Don’t worry about it, li’l bird,” he shrugs and opens the door. “The room’s still filling out and Caleb is doing his sensation thing.”

You hum and enter behind your friend, setting your bag down in its usual place by the futon and shrugging off your coat. Your neck rolls on your shoulders, releasing any residual tension. Warm hands wrap over them and knead the muscles.

“You okay?” Chase asks, genuine concern in his voice. “You’re looking a little rattled.”

You lean into his gentle but firm touch, letting your eyes drift shut. Sinking into the feeling and focusing on it. Keeping yourself out of the instinctive loop of fright that lingers at the fringes of your mind. Chase’s hands travel down your back and over your sides—comforting, but objective in their precision.

“I’m fine,” you reply, breathy and calm. You pause, feeling his hands do the same. “Just,” you bite your lip, “maybe have the others keep a watch on the crowd tonight? I’ve had this strange feeling.”

Chase’s warm hands move back up to grasp your shoulders, reassuring in their press. “Of course.” He steps back and releases you. You spin to meet his eyes. “You know I always look out for my girl.” His lips lift in a soothing grin. “Now, let’s get you ready.”

You nod and begin to strip. Your blouse unbuttons and falls from your shoulders. Chase helps you step out of your skirt and grabs your outfit from your duffle. You change quickly from your everyday bra into the elaborate sports bra saved for these occasions. Chase helps straighten the straps, keeping them from turning on themselves and arranging them as they’re supposed to be. The bike shorts slide up your legs and sit at your waist. A quick peek in the mirror ensures you’re presentable—effortless yet alluring.

“You ready?” Chase asks softly.

You catch his eye in the mirror and nod with a small grin. “Ready.”

He offers his hand and you turn to accept it. Fingers squeeze around yours and draw you out. The crowd gathers around the elevated stage. The rig is all set up, the mats on the ground, the spotters standing on the fringes, everything waiting for you both.

Chase stops right by the steps up. He turns to you and takes your other hand in his. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” you reply immediately. A deep breath calms your spiking heart and the butterflies in your tummy. Displaying yourself in such a vulnerable position never stops being terrifying—or exhilarating.

“Then come along, birdie.”

The lights blare bright on the stage. Hot and revealing. You cannot look to the crowd waiting out past your line of sight. You’d freeze if you did. Instead you keep your focus on Chase—your constant, your rock, your Dom.

He brings you to the center of the stage and releases your hands. His chin dips in a bid for you to kneel. You sink the onto the floor, hands resting on your thighs, waiting. Your eyes locked still on him.

“Good evening.” He addresses the crowd with all the charisma you expect from him. “I hope you’ve been enjoying yourselves.”

As he continues, you let your mind center on your body. Keeping yourself present, but counting your breaths and feeling the steady pulse of your heartbeat. Rope uncoils. Instructions and explanations fall to a rapt audience.

Chase walks over, turning his back to the crowd to face you. He smiles. “There’s my good girl,” he says just for you. Your lips stretch, preening at the compliment.

He cups your cheeks, tilting your face up. His lips descend to press a kiss to your forehead before he finds the bite of his rope and begins.

The rope slides over your exposed skin. Each caress precise, purposeful. Chase works quickly, but pauses every so often to address the audience again or check in with you. Your arms lift. You bend and submit to the way he moves your body. The rope cinches too tight. You wince. Immediately, Chase corrects it.

Around and around, you’re bound. Your thoughts quiet, steady and calm. The last knot ties everything together and Chase steps away.

Another speech before he positions you and the hooks pull taut. You breathe deep, preparing yourself. Your body rises from the stage, suspended. Like you’re flying. It takes a moment to adjust. Chase places his hand on your side, grounding you in the way you need. Your eyes fall shut. Blissful in the darkness behind your eyelids.

Chase stays nearby. He watches. The spotters watch. The people watch. You’re used to the appreciation. Admiring the way you hang from the ceiling, the way your body contorts to the shape of Chase’s vision.

Music begins to play through the studio. You hang like a piece of art. Whispers and conversations pick up until it’s the drone of a crowd filling the high ceilings. Talk about your dedication and grace. Discussion of Chase’s skill. Various mingling. But all the buzz of the background mellows in your head. Your blood flowing through your veins and the tension of the rope on your frame.

Chase brings you down earlier than usual. He lowers the rig and starts to untie you, except for the final ring that keeps you hooked. You stay there for a few minutes until he’s certain of your stability.

All the while, he begins your favorite part. His hands pet over your limbs. The blood already pooling under your skin, creating tender contusions. He whispers words of affirmation and praise. You savor the bliss of his aftercare and feel exhaustion’s tug.

The spotters dissemble the rest of the rig and release you from the final tether. Chase’s arm wraps about your shoulders and the two of you exit off the stage to wind your way back to your room.

It’s quick, habitual work for Chase to prepare the futon for your nap. And you sink onto the bed with a sigh. The mattress dips beside you. Your Dom strokes his hand over you head. As always, he insists you drink electrolyte water and eat a little snack, each presented to your lips by his own hand.

“You did so good for me, li’l bird,” he whispers, coaxing you toward rest. “Just close your eyes for me and I’ll let you sleep for a while.”

You hum in response, knowing he’ll stay beside you until you’re under. A thought drifts toward the surface before it escapes your grasp, floating away from you until it’s gone and you’re asleep.

By Monday morning, you’ve forgotten the encounter with Ransom Drysdale, too distracted by your weekend to remember an insignificant meeting. Pleasantly fuzzy feelings and bright spirits follow you in your drive to the Thrombey estate. But it all evaporates when you turn toward the house and see Ransom standing there, leaning against one of the porch columns. A grimace twists his lips and his arms fold across his chest.

“So, you’re grandad’s research assistant,” he says with a derisive edge to his tone.

“Morning, Mr. Drysdale,” you return on a whisper, waking past him and into the house. Ignoring the derogatory sting of his remark.

His brow furrows and he follows. You take off your coat and scarf, hanging each with care in the entryway. The whole time, Ransom’s stormy presence grows increasingly agitated behind you. When your feet turn toward the kitchen for a calming cup of tea, you take only one step before finding yourself flailing and dragged backward by a strong arm clutching at your waist.

The hard wall of Harlan’s office digs into your back. But you would take that discomfort if not for the fire flashing in Ransom’s eyes.

“Your grandfather is waiting for me,” you say without inflection, staring at him and waiting for his tantrum to cease—for him to get bored and release you. “Please let me go.”

His lips screw up in disdain before he responds with an decisive, “No.”

You keep your breath even, refusing to let him get under your skin. Hoping you haven’t unintentionally gotten under his.

“Tell me how you came to be Harlan’s assistant.”

You don’t reply. The hallway clock ticks. Your nerves spike as it continues, knowing Harlan expects promptness.

“You’re being quite rude, pigeon,” he says after a tense minute, stretching his arms to brace against the wall, keeping you cornered but elongating his body in a spectacle of power. He leans close, invading your space until his breath brushes your cheek. “Why don’t you coo for me? I would hate to have to contact my Uncle Walt at the publishing company and get your position filled by someone more…friendly.”

A swallow clicks in your throat. “Mr. Drysdale, your grandfather hired me himself, and I’m not directly associated with Blood Like Wine Publishing,” you explain in clipped syllables, clinging to your calm while he looms closer.

His brow quirks in intrigue and his lips press into another smirk. Words form on his tongue. But as the stairs creak at someone’s approach, they remain unspoken.

“There you are,” Harlan calls from the stair landing, peering into his office. “Come along, dear, time to get to work.”

His eyes flash to his grandson, a sharp look challenging his obstructive position. Ransom meets it and they lock gazes for a charged moment. You take your window of opportunity for what it is, surging forward under Ransom’s left arm. In the space between his frame and the wall paneling, you squeeze through. Though your body drags against his and your balance falters, you get past. Ransom grunts in displeasure and protests, but you march your way upstairs following your boss.

“Be careful of him,” Harlan warns in a whisper as you pass him along the stairs.

You nod and continue on. A final glance over your shoulder confirms your suspicions. Ransom remains planted in place, jaw ticking and arms crossed. His attention focuses on your retreating figure, brow furrowed in thought—a glint in his eye you instinctively fear.

In. Out. You focus on breathing. A steady cadence, a calming exercise. Your safety and escape with the ropes biting into your flesh.

This week pushed your limits. Every day affected by unease—following like a burning gaze. You’ve seen little of Harlan’s grandson. Yet every time you feel yourself tipping into that unsettled state, you find your thoughts turning toward him.

In. Out. Now is not the time to think about it. Not when you don’t have to. Not in this state. Suspended above the mats. On display. In. Out. Focus. It works, mind drifting on the softy syllables of Chase’s conversation with a curious patron. Grounding you, guiding you toward peace.  

Until it returns. That burning prickle at the back of your neck. The paranoia. It sets your teeth on edge. Despite your head being supported above your heart in tonight’s position, it becomes light, dizzy. Your eyes snap open, darting from face to face. Searching for his sinister features.

A flash—brown hair, sharp blue eyes, a regal sloping nose, a tan coat. It’s just a glimpse, but you meet their eye and see the beginnings of a smirk. Your vision swims. The studio blurs. Your heart pounds in your ears. You swallow, throat dry.

A croak escapes your lips. Chase’s concern meets your panic immediately. The spotters step forward, but his form eclipses your view of the rest of the studio—the crowd, the figure hidden amongst them—first. Your Dom reaches out to you and steadies the unconscious flail of your limbs. His fingers stroke across your skin. Slowly, it calms you. Your fear receding in the surety of his presence.

“Do you need to come down?” he asks, ready at a moment’s notice to lower you back to the ground—cut you out of the rope, if need be—and sweep you away to the safety of your room.

“No,” you say after a minute and a few deep breaths. “I thought…” Your words trail off in a mumble as you shake the silliness of your concerns away. It couldn’t have been Ransom. How would he know about this? It’s your mind playing tricks on you.

Chase examines you a moment longer before conceding with a wary nod. He steps back, letting the flood of the room rush back. Your eyes close again to force your way back down to comforting darkness. In. Out. In. Out.

Yet the evening becomes soured by that one moment. Chase’s distance expands like a chasm between you as he unwinds the rope from your body and steadies your walk back to your room. His methodical aftercare lacks in a way that sears a hole deep in your belly. Though you can’t name why. You wait for his tenderness to make it all feel better, but it doesn’t.

He settles you down on your futon and presses a chaste kiss to your forehead. His eyes flicker with that same concern, but he says nothing more of it. Simply feeds you your snack and tilts your water past your lips. They slosh uneasy in your stomach, but you follow your routine, praying for some solace.

His muttered praises do little to coax you toward rest. Fidgeting and turning over and over, you body thrums even as you feel the weight of exhaustion. You close your eyes, forcing yourself to give in. Chase stays a moment longer before leaving you to the sticky blackness of sleep.

Though it’s not long until you’re disturbed. Like pulling you up through tar, you find the surface. Your reluctance to awaken keeps your eyes stubbornly shut, but the figure beside you strokes their hand over your head. You sigh and a small smile twitches at your lips. The touch soothes your soul.

“Chase,” you mumble on a sleepy murmur. He makes no response, but lets his fingers trail over your cheek. Your hand reaches out, grasping his and tucking it close to your chest. “Stay with me til I’m back asleep?” A yawn punctuates your request. He says nothing but stays beside you. His legs stretch alongside your body. And he makes no protest when you half-consciously scoot closer, letting you cling to him for the first time as you sink once again.

Harlan’s warning rings constant in your mind, “Be careful of him.” But there is no careful—there’s no more safety, no escape. Because you weren’t wrong. That figure in the crowd, watching you and sending you spiraling toward panic—that was Ransom. Following you again and again to the studio. Each week struggling to find a way to bring it up with Harlan, and failing. Each weekend spent suspended with Ransom’s eyes piercing through you.

You’ve tracked his approach, stalking closer and closer to the stage with each passing week. His eyes never leaving you. Not concerned with whatever Chase says. He has his focus. And it never wavers.

He doesn’t glare or glower—his observation far from menacing. Though foreboding still blares at the back of your mind each time your gaze meets. And you cannot stop yourself. Hanging from the rigging, you always find him. Your heart always lurches before you cut away the room by closing your eyes.

You drift awake, rested from your nap. Your phone proclaims the time and you groan at the early hour before sitting up on your futon and stretching. Muscles protest in the most delicious way and your lips tilt toward a grin. With a roll of your neck, you stand to gather your belongings into your duffle so you can return home.

The door to your small room clicks behind you. A step, two, and you catch a dark figure in you periphery. Your bones jump and you gasp. Turning toward the intruder, you clutch at your heart. Your diaphragm starts spasming, hiccups bobbing up your throat.

“Who,” you hiccup, “Who’s there?”

They step forward, their head bent and hands hanging by their sides. The glint of the ring on his pinky catches the light. You lick your lips and hiccup again. A hand presses to your abdomen hoping to calm the convulsions of the muscle.

“Oh, pigeon, did I scare you?” His mirth grates on your thin tolerance. He doesn’t do anything technically inappropriate during the demonstrations, but this confrontation is.

“Mr. Drysdale,” you say with a heavy breath, trying to swallow around the hiccups. “Why are you here?

Amusement continues to dance bright in his eyes. You’re just waiting for him to start laughing at you. Like there’s a cosmic joke to which you aren’t privy. But you’re willing to wait while he explains himself. All the while starting to feel sick from the incessant hiccups—and maybe something more.

“Let’s just say I have an itch I need you to scratch,” he replies with a teasing shrug.

“That doesn’t explain much, Mr. Drysdale.”

His jaw ticks and the amused light in his eyes dims a fraction. He shifts on his feet and stands straighter. The glint of a gold watch shines in the light. You swallow at the reminder of his status and your precarious position in the hallway with him—the ways this could spiral unpleasantly numerous and beginning to swarm in your head. A thought of Chase materializes in your mind. His bedroom nearby but too far all at the same time.

“Call me Ransom,” he suggests, though even the way his head ticks to the side reads more as a command than counsel.

“Right,” you mumble with a hint of disregard—too focused on yourself, your position. Your eyes dart around the cramped hallway, looking for an escape. “What do you want?”

He hums, deep and threatening in his throat. “You.” The statement simple. Yet it rocks your world—sends you reeling and off-kilter. But he continues, “You see, I can admit you intrigued me on our first meeting. Especially after Harlan refused to tell me much about you other than your job title.” He sighs and takes a step closer. In retreat, you press yourself to the wood of the door. “Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since. And I need to fix that.” His arm cages you in, resting beside your head as he leans forward, crowding into you. “So,” he says, drawing out the word. His chin dips and his voice lowers to a whisper. “Name you price.”

Your chest jumps in another hiccup, voice jumping with it when you yelp, “What are you talking about?”

A smirk twitches on his lips. “I’m a very wealthy man. I need one night to get you out of my system.” His breath brushes your cheek. “Name. Your. Price.”

You sputter, mind whirring. You’re not naïve. You know for what he’s asking. You used to consider it, when the rent wasn’t adding up—before Chase, before Harlan. But not with someone like him. Your tongue swipes over your lips. His gaze continues to wander over you, examining you like a slab of meat.

“Five hundred thousand dollars?” The number, plucked from the air, grits past your clenched teeth in hopes it will deter him.

He grins and gives you a sliver more space to breathe. “Done.”

You gape in shock. Such an easy agreement. “Wait—”

“Do you want more?” His fingers tickle along your throat while his brow quirks in curiosity.

Your head shakes, vehemently against it. “No. I don’t—”

“Then, what’s the problem, pidge?” His voice husks, a moment away from descending upon you. The glimmer in his eyes hungry.

“I don’t want you,” you reply. The force of your statement knocks him back. His head tilts and his jaw ticks in irritation. His gaze narrows. “I wouldn’t want you for a million.” You push at him, but he doesn’t budge. Too strong, too firm.

His nostrils flare with his ire. A deep breath expands his lungs, pressing his chest to yours. He closes his eyes and calms himself. When he captures you again with his sapphire blue eyes, they’re softer. The sharpness dulled for his plea.

“Look, pidge,” Ransom croons. Sweet as pie but far too deadly. “It’s one night. That’s all.” He backs away, though he keeps his touch close by, ready to swoop back in and strangle you. “You’ll get one million dollars, alright? I never bother you again—never show up to this dump, never meet you at granddad’s. You’re done with me and I’m finally done with you. Got better things to do anyway.”

He lets you think. The moment stretches taut between you. Your hiccups the only disturbance.

“I’ll never have to see you again?” you ask, wary of his answer.

He grins, triumphant. As if he’s already won—which he has. A million dollars can do a lot for you. Clear most of your debt. Make your paycheck stretch further for a little while. Maybe give you a little cushion for a rainy day.

“When?”

“Oh, I knew you’d say yes.” He smirks and trails his fingertips over your cheeks. You turn your head away but he follows, ducking to catch your eye. “You made the right choice. I’m gonna give you the night of your life.”

Air expands your lungs and escapes in a steady hiss. Another hiccup interrupts the stream and you close your eyes in frustration. Lips press to your cheek. You jerk away, startled.

“I’ll text you the details, pidge.”

He leaves, his business concluded by sneaking a pat to your ass. The hallway expands around you once more and fills with your precarious relief.

The door looms too tall before you. You eye the keycard slot. Check the time on your phone. Another minute passed. You wonder if he knows you’re here. Your hand rests on your abdomen for a moment, calming your nerves. Your other reaches out and swipes the card. The light blinks green. You breathe deep, open the door, and stop right in your tracks.

There in the center of this great, grand hotel room sits Ransom cushioned by a big black leather chair. You swallow hard and glance over your shoulder. Your heartbeat flutters anxiously in your throat. You take a step back. Fingers cling tight to the doorknob. You clear your throat.

“Well,” he hums with a twisted grin, “there you are. I guess it’s true—amazing what some people will do for a chunk of change.” He eyes your position, still straddling the threshold and clutching at the doorknob. “You gonna try to run?” His brow quirks and he stands, relaxed and unconcerned. His hands shove deep in his pockets, but his sweater sleeves sit folded up near his elbows. “I thought you were braver than that, pidge.”

With a defiant tilt of your chin, you step forward and let the door close behind you—accepting his challenge. It brings a smug grin to Ransom’s face, but you ignore it by setting aside your bag and toeing off your shoes.

“How are we going to do this?” you ask without looking at him. “Do you have some kind of contract? Or will oral negotiations suffice?” You grab a small notebook from your purse and the attached pen, releasing it from its holder and clicking the cam down.

The scoff and eye roll you receive in reply sets your teeth on edge. Ransom shakes his head and says, “we’re not going to do that, no matter how fun oral negotiations sound.”

You blink. “But—” you begin in your shock before closing your lips and clearing your throat to gather your thoughts. “I realize this is for one night only, but it’s important—”

“You’re right,” he interrupts with a wave of his hand, turning his back on you and meandering around the back of the chair. “This is only for one night. We don’t need all that boring shit. I want to fuck you, not exchange friendship bracelets.” As he comes around to settle on the cushion, he tucks something beside him you can’t catch. “Now.” He leans forward. You stare, entranced by the confidence of his movements. The way his fingers clench on the arms of the chair and his chin tilts. “Get on your knees.”

They threaten to buckle at the command, but you stand firm. Still uncomfortable with this little exchange, you’re not yet ready to start. Not like this. Your tongue lashes out to lick your lips, eyes darting about for something to prolong the conversation. Another question to ask, another point to make.

“Will you listen if I safeword at least?” you ask as your toes tap on the floor in a nervous rhythm. The notebook in your hand crinkles with your grip until you place it and the pen back in your bag.

“You have my word,” Ransom promises, hand pressed—sincere or mocking—to his chest. “Don’t you trust me?”

“Not exactly.”

He chuckles and shrugs. Whether his word means anything, you don’t know. All you know is that he’s not getting any more patient. He nods toward his feet, the open place between his knees.

You take a moment to gather yourself and find that safe space in your head, taking slow steps to approach him. Watching him—wary of any sudden shift. The fluffy carpet meets your knees when you sink down. Closing your eyes, you concentrate on steadying your breath.

Ransom waits—for what, you couldn’t guess. Until he rasps, “Open your eyes. Look at me like you look at him.”

Your eyes snap open and meet his. “Like him?”

But he simply holds up a pair of padded cuffs, dangling from his index finger. “You want me to stop, you say ‘Hugh’. Understand?”

Your head bobs in a nod, keeping eye contact. “Yes, Mr. Drysdale.”

In a flash, he grips your chin with his free hand. His fingers dig into your cheeks, anger flaring in his gaze. “You. Call me. Ransom.”

You swallow hard at the abrasive grit in his tone. “Yes, Ransom,” you respond with a stilted nod.

“Good,” he hums in satisfaction, “I prefer good girls.”

The tension drips away as he releases your face. Fingers scratch at his jaw and he stretches, relaxing back into the cushion of the chair. The cuff chain clinks, drawing your attention. His follows, lips twitching toward a smirk.

“Now, can we begin?” he asks with a raise of his brow.

“Yes, Ransom,” you reply, resisting the urge to drop your gaze. Unsure of what reaction might await at such a disregard for his request, but unwilling to risk a punishment—not from him.

“Give me your hands.”

You offer them up, blood vibrating in your veins. He holds them gently despite his prickish nature. The cuffs wrap around your wrists, latching snug to your skin. Perfect—not too tight or too loose. You stare at them. The detailed leather work. The minky lining. The safety buckle ready to release at a moment’s notice. They’re quality, expensive—an indication of forethought, research, commitment.

A weight lifts from your shoulders. The nerves buzzing inside you start to disperse. With a final pat to the leather, his hands stray to explore your body. He traces the curve of your lips. He feels your pulse throbbing at your throat. He cups your breasts and kneads the flesh until your breath hitches.

“Just like that,” he purrs while toying with you. “You’re gonna sing for me, aren’t you?” He plucks at your nipples through your shirt, staring you down to drink in your reaction.

You swallow a whimper—needy and plaintive. Thoughts flurry in your head tinged by heat. Submission tempts, at odds with an insistence on remaining in control. He catches the hesitance when your teeth worry your lower lip. He clicks his tongue in disappointment, and your heart lurches.

He lets the silence settle around you both, reclining back and taking his touch with him. A minute ticks by. His attentions drift over you, searching. Only he knows for what. Your lungs draw in a steady flow of air, each calmer than the last. Your hands itch in impatience, craving contact. Your fingers flex toward him. The chain rattles.

Ransom reads something in that sound and tilts his head, lowering his lips to yours. You blink, unsure of your boundaries with such intimacy, but he swallows any protest with a kiss.

You expect it to be harsh and demanding. Clacking teeth and a suffocating intrusion. That’s not what you get. The way he kisses you like a lover locked in a forbidden embrace between the stacks of an old library—sensual, passionate, and all-consuming. Letting you taste a hint of his hunger, his desperation.

Your bound hands raise to cup his jaw. Drawn to him like a magnet. Because this is the best you’ve ever been kissed. Sure, you’ve been kissed by amateurs, by creeps, by lovers, but nothing like this. It’s addictive.

Without meaning to, you sigh your delight against his lips. His twitch toward a smirk, even as he licks into your mouth and drinks you in. His hands cradle your throat and tilt your head back. The dance between you a delicious exercise of control.

With one last brush of his lips to yours, he draws away. Your head floats, hazy with the sparks of lust ignited by his kiss. Unconsciously, you follow his retreat, leaning up to him like a flower seeking the sun.

He stands, a slow movement that breaks your hold until your falling hands rest upon his thighs. He stares down at you, a conceited pleasure glinting in his appraisal. But you’re past the point of caring or becoming peeved by his superior attitude. You just want him to kiss you like that again. It’s only for one night anyway, what does it matter if he’s proud of himself for making you his plaything—or that you think you’ll enjoy every minute of it.

“Up,” he beckons with an outstretched hand.

You place your hands in his and rise. He squeezes and saunters toward the bed. A noise of approval rolling in his throat, observing your body.

“We’ll need to fix this,” he says with a gesture. You glance down—the plain tee, the jean shorts, your socks. He steps forward, pressing his lips to your ear. “You wear something special for me, pidge?”

You swallow, but can’t answer. Voice stuck in your throat.

“That’s okay,” he coos, playing with the collar of your shirt. “I’ll see soon enough.”

Fabric falls from your body. It pools on the floor at your feet. Your gaze falls with each article of clothing. Exposed to his scrutiny, you stand in your best lingerie set. Thinking he should get what he paid for, you’d donned it but now find a seed of apprehension blooming in your belly. Another thing he’ll nitpick or tease.

“Look at that,” he rasps, hand smoothing across your waist and gripping you close. Your feet stumble over each other and you brace yourself against his chest. “So pretty and just for me.” His fingers pluck at a bow on the front of your bra.

A shock of arousal hits you at his praise, leaving your knees weak. Gripping at his shoulders, you try to support yourself, and his eyes shine with amusement.

“You like when I talk sweet to you, pidge?”

He spins on his heels and takes you with him. With another stumble and a toss, your back bounces on the mattress. You gaze up at him, eyes wide as he chuckles and undoes his belt. With a snick of his zipper, he releases himself and strokes his cock. And, god you hate to admit it, it’s a thing of beauty. You meet his eye and feel the heat crawling up your cheeks.

He quirks his eyebrow and dips his chin. You push yourself clumsily to kneel before him on the soft mattress. His fingers trace your lips until your tongue licks over them. He smirks and leads you down with a firm hand.

The first tentative taste of his flesh sends a shiver up his spine and a breath puffing from his lips. You kiss his tip, eyes locked with his. His cock twitches. He growls and urges you forward until he enters your mouth and rests on your tongue. You purr around him and begin in earnest.

A few bobs of your head work him back as far as you can manage. Eyes close as you focus on your task. Head drifting on greedy waves of sensation and muscle memory, you swallow him further and further. Listening, yearning to hear how you affect him. Drool pools on your tongue, stimulating every part of him it can reach. Part of you wishes you might have your hands free, if only to feel him. Urge him further toward release.

His hips buck against your face and you gag. But he keeps you steady, a guiding hand pressed to the back of your head, gripping and massaging your scalp.

“So cute,” he muses with a brush of his fingers over your forehead. “Look up at me, li’l birdie.” Your eyes flutter open, waterline wet with the start of tears. Ransom smiles down at you and winks. You hum around him. His head falls back on his neck with a groan, abdominals flexing as he pulls you off and up. A weak noise of protest escapes your lips, plump with blood from the stretch of his cock. He pants, tongue darting out to lick over your swollen flesh. “Not bad,” he comments with a tilt of his head. “But I think I’m ready for a bit more, aren’t you?”

With a hand smoothing across your throat, his other lowers to find the apex of your thighs. A twist and pinch, a rip and your panties fall away. His fingers free to explore the most intimate part of you. You whine at the squelch of your arousal. The slickness shamefully copious as he plays with your pussy and grins. He hums in delight, but doesn’t say anything. That sound enough of a gloat to humiliate you.

“I can’t help it,” you protest, brow tilting pathetically.

“Oh,” he croons, smearing his lips across your cheek, “I know.” The gentle mocking of his words pierce through you. You huff in pitiful indignation.

His fingers pinch at your lower lips and your hips jolt. He barks a laugh, but his touch turns nicer. Stroking over your folds and swirling around your clit. Your breath hitches. The sensation curling in your belly, building your pleasure. Teeth nip at your pulse point, startling you. Ransom chuckles against your skin and begins to suck.

You’re weak with him. The prick of his teeth and the soothing swipe of his tongue mingling with the skill of his fingers. Filling your head until you can hardly think. Moans and gasps build in your chest, too persistent to ignore. Just as you reach the precipice of your climax, though, Ransom stops.

He grips your chin with sticky fingers, pecks a kiss to your gaping lips, and smirks. “Not yet.”

Once again your back finds the mattress. You stretch out, bones jelly and blood thrumming. You crave release now. More than you can say, leaving you only able to reach out as he strips off his sweater and jeans.

A chiseled Adonis he is not. Muscles flex beneath skin supple with just the slightest layer of cushion borne from a life of luxury and indulgence. So when he descends and pins you to the bed, you feel it against you—his strength and softness.

He slots himself between your thighs, pulling them up to his hips. His cock finds its place, slicking itself against your sex. You sigh and loop your bound hands around his neck.

You bite back a “please,” but he sees it shining in your eyes and denies you. Content to roll his hips. Each thrust knocking the head of his cock against your clit until you whine and wriggle beneath him.

“Don’t be like that, pidge,” he says with a mocking pout, swiping a thumb over you cheek where unbidden tears fall from your eyes. “I’ll let you have what you want.”

With the slightest shift, he prods at your entrance. Bare. You breath hitches. Hands grip at his hair.

“Protection!” you protest at the last minute, surfacing from the lusty daze with fear in your eyes.

Ransom takes it in stride, continuing his persistence. “What for?” he asks with another roll of his hips. A delicious, sparkling sensation skitters up your spine. “I’m clean, you’re clean, you’re on birth control. Right?” The drawl of his voice accompanies his descent toward your neck. Another nip and suck of your skin as you reluctantly nod. He reaches a hand down between your bodies, gripping his dick. “Then there’s no problem here, pidge.”

You whimper, “I—”

He thrusts into you. The stretch divine. His gorgeous cock filling you inch by inch until you ache. A moan rips from the depths of you, a wounded sound of pleasure. Your eyes squeeze shut, sweat dotting your brow. How can a douche like Ransom Drysdale feel so right when he’s inside you?

He pauses, eyes squeezed shut and chest heaving. “Fuck,” he hisses beneath his breath. Your own hips roll in an attempt to adjust, but his hand lashes out to stop you. His grip tight. “Squeezing me like a vice, pidge.” The husk of his voice, the strain, the need dripping from each word, it sends a shiver down your spine.

“Ransom,” you plead with a gentler tug at the roots of his hair, “please move.”

His eyes open, the blue tinged dark with desire. His lips part around a shuddering breath. Finding his composure, he tilts his hips, filling you just that little bit more until you gasp. “I’m gonna fill you up just right. Don’t you worry your pretty little head.”

There’s not a moment more to prepare yourself before he begins fucking you. The drag of his cock against your walls enough to make an endless stream of sounds dribble from your lips. You grip him for dear life. The clap of your bodies filling the room with your moans and heavy breaths.

Ransom takes and takes, filling you and grinding against you until your vision blurs. You cum on his cock, screaming your release. Your knees squeeze his sides. You cling to him. Yet no matter how he ruins you, he keeps going. To sate his own pleasure, to see you crumble just a little more, to chase some ineffable desire.

It takes him longer. The stutter of his hips, the warmth of his cum flooding you. You mewl, hips shifting at the sensation.

“Hold still,” he commands, gripping your face with one hand.

His other travels down your body. Pausing to play with the sensitive beads of your nipples. You squeak. But his true destination lay between your thighs where he keeps himself nestled. Your clit throbs with your pulse, overstimulated and tender. You tense, bracing for whatever his plans.

He plucks at the aching bundle of nerves despite your every twitter of protest. Smirk plastered on his face. His intentions clear as he rips another orgasm from you and another. Letting you milk his swelling cock with your sex.

Your tongue swipes across your dry lips. Knowing by the wiggle of his hips he prepares himself for another round—one that will surely be a delicious torment. Your head shakes, arms tightening around him. Hoping your silent pleas will be understood. Already overwhelmed by the night’s exertion.

But he starts again, pleasure gleaming in his eyes every time he knocks your aching clit with his pelvis. You reel with the sensations scourging your body. The way the pain washes over you with the sweetest hint of pleasure. That hint just enough to keep your mind searching for more. Clinging closer and rolling your hips in tandem with his.

Your head lolls on your shoulders, sure to keep your eyes locked with his. Knowing he might stop if you let them wander just a moment—both needing and dreading that brief reprieve.

“There we go, that’s what I’m looking for,” he purrs staring deep into your glassy eyes.

Sweat dampens his chest, pressed against you as he cages you in with his weight. His fingers lift, two of them prodding your lips and delving into your mouth. Your tongue tangles with them, teeth nipping his knuckles. You swallow around them and they withdraw, trailing a cool line of saliva down your throat. His wet fingers trail beneath the cups of your bra, pinching at the tender buds. A raw moan rises out of you at a particularly wicked thrust of his cock. And another. You shudder, an unstoppable wave of pleasure ripping through you and leaving you in a fit of pained euphoria.

But Ransom says nothing more. A look shining in his eyes, thoughtful and indecipherable. If you could contemplate the dawning of such a look, you might. Though, with the rush of your own orgasm flooding your head, the stutter of his hips and the spill of his cum, you’re lost. He falls off you with a grunt, sprawling across the open area of the bed.

“Shit,” he mutters to the room. Sweat glistens along his skin and musses his hair. His chest rises and falls with deep breaths. A hand wipes over his face. You might have taken offense to the utter disbelief radiating from him, if so inclined.

Instead, you rise, prising through the quick release of the cuffs. Emptiness and pain halts your movement. An ache between your thighs that plucks its sweet agony. No choice but to push through it.

As Ransom recovers, you gather your things. Aftercare far from your thoughts. Willing to face any possible repercussions yourself and in your own space. You dress hastily, intuition begging for retreat. Knowing that another moment with him might cement something inside you. Something you know will only end in pain and disappointment.

Each step, each movement he follows with his eyes. They burn into you. Whether in anger or some other resentment, you don’t know—don’t need to know. Slipping your shoes on at the door and gathering your bag, he says nothing to stop you. You pause with your hand on the doorknob and glance over your shoulder. He continues to rest on the bed, body gloriously lax, and stares. Quiet and contemplative. You leave him there.

All thought of the money forgotten. No. All you want now is to escape that seductive lure he offers. You pray he’ll keep his word. That you’ll receive what he feels he owes. You’ll manage with what you’ve got until he does and start forgetting this night ever happened. Move on, work with Harlan, perform with Chase—lead your normal life.

You rush from the hotel, cool morning air slapping you in the face. You stop and tilt your head back. Your regret washes over you. Your lips press together, holding it back. Keeping it at bay.

The trek home stretches before you. Tenuous hope growing that you’ll never see Ransom Drysdale again, even as you feel the fierce burn of a gaze at your back.

#ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale fanfic #dark #dark fic #dub con #tw dub con #yandere vibes #attic wives anonymous #18+ #minors dni

[jordanianroyals]

Queen Rania gives a moving speech on Rajwa Al Saif at her henna party, 22 May 2023. Rajwa becomes teary as she dabs her tears witha a napkin.

Welcoming her guests, Queen Rania said, “I’m so happy that you could all be here to celebrate with us. Today is a special day for us, and to our entire Jordanian family: Our joy is one and the same… near or far, you are all in our hearts today.”

She explained that like any mother, she had always dreamed of Crown Prince Hussein’s wedding. “Al Hussein is your son as much as he is mine – you are his family and this is your celebration,” she added.

Sharing a few words about her future daughter-in-law, the Queen described Rajwa as “the sweetest and most beautiful bride-to-be”, adding that she is as precious to her as her daughters Princesses Iman and Salma.

The royal added that she knew her late father-in-law, King Hussein of Jordan, would be proud of the man his grandson is today, from his bravery as a soldier to his desire to share the joy of his wedding with the Jordanian people. “That’s when I realized that he is a true, self-aware Hashemite, who is both a part of you, and here to serve you,” she said. “I can now tell His Majesty the late King Hussein that I was true to my word.”

“I’ll never forget how happy His Majesty and I were when Al Hussein told us he wanted to marry Rajwa. She is the perfect answer to all my prayers for him,” Rania reflected, before wishing the couple a blessed and happy future. “May you always be each other’s source of happiness and support,” she said. (x)

#Queen Rania #Wedding #jordanian royal family #Princess Rajwa

[codenamesazanka]

what was the point of the i engineered your life reveal? it didn't have a resolution, and won't get one if shigaraki and afo are both dead now. not only that, shigaraki never got shattered in the first place? he didn't come back out of his own volition or reclaim his agency by himself?? it didn't change anything about deku's relationship with shigaraki. so what did it do other than to provide horikoshi with an easy way to kill shigaraki off.

Yeah, it does feel like an easy way to get rid of Shigaraki. Tenko got saved, but he came out of it still declaring he wants to be stay a Villain; he wants to be a Hero to the Villains. That will involve, yeah, destroying stuff again; that will involve making trouble for the heroes; that will involve helping people that society has decided should not be helped, should not be saved, so put that back where you found it.

How's Deku going to deal with that? How is he going to face off against a Shigaraki that isn't fueled by hatred and angry this time, but rather by a sort of heroism and love for his friends? Lucky for him, he doesn't have to! AFO came and shattered Shigaraki. Got rid of that annoying conviction too. No confrontation for Deku! No re-examining his values and beliefs and assumptions! Now he's only got AFO to punch into pulp.

I guess there's also the excitement of the 'twist'. Hot Dog! wasn't Horikoshi-sensei so clever? Isn't it great how shocking this was? Or people can pat themselves on the back for predicting it. Those are fun emotions for readers.

But yeah. What was the resolution? Shigaraki didn't come back via his own will or connections that tether him to the world or a journey of self-discovery or whatever. He didn't gain new insight and feelings towards his dad or family or personal history or beliefs or motivation or the future as informed by the past. He got shattered; but it's mentioned off-handed that Nana kept him together off-screen with no new insight or development to their fraught grandson-grandmother relationship; and now he can come back to help kill AFO for revenge, I guess. Is that reclaiming his agency? Idk. he dies right after because his body has been punched to pieces by Deku so he never gets to actually exercise any agency in the real world. Bummer.

And as you mentioned, love how Deku has no reaction to this. He just learned that the kid he just saved from tears and guilt and bloodshed over his dangerous quirk was actually give that quirk for a nefarious plot by AFO. Should he go back and revise any of his saving words? idk. Deku just found out that Tenko was literally conceived to be a vessel, that kid can be considered as someone who 'never had a chance'. Should that affect his approach to stopping Shigaraki? idk again. Not relevant to Deku's dynamic with Shigaraki.

Apparently not all that relevant to Shigaraki's character development moving forward either.

It really does feel like a way to get rid of the interesting, challenging villain to make way for the easily punchable, dismissible evil villain. Fight ended in three chapters and Deku never had to think or reflect or introspect much! good for him. Convenient this will also destroy Shigaraki's body so that's over and done too. Good work everyone. Horikoshi-sensei can finally go on vacation. I don't blame him for this, he deserves a vacation. I sympathize that he wanted the story to end. But man, my disappoint is quite immense.

#nalslastworkingbraincell

[hibiscusel]

it’s upsetting to me that despite setting up each league member to have a specific and beautiful depiction of the ignorances of hero society in their own way, the story never really considers their words at all in making change for the betterment of said society. these are my thoughts regarding the conclusion of the villains, by each character…

shigaraki’s entire character boils down to the fundamental message of society, both heroes and civilians, ignoring the downtrodden who are in dire need of saving, just because it’s inconvenient for them. shigaraki represents those downtrodden people - the neglected children, the poor, the desperate. he represents that criminals are made, not born. yet, despite the beautiful set up we had with his entire being paralleling izuku’s, his monologue during his fight with endeavour, and him deliberately stating he needs to be a hero for the villains, this is just thrown to the side in the end. izuku didn’t save anything when it came to shigaraki even though he vowed to do so when nana shimura asked him if he had the ability to kill her grandson. he said he wouldn’t, but that’s what happened in the end, isn’t it? was the crying child within him who dreamed of being a hero not enough to communicate his humanity to the heroes? in the end he was just a small boy, remaining neglected by the people who were meant to hold his hands and save him. he didn’t even get to reconnect with the other league members - his dear family, in the end. kurogiri had said, his friends were waiting for him.

toga represented the rejection of people with unconventional quirks and how she’s punished for just being who she is. she can’t help who she is. in the bnha society, since her quirk isn’t glamorous or conventional, she is looked down upon and immediately labelled inherently evil for acting upon her desires. nobody in her previous life tried to understand her, not even her parents, as they resorted to counselling in hopes of suppressing her over helping her. and yes, ochako did understand her in the end which can somewhat serve as closure for toga because her love was returned, it’s still unfortunate that only ochako will understand her and nobody else. society will go on judging people with said unconventional quirks without hesitation, not taking the time to understand how hard it is to be shunned over something out of your control.

speaking of the view of differing quirks, it brings us now to spinner and his mini-arc of fighting for the visibility and acceptance of heteromorphs. we literally see the existence of cult groups in the story that are against the existence of heteromorphs in society because of their appearance. my complaints are mainly directed at horikoshi for fumbling the concept of discrimination and fighting for the liberation of the oppressed, especially since it directly reflects concepts of racism, colourism, and alienation in real life. although, i would be lying to say it isn’t a somewhat realistic depiction of how fighting for rights is widely frowned upon. in order to make change come about, society must be disrupted. that is exactly what spinner did in the end, and was met with shoji and koda telling him he must sit and wait peacefully for change to come about - which we all know does nothing in the long run. it’s so upsetting to me that spinner, the one who is undoubtedly the closest to shigaraki within the league, had the outcome he did. he had so much compassion for his cause in bringing about stain’s will, and it just hurts seeing his moment watered down to his nomufication and demonization of the heteromorph revolution.

then of course, is dabi. his entire drive was to prove how terrible of a person endeavor is, and how contradictory it is that someone like him saves people for a living. dabi is an embodiment of all of endeavor’s sins, coming back to put him in his place. however, in dabi’s conclusion with all his family members being there when he nearly combusted, endeavor’s words of atonement (i’m using this word very lightly because what really did he atone for anyways) will never be heard by the greater society. all the civilians will understand is that endeavor brought down his estranged villain son. people will most likely move on from the fact that he abused his family in order to focus on his ‘bringing down’ of dabi (which honestly was all on shoto’s part) and ultimately saving the day. people will not take dabi’s existence as a catalyst for critical thought into who exactly they call heroes and question the integrity of heroes - what are the kind of people that save them.

speaking of questioning the integrity of heroes, this leads into stain. i don’t have too much to say about him but i think it was stupid to just have afo kill him. he wasn’t a villain, he was a vigilante. i think it was such a waste of his character to just have him show up in the story, get jailed, and then have one interaction with all might. i feel he could’ve done so much more with communicating his cause to society, and in reaching regular civilians rather than sparking a flame in the hearts of some villains such as spinner. what a shame. what a waste.

also, i want to mention twice. i loved twice so much, he definitely stuck with me. i thought the concept of “all it takes is one bad day” was such a perfect thing to include for a villain character. his entire life was changed for the worse over a motorcycle accident when he was a teenager. though living in his loneliness which was ultimately destroying him, he had met the league. the members of the league, especially toga, served not as a stepping stone to use and swing his life around in that way, but simply as friends. a family, that he found a place in despite everything else that had gone wrong for him. he had this one thing going for him, and he was abruptly torn away from it with the touch of a feather. he wasn’t even asking for much, he had just found his people - his place in the society that rejected him over a very human mistake, where he could live as himself. and to top it all off because apparently that wasn’t bad enough, shigaraki doesn’t even know he died - and if he did, there was nothing shown for it. another fumble by horikoshi.

tldr; what pains me the most in all of this, is that not only are all the league’s reasons for fighting wholly overlooked by the heroes, but none of what they stood for is going to be considered in the end for reconstructing a just society. their words, their pains, and their dreams are all going to be brushed aside in preference for society simply celebrating their deaths and incarceration. because in the end, all the humanity within themselves that they bared to the world in their fight is going to amount to nothing to people who just wanted them gone. nobody is there to mourn them.

and it hurts so bad.

#i ended up writing a lot…. #bnha423 #bnha #league of villains #sel babbles

[gulnarsultan]

Just taking the perfect opportunity here, I saw this request. I wanted something similar, however, instead of the reader being >bravely harassed< she could be the victim of an attempt to poisoning? U can do it? Detailing how each one would react to learning about the possibility of losing their precious one? (With the addition of Aegon, Aemond and Otto they're so close...) Sorry, too many demands, love you and your beautiful work 💖

I am so glad you like my articles. No problem. Feel free to write more requests.

Most likely, the assassination took place during a feast or while the family was having dinner together. Maybe someone else, not the reader, was the target. But food or drinks are scratchy. After a while, the reader feels that his heart is tight and he can't breathe. It will stand still for a few minutes and wait for it to heal on its own. But stomach ache and excruciating headache tell him something is wrong. He suddenly stands up and tries to get away from the table. They don't yet realize it's a hook-up when others call out to him. But when the reader falls to the ground before their eyes, they stand up in panic. The reader is bleeding from his nose and mouth due to poison. Dameon is the most calm and will immediately have a doctor or healer who understands what the reader eats and drinks analyze. He knows how important your antidote is. Viserys will order everyone to save his grandson. Alicent and Rhaenyra embrace the reader, trying to ease her pain. The children are all very scared and do not want to lose your older sisters. Otto interrogates everyone and tries to find the culprit. It hurts so much to watch Aegon fight death in front of the eyes of the only person who ever gave him love and affection. Aemond is traumatized by having to watch the only person who protects and cares for him suffer. Helaena can't stand to lose her friend who treats her like she's the only normal person. She takes the reader's hand and tells him not to let her go. Children on both sides weep for the reader. The reader has an important and special place in their lives. Jace and Luc oppose the idea of ​​missing their sister. While their older sister, their reassurance about their appearance, is in pain, both can do nothing but pray. Otto and Daemon are very concerned about the reader, even if it doesn't reflect it. They will make the reader die by torturing the perpetrators of this evil. Alicent and Rhaenyra will now be more overprotective mother hens. They will adopt a more possessive and protective attitude towards the reader. Cristonda becomes more protective of the reader, whom she now considers to be her own child.

#yandere hotd #yandere house of the dragon #yandere rhaenyra targaryen #yandere alicent hightower #yandere otto hightower #yandere daemon targaryen x reader #yandere aegon ii targaryen #yandere helaena targaryen #yandere aemond targaryen x reader #yandere criston cole x reader #yandere viserys i targaryen x reader #yandere game of thrones

[notmoreflippingelves]

So in the middle of my rewatch, I suddenly got really distracted by Francisco's black-with-gold-accents "formal" court attire, specifically in regards to the leaf accents on the sleeves. And I could help but think of the *other* black-with-gold-leaf accents look that we see on a Flores family member--Esteban's in "Elena and the Secret of Avalor." Although the designs between the two suits are distinctly different, there is enough of a similarity to make me want to think about them as a set and how the differences actually reflect the differences in the characters/their roles as well.

Although the silhouettes are similar overall, I would go far as to say that Francisco's look creates more of the classic "storybook prince" vibe than his grandson's. His costume is ornate and grand without seeming ostentatious. Think of how Prince Charming is costumed in pretty much any Cinderella adaptation. He must look striking and appropriately heroic--but specifically in a way that enhances our heroine without overshadowing her. And in nearly every adaptation, Prince Charming is more than okay with this, and the same is true of Francisco. He is at some level aware that he is on a show called "Elena of Avalor"--not "Francisco Flores of Avalor" and has no desire to pull the spotlight away from where it rightfully must be. In fact, he is far prouder to be the grandfather of Elena (and of Esteban and Isabel as well) than he would hypothetically be as the protagonist of his own story.

(Esteban meanwhile exudes "main character energy" and I mean that in both the complimentary and derogatory sense. In his mind, he is on a show titled "Chancellor Esteban of Avalor and His 41-Year-Old Guilt Complex That Not Even Tres Leches Cake Can Heal." But like if I had four decades of trauma to process and no one else seemed to notice, I would probably feel uncomfortable when we are not about me as well. And fittingly, his black-and-gold outfit is much more attention-grabbing than Francisco's, but much more on that later).

Two big parts of what leads to the "fairy tale hero" look in Francisco's outfit (and also to his "default" blue version) are: 1) the two medals pinned to his chest and 2) the epaulettes at the shoulder (I believe this is still the correct term even if they lack the tassels we normally associate w/the term, but like fashion historians can feel free to correct me).

Either epaulettes or medals of honor --or both-- are often seen on characters of his type. (Pick any Disney prince and you have a 50% chance of seeing one of these. Heck, King Roland's main outfit in SoA has both as well). A large part of what leads us to associate these particular sartorial touches as "hero-coded" are their association as part of typical military dress uniforms throughout history. (And yes, I recognize the problematic nature of such a trope, but just bear with me and accept it for now).

By including these as part of Francisco's costume (and its original blue equivalent), the animators are implying that he has a long, proud of history of serving his country and that at least some of this service came as a soldier and/or commander on the battlefield. And that he won honor--military and practical alike--in doing so.

Esteban's ensemble, obviously lacks the military touches (the epaulettes and medals) of his grandfather's. Because for all that he too served Avalor for decades, his service was of the bureaucratic rather than the military variety. (Shuriki obviously won't let Esteban wear a sword with his uniform--even he wanted to. Hardly surprising considering the whole "I killed your aunt and uncle. Doesn't that make you want to go apeshit?" thing they've got going.) But I digress.

The arms (esp the shoulders) and trousers of Esteban's ensemble are also much more form-fitted than Francisco's,as befitting a younger, more athletic man who wants to better show off his physique. (The real "secret of Avalor" is how Esteban singlehandedly managed a country for 41 years and somehow did so without skipping "Leg Day"--am I right, folks?")

Compared to Francisco's much plainer jacket, the design of Esteban's coat is also more ornate (the leaf accents are larger and more detailed) and colorful with the red collar, cuffs, and lining. This makes sense given that Esteban is established as much vainer and more flamboyant than his grandfather and that he has as mentioned, a much stronger need to grab attention.

However, the elaborateness of Esteban's jacket makes even more sense we consider it in the context of his role in Shuriki's court. He is a skilled diplomat, yes, and a capable administrator. But like every courtier, his primary function is to be ornamental first and everything else second. His looks, his charm, his attentions are expected to always be in service to the Queen first and foremost--not even in service to his duty or his country but specifically to the Queen herself. Certainly not (!) in service to his own will. (And damn, that must sting extra hard for someone who has only ever wanted to be seen and listened to and valued for himself.)

As such, Esteban is treated as an extension of the Queen--yet another pretty-if-powerful tool in her Almighty hands and fundamentally little different from her pretty crystal wand.

And yet, we see little tiny little hints in Esteban's SoA costume that he remains more than just Shuriki's shiny little Avaloran ornament. Let's go back to the red accents--shall we? Obviously, the show as a whole establishes red as Esteban's "signature color"--an honor he shares with Elena (and Mateo..but like he's less relevant tbh). Moreover, red, along with yellow/gold (and blue but again less relevant here), is one of the official colors of Avalor. Indeed the jaquins on the royal flag are red against a gold backdrop. So we can see an subtle wardrobe-related foreshadowing of where Esteban's loyalties truly lie and of the decision that he will make at the end of the episode.

And finally, as the artists among you will attest, red's complementary opposite on the color wheel is green. As in Shuriki's signature color, and this is reflected in nearly everything about her--from her eyes and eyeshadow to her dress and earrings to her green magical smoke, to her Emerald City-core dressing room to the teal background on her little silhouetted flag redesign. And complementary colors are often paired together so that the unique, striking shade of each is shown off to its full potential--and such is the case here. (Often, the effect is even achieved by using the "opposite" color as a key part of adding "shading" to the object).

A string of red lights wrapped around a Christmas tree may be overshadowed at first by the massive green boughs that it is entangled around. But nevertheless, it is because of the contrasting green that we are fully able to grasp just how bright and red those lights are able to glisten in the light. And so it is with Esteban's red collar shining forth like a beacon through Shuriki's haze of green smoke.

But when it comes down to it, red is still green's perfect, natural opposite. Red is a primary color, a true chromatic original unlike the artificially-created secondary shade of green. Moreover, red is Avalor, red is Esteban. The little dab of invading, interloping Shuriki green that has been added to the red paint only serves to heighten its fiery, crimson hue all the more.

#elena of avalor #chancellor esteban #esteban flores #francisco flores #elena and the secret of avalor #esteban flores: assigned goth at conquest #pity it didn't stick tbh #sorry not sorry #and yes i am aware that francisco's formal court suit is likely just a palette swap of his regular outfit #just like esteban's formal yellow court suit (derogatory) is just a palette swap of his regular s1-2 suit #but like what am i here for if not to extract rich; unintended meanings from tiny little accidental scraps of canon #after all; they didn't HAVE to make francisco's suit black w/ gold #they could've done a different color instead; or did silver accents instead #and yet... #and now i've made it all your problem too #it's hardly the worst crime i am planning to commit in this fandom #of note; Victor and Naomi are the only other major recurring characters (apart from Shuriki) #that predominantly feature green as part of one of their “main” outfits #(there's chatana and joaquin too i guess but we saw so little of them that i don't really have anything to say rn) #and this is also significant as it highlights both victor's and naomi's similarities w/ esteban's as well as their differences #however; it is notable that as victor gets more complex; his main outfit changes from green-and-black to purple-and-black #to better link him with carla instead (though it does change back of course) #and naomi's main dress is teal more so than the unambiguous green of shuriki's #i tried to be vague on specific SoA spoilers cause my friend and mutual is watching the show rn and she hasn't made it that far yet #eoa meta #elena of avalor meta #meta #leave it to me to word vomit over a relatively minor thing #once an english major; always an english major

[smartestmammalintheuniverse]

Rick and Morty

(very short fic in third person of Rick’s perspective during/right after Unmortricken)

“I gave my life for this. My whole life for you to just...die. But you didn’t. You came back over and over again. And then... even when I thought that I had finally killed you, you still didn’t die. You didn’t die, because even when I killed you, you were still there. Every time I walked by a reflective sureface, there was your face. Every time, I dared look in the mirror, my worst enemy was staring back at me. Any time, I ever dared to try and do anything at all. I coudln’t help, but think that this is what you would do. Because this is what I would do and you are me.... were me... and I am you or I was...

Rick stared down at the corpse in the chair. Prime was dead. He was finally dead and it was over. He had gotten justice for Beth and for Diane. He had gotten revenge for Beth and Diane. He had gotten revenge for every Rick who had them taken away. It should feel triumphant. It should feel like divinity. But it just hurt. 

Now, as he walks out of the room, all he can think is that that can’t be it. It can’t hurt to kill him. It can’t, because that is a betrayal. He has betrayed his wife and child all over again so now he’s gone. Gone. Just a shell of a being, because hurting is so much worse than nothing. Because nothing is less of a betrayal. So the shell of a being walks away with tear tracks down his face. He refuses to be called a man or a god. He’s just nothing.

He stops when he sees Morty. Morty, his grandson, who he loves more than anything. The only person he couldn’t trick himself into hating. Morty hugs him. Rick’s heart thaws just a little. He knows that Morty doesn’t care that he doesn’t hug him back. That he can’t. He knows that when they get back home that Morty won’t mention any of this to anyone. That he wouldn’t dare, because that is what Rick has taught him to do. And if anything, Morty learns.

So, they fly home. He cleans off. He watches it all in a dream. He makes jokes at the dinner table. This is the first time that he can have dinner with his family and not think about how if his Beth saw this she would cry. How if his Diane saw this, she would ask why? How stubborn she was. How strong she was. How her spaghetti will always beat anyone else’s. But now, all he can think about is the robots who had stolen her face and her voice. How even he had done the same thing. How sick was he that he had gave his AI her voice? He couldn’t live without her so he wrote her into everything he did.

After the dust settles, he’ll sit and think and wait. Wait, for everything to fall apart. Wait for Prime to come crawling up out of the dust. But after that doesn’t happen, he’ll sit with himself and admit that finally it’s over. Finally, every version of Diane can rest in peace and maybe if they’re lucky enough their Rick’s will rest with them. He can only hope that one day, he will have the privilege.

#rick and morty #rick sanchez #beth smith #morty prime #morty smith #diane sanchez #rick c 137 #prime morty #space beth #evil morty #rick prime #rick c137 #beth c 137 #summer smith #rick and morty fanfiction

[demonicintegrity]

Episode 5 is where Harry and Meghan got to me. Up until this point my interest in the docuseries and in them is very much just pleasant curiosity, even with the immense sympathy for what they were going through. After this episode I am more or less flabbergasted and pissed at so much.

Starting off, up until this point I assumed the British media was doing this on their own. Their sense of entitlement and racist attitudes was just a reflection of bigoted greed. I thought the royal family was just bystanding, a false neutrality with no care for how that affects them. But the leaks.

The fucking leaks.

I don’t know how as an institute, you can be comfortable with private plans and documents getting leaked like that to the public. How are you not concerned with security? If shit like that is so easy to leak, both in terms of the people accessing it and leaking and also being okay with that, how are you not concerned that something else could leak?

Someone had gotten their hands on a letter from Meghan. She went through the trouble of trying to be sneaky about it, and yet it still somehow ended up in the Mail’s hands. Who knows if her father even got to see that actual one. And yet nothing was done about it.

And instead of being honest that they weren’t going to pursue legal action, they led Harry and Meghan on for weeks. They had to sue on their own, further adding fuel to the media campaign against them.

And then the plans to move to South America was leaked. Plans about this transition in whatever form were in development for years and it’s gone in a single leak.

Why was the palace so okay with that? Why isn’t it concerning to them that these things are leaked? Why are they so willing to be quiet? Surely, fucking surely, if this can happen to Harry and Meghan it could happen to them too.

I get my answer soon enough when Harry says the details about potentially revoking their titles is revealed only in his email to his father. An email Harry explicitly didn’t want make for this reason. I am willing to bet money it was his father, now King Charles. He leaked that one. Who else could’ve been on that email? Even if he written up a draft for something or other with it, how many people realistically should’ve saw it? What did they have to gain to leak it, so early in development? Money’s money i guess, but even then, you’d think it’d concern fellow staff and royals just how little integrity staffers would have if it’s them leaking. The emails were apparently from the 1st to 3rd and the leak was days after. They weren’t even ready to go through with it this time.

Backtracking for a second here, that letter was only sent because Meghan apparently became responsible for getting her father in line. I still find it incredulous that her father was speaking out on how terrible the family is treating her and he’s concerned and the family goes >:/ at that. So bothered. Bothered enough that when Meghan is like “hey this is happening in the news please advise I am actively trying not to cause strife with you” theyre like “write a letter” and then dont give a shit that the letter is leaked to the very news they’re having problems with! Fucking hell.

Anyways, the letter’s leaked and nothings done about it. The plans to leave are leaked. The plans to leave again are leaked, this time with a nice dose of “no you cannot see your grandma now.” Which I call bullshit on with the Late Queen btw. You’re telling me as the head monarch, you make plans with your grandson. That is the first obligation you made for the time, made entirely by yourself. Then, entirely unknown to you somehow, your week is full. And despite being the literal Queen of England, you cannot move anything around in your own schedule? Either she was being pushed around a lot in that old age or that characteristic quiet she has was just her being a doormat. In her own words (allegedly i suppose but what reason would Harry have to lie about this?) Harry was the first one she made obligations too but didn’t even bother to try and make it work at any point in that week.

Personally, if I made plans with someone, especially family who I know is struggling and want to see me, I would do those plans. It’s whoever I promised first for that time. And If i absolutely cannot, I apologize and reschedule.

I would also, in the place of any other family member or staff who decided the Queen’s schedule was full only when Harry tried to visit, not try and interfere with someone trying to have a chat with their grandmother. At best it’s rude not to give notice to those kind of things and at worse it’s a selfish piece of shit move.

AND THEN, you have this royal meeting without Meghan. Because that’s so fair. It gets heated and again, I’m calling bullshit on the Late Queen being quiet. You’re telling me as the head of the family you’re gonna watch your family turn on each other in an ugly way and saying nothing? You’re gonna watch the press lie and say you were blindsighted, painting your grandson as disrespecting you, and say nothing?

She either was pushed around by the other family and staff or a doormat. I cannot for the life of me decide which is worse. Because the former is direct disrespect for your respected and loved family member and the latter is said family member not caring enough to make a stand everyone knew would change things. Blasted woman had all this power and influence and not once tried to use a fraction of it to even encourage the press to back off of her family. What horseshit.

But of course, when William is accused of bullying, damn near instantly there’s a statement. That Harry hadn’t seen much less consented to have his name on. All this nothing for Meghan and Harry but the second the press thinks “hm, could William have a hand in this wedge? Could it be possible he’s kinda a dick about things?” suddenly they can say something.

The sympathy I had for the royal family dies here.

With this bombshell after bombshell, Meghan’s hate is a coordinated attack on twitter. I don’t know why that surprised me but it did. I think whats most surprising is how few people it took to create such a consistent storm. Once again we are seeing what unregulated harassment does. What awful seeds are planted and maintained in a echo chamber in the name of free speech without consequences. And even though Meghan is far from the first and only to be targeted, nothing will be done. She isn’t even offered support from the family she marries into once again.

The paparazzi doesn’t leave her alone. Once again no one cares about the trespassing and stalking. This is seen as acceptable for some fucking bizarre reason. I hope each and everyone of those bastards trying to peak at a family so obviously trying to be left alone gets dragged through the mud. Truly, there is no standard of morals these days.

What got me to the point of rage is when Meghan flips through her security book and a death threat tweet is an example of what needs to be reported. I think I’m jaded enough where the knowledge that she likely had death (and probably rape) threats was there, but didn’t register as much. Unfortunately I am part of the generation that grew up on this new tech. Someone getting these threats is fairly run of the mill here. To the point of what really can be done. It’s lost it’s effect, or so I thought. Until I am reminded that death threats are treated severely for a good reason. Until I am shown a person who isn’t jaded by the internet horrors reacting to this and I’m reminded that 1) this shouldn’t be just the normal internet experience and 2) seeing people echo again and again that you should be dead weighs on you. Especially combined with the stalking from the paparazzi.

I am reminded that these are real people experiencing things they shouldn’t be experiencing.

When I only knew of Harry and Meghan through skimmed headlines once in a bluemoon, I was also on team “Youre stepping back from the royal family why would you get royal protection?” I mean, it was simply just a courtesy at that point right?

Now realizing just how harassed they were, it wasn’t just pulling security. It was pulling security on a very short notice on their family with a toddler knowing damn well what harassment they were facing.

This family did not give a shit if anything happened to them. Did not give a shit for their piece of mind, for their physical safety, for anything. Even if it was a courtesy, you’re telling me a couple that has undergone so much harassment from day one, your family, didn’t deserve it? Especially when the original plan was to still do things for the Queen and commonwealth but just financially independently now?

What a load of shit. The way I would’ve cut all contact and burned bridges immediately. This isnt just a dysfunctional family, this is a truly hateful one.

#This docuseries has stopped being just a fun thing to watch in my downtime me thinks #harry and mehgan #prince harry #meghan markle #harry & meghan

[baki-tiene-un-simp]

En lo profundo de la montaña / Deep in the mountain [Kaoru].

Final 3/4

~Palabras / Words~ 1.1 k

[Kaoru]

He was never too interested in people. He never felt that curious tingle when seeing the people around him, on a bad day he would scare them and on a normal day he would simply ignore their presence.

Because that was Kaoru, it was the way he looked at the world, a flat expression along with eyes empty of any feeling in the face of the insignificance of the other living beings that surrounded him. Just don't get too much in his way, he could crush you even by accident.

And he was fine with the loneliness that his indifference brought; even the friendliest animal would shy away from him at Kaoru's persistent disdain for them swarming, buzz-like existence around him.

So it wasn't difficult for Kaoru to decide what to do with you; ignore you. He stood up to his full height after emerging from the darkness of the leafy trees, a blank expression on his face that reflected that your existence didn't mean much to him. However, your face reflected in an expression of complete amazement as you witnessed this incredibly muscular creature, you quickly tried to identify him, Baki? Maybe Jack. It looked like Kaoru, but it definitely wasn't Yujiro.

Great musculature characteristic of the oni, like horns, claws and teeth, it didn't take you long to notice distinctive aspects about him; Old scars all over his body, extensive and seemingly deep because of the clear shape they left when they healed, dark and small eyes that did not shine in a friendly way for you. It was definitely Kaoru.

“Um… Excuse me,” you couldn’t even say anything else when you saw him turn around, ready to walk away and ignore you, “Wait, please!”

“What?” His large form turned towards you as you called out to him and hurried over.

Well, that was easy, don't you think? His quick response left you in a shocked state, you really expected that getting his attention would be a lot harder than that, he seemed so oblivious to any feeling of curiosity about you that you thought you would have to beg for him to listen to you. But here he is, looking at you with his cold, emotionless eyes, you felt uneasy under his attention, even though you were the one who asked for it.

“It's about…” you started as you focused on his abdomen, you couldn't look him in the eyes even if you tried, you knew, “I came to this mountain to visit my grandfather.”

Your words didn't seem to merit a response from him, so you squirmed under his gaze and silence. You shivered, before stammering anything else, it was obvious that you hadn't convinced him yet.

“He is an old man who lives on the top of the mountain,” you added after a few seconds of silence.

You looked up just to make sure he was listening. You trembled. God, those eyes were scary from where you were, if he admitted that he could see your soul, you would definitely believe him. The nervousness that he generated in you penetrated to your bones.

“I am his grandson/granddaughter,” your voice also trembled, why didn't he say anything? “I came to bring him provisions for the month.”

Nothing? Really, nothing? Not even a nod? He just watches you.

“I am the firstborn of his eldest son, I am taking care of him in my hands now that my father died.”

You were so nervous at this point, your mouth was faster than your brain, you kept explaining and talking to him even when he didn't give even the slightest hint of paying attention to you.

Finally, you had nothing more to say, you looked back at him and felt a strange déjà vu, you felt like you were staring at the void that stretched beneath your feet on a cliff, have you ever even experienced that feeling? Has the void ever looked back at you? No, you were sure not, but you couldn't shake that familiar feeling.

“You're talking about the master,” he didn't seem to be asking, he was taking his words for granted.

“Excuse me?” Well, at least you didn't have to endure that awkward silence.

“The Onmyōji who lives in the mountain,” he took your expression of confusion as unconscious ignorance. Kaoru shook his head, there was no point in dwelling on topics that did not concern him, “Follow me.”

You stayed in your place for a few seconds, you had lost the thread of the conversation, but at least you didn't have to beg for help. You didn't know why he helped you, maybe he was just in a good mood, but really Kaoru didn't know why he helped you either.

He would just ignore that curious feeling in the back of his brain.

.

“Grandpa!” The old man looked up with a confused grimace, frowning when he saw the creature you were running away from as you ran in his direction.

“What are you doing here?” Your smile did not falter at your grandfather's bad mood, you were already used to his frown, “Go home.”

“Grandpa, I came to bring you supplies,” you smiled as you showed your full backpack, “Oh, I didn't thank him.”

You lamented when you looked into the forest and didn't see Kaoru, maybe he left as soon as you walked away from him. You felt a little guilty for not taking the time to thank him for his help, the huge oni had brought you to your grandfather safely and in good time, and you didn't have the decency to thank him properly.

Your expression became sad, perhaps too sad when it was a simple “thank you.” Your grandfather noticed it and rolled his eyes at your banal worries, you are like your father. He had no doubts.

“Stop whining and enter the house at once,” the old man turned to return to his house without waiting for you after inviting you in in his crude way, “If you are not too bothersome, I will teach you how to make a thank offering."

You laughed at your grandfather's disguised kindness, you knew that no matter how grumpy he was, he would never let you be sad in his presence. You thanked him silently as you followed him into the house.

.

The night had settled at this point, sparkles singing carefreely, fireflies dancing like playful stars in the sky and the hooting of owls echoing among the large trees, the night landscape was peaceful, even for him. Kaoru wandered around casually. Something common for him, walking aimlessly.

Curiosity flickered in his eyes as he saw the small offering resting at the edge of the clearing your grandfather inhabited, framed with two candles that dimly illuminated the bowls of foods and small objects. He really wasn't much the gifts, much less thank you, he didn't like wasting time when he had done something simple that didn't deserve recognition; It just wasn't worth it.

And yet you had taken the time to do this for him, it was small and surely wouldn't satisfy his hunger, it was simply a small thing that fit poorly in his hand. It wasn't something that suited him, it wasn't something to satiate or entertain him, it was just for him.

But he appreciated it, strangely he appreciated it.

Versión en español.

[Kaoru]

Él jamás estuvo demasiado interesado en las personas. Nunca sintió ese cosquilleo curioso al ver a las personas a su alrededor, durante un mal día las asustaría y en un día común simplemente ignoraría su presencia.

Porque así era Kaoru, era la forma en que contemplaba el mundo, una expresión plana junto a unos ojos vacíos de cualquier sentimiento ante la insignificancia de los demás seres vivos que lo rodeaban. Simplemente, no te metas demasiado en su camino, podría aplastarte incluso por accidente.

Y él estaba bien con la soledad que traía su indiferencia, incluso el animal más amigable se alejaría de él ante el desdén persistente de Kaoru ante su existencia pululante, similar a un zumbido, a su alrededor.

Por lo que no fue difícil para Kaoru decidir qué hacer contigo; ignorarte. Se enderezó en toda su altura después de emerger de entre la oscuridad de los frondosos árboles, una expresión vacía en su rostro que reflejaba que tu existencia no significaba mucho para él. Sin embargo, tu rostro reflejaba una expresión de completo asombro al ser testigo de esta increíblemente musculosa criatura, rápidamente trataste de identificarlo, ¿Baki? Tal vez Jack. Parecía Kaoru, pero definitivamente no era Yujiro.

Gran musculatura característica de los onis, al igual que los cuernos, garras y dientes, no te tomo mucho tiempo fijarte en aspectos distintivos sobre él; Antiguas cicatrices en todo su cuerpo, extensas y aparentemente profundas por la forma clara que dejaron al sanar, ojos oscuros y pequeños que no brillaban en forma amigable para ti. Definitivamente, se trataba de Kaoru.

“Um… Disculpa”, ni siquiera pudiste decir algo más cuando lo viste darse la vuelta, dispuesto a irse e ignorarte, “¡Espera, por favor!”

“¿Qué?”, su gran forma se giró hacia ti cuando lo llamaste y te acercaste de forma apresurada.

Bueno, eso fue fácil, ¿no crees? Su rápida respuesta te dejo en un estado sorprendido, realmente esperabas que llamar su atención fuera mucho más difícil que eso, parecía tan ajeno a cualquier sentimiento de curiosidad por ti que pensaste que tendrías que rogar para que te escuche. Pero aquí está, mirándote con sus ojos fríos y desprovistos de sentimientos, te sentiste inquieto bajo su atención, aun cuando fuiste tú quien la pidió.

“Se trata de…”, empezaste mientras te concentrabas en su abdomen, no podrías mirarlo a los ojos, aunque lo intentes, lo sabías, “Vine a esta montaña para visitar a mi abuelo”

Tus palabras no parecían merecer una respuesta de parte de él, por lo que te removiste bajo su mirada y silencio. Temblaste, antes de balbucear algo más, era obvio que no lo habías convencido todavía.

“Es un hombre anciano que vive en la cima de la montaña”, agregaste después de unos segundos de silencio.

Levantaste la mirada solo para cerciorarte de que él estuviera escuchando. Temblaste. Dios, esos ojos eran atemorizantes desde tu lugar, si él admitiera que podía ver tu alma, definitivamente le creerías. El nerviosismo que él te generaba calaba hasta tus huesos.

“Soy su nieto”, tu voz tembló también, ¿por qué él no decía nada? “Vine a traerle provisiones para el mes”

¿Nada? ¿De verdad, nada? ¿Ni siquiera un asentimiento de cabeza? Solo te observo.

“Soy el primogénito de su hijo mayor, estoy tomando su cuidado en mis manos ahora que mi padre murió”

Estabas tan nervioso en este punto, tu boca era más rápida que tu cerebro, seguías explicando y hablándole aun cuando él no dio ni el más mínimo indicio de estar prestándote atención.

Finalmente, no tuviste nada más que decir, lo miraste de regreso y sentiste un extraño déjà vu, sentías que estabas mirando al vacío que se extendía debajo de tus pies en un acantilado, ¿alguna vez experimentaste ese sentimiento siquiera? ¿Alguna vez el vacío te regreso la mirada? No, estabas seguro de que no, pero no podías sacarte esa sensación familiar.

“Hablas del maestro”, no parecía estar preguntando, él estaba dando por hecho sus palabras.

“¿Disculpa?”, bueno, al menos no tenías que soportar ese incómodo silencio.

“El Onmyōji que vive en la montaña”, él tomó tu mueca de confusión como una ignorancia inconsciente. Kaoru negó con la cabeza, no tenía sentido abundar en temas que no le compete, “Sígueme”

Te quedaste en tu lugar unos segundo, habías perdido el hilo de la conversación, pero al menos no tuviste que rogar para que te ayude. No sabías por qué te ayudaba, tal vez él solo estaba de buenas, pero realmente Kaoru tampoco sabia porque te ayudaba.

Él solo ignoraría ese curioso sentimiento en la parte trasera de su cerebro.

.

“¡Abuelo!”, el anciano levanto la mirada con una mueca de confusión, frunciendo su ceño cuando vio a la criatura de la que te alejabas mientras corrías en su dirección.

“¿Qué haces tú aquí?”, tu sonrisa no flaqueo ante el mal humor de tu abuelo, ya estabas acostumbrado a su ceño fruncido, “Vete a casa”

“Abuelo, vine a traerte provisiones”, sonreíste mientras mostrabas tu mochila llena, “Oh, no le agradecí”

Te lamentaste cuando observaste hacia el bosque y no viste a Kaoru, quizá se fue tan pronto como alejaste de él. Te sentiste un poco culpable por no haberte tomado el tiempo para agradecer su ayuda, el enorme oni te había traído con tu abuelo de forma segura y en un buen tiempo, y no tuviste la decencia de agradecer correctamente.

Tu expresión se tornó triste, quizá demasiado cuando se trataba de un simple “gracias”. Tu abuelo lo noto y rodó los ojos ante tú preocupaciones banales, eres como tu padre. No tenía dudas.

“Deja de lloriquear y entra a la casa de una vez”, el anciano se giró para regresar a su casa sin esperar por ti después de invitarte a pasar a su tosca manera, “Si no eres demasiado molesto, te enseñaré a hacer una ofrenda de agradecimiento”

Te reíste de la amabilidad disfrazada de tu abuelo, sabías que por muy cascarrabias que era jamás te dejaría estar triste en su presencia. Lo agradeciste silenciosamente mientras marchabas tras él al interior de la casa.

.

La noche estaba asentada en este punto, brillos cantando despreocupadamente, luciérnagas danzando como juguetonas estrellas en el firmamento y el ulular de los búhos que hacía eco entre los grandes árboles, el paisaje nocturno era pacífico, incluso para él. Kaoru merodeo despreocupadamente por los alrededores. Algo común en él, andar sin rumbo.

La curiosidad parpadeó en sus ojos cuando vio la pequeña ofrenda que descansaba en los límites del claro que habitaba tu abuelo, enmarcada con dos velas que iluminaban tenuemente los cuencos con comidas y objetos pequeños. Él realmente no era mucho de regalos, mucho menos de agradecimientos, no le gustaba perder tiempo cuando había hecho algo simple que no merecía reconocimiento; simplemente no valía la pena.

Y aun así te habías tomado el tiempo en hacer esto por él, era pequeño y seguro que no saciaría su hambre, era simplemente una pequeñez que encajaba en su mano de forma pobre. No era algo que se ajustaba a él, no era algo para saciarlo o entretenerlo, solo era para él.

Pero él lo apreció, extrañamente él lo apreció.

#hanayama kaoru #kaoru hanayama #baki hanayama #baki the grappler #baki son of ogre #baki dou #baki headcanons

[duckielover151]

OPLA and Garp and Worldbuilding

Okay. I think I've finally figured it out.

I've seen some polarizing takes on Monkey D. Garp's character in the live action adaptation of One Piece. I generally like how they brought his character to life, but there was something that wasn't quite sitting right with me. It just took me a bit to pinpoint exactly what the problem was.

So for one: I do like his live action portrayal. The live action series remains goofy and faithful to the original in a lot of ways but does give everything a bit of a grittier feel, as would be expected-- and is almost required-- of a live action story about pirates. When you're seeing real people in front of you, as opposed to cartoonish drawings, your tale kind has to reflect the real world and its darkness.

Garp's character in the live action absolutely feels... not dumbed down, but simplified from who his character is in the original tale.

And I think that was necessary. The biggest change from one medium to the other was the pacing. The live action just could not have been done with the anime's pacing, (though there's honestly very little that was missed, even with how much faster the story moved). And the pace of your storytelling really affects how your characters get developed.

So yeah, live action Garp comes across as just the tiniest bit unstable... (he's still got a bit of a wild side) but mostly in control. And a lot more proactive about his goals.

The most important thing is that I think this storyline about him chasing around after his rebellious grandson... just to give him one final test before setting him free, accepting that he's ready to handle the dangerous life he's been dreaming of-- even if it will pit them against each other more seriously in the future!-- is just more accessible to an audience used to live action storytelling. It kind of makes sense. Quite a lot of the time, anime Garp's actions and choices regarding his family... just don't make a ton of sense. And the live action does not have time to explore that complexity properly. (Hell, the anime doesn't even always do the best job of exploring it in a way that justifies his actions and beliefs, but that's a tale for another time.)

But there's still a problem.

Garp's actions in this adaptation are fine for his character... but really bad for the worldbuilding.

One of the only real complaints I have about the One Piece live action is that they do not succeed in getting across just how corrupt the world government is truly supposed to be.

And a lot of that is because of Garp, following around and cleaning up after our heroes and acting like a responsible adult for once. (That alone is enough for some people to-- honestly, rightfully-- cry that live action Garp is out of character.)

Garp shows up and reforms Morgan's base in both versions... But the live action never really addresses how much of a tyrant Morgan was. That his own marines and even the people of the town, who he was supposed to be keeping safe, were terrified of him. Garp's derision and treatment of Morgan in the live action honestly seem a little unjustified. And it's even worse that he stepped in with Nezumi. Don't get me wrong, it was fantastic to see Nezumi put in his place... But that satisfaction was brief.

Live action-only viewers will never truly understand just how hopeless the situation in Coco village was. That Nezumi was the last line of authority. Their only hope for salvation and justice, and he was all too happy to accept Arlong's bribes and let the villagers suffer.

I recently watched the Honest Trailer for this series. And it was reliably entertaining... but you could tell the crew who made it was missing some key context for understanding the vision behind this show. They make fun of Luffy for not understanding what it really means to be a pirate. And it's not a terrible joke. They're kind of right. But I think what's missing from this adaptation is the understanding that the appeal of being a pirate isn't just the potential for riches. It's about freedom. It's about being strong enough and being in a position to protect yourself when even the people tasked with keeping you safe are all too happy to take advantage of you. It's that siding with the law in this universe is often the choice that makes you the bad guy. Honestly, Koby's got a harder path to walk, as far as morality goes, than Luffy-- or any of the pirates who live honorably.

But I try to remind myself that this is just the tip of the iceberg...

Nami's backstory is what a lot of people tend to pinpoint as the place where the anime starts to get really good. And I think that's because it's where the deal with this world starts to become really clear.

That yeah, it's totally reasonable to root for a group that would normally be the villains in any other story. The civilized half of this world really is that fucked up.

I don't feel like that point really hits its undeniable, no-going-back mark until we get to Robin's backstory and the tale of Ohara... And I cannot tell you how much I hope this adaptation gets to get there.

It's okay that the live action hasn't properly established a tale where an everyday person is going to want to root for the anarchists in this story, because the anime was barely there at this point also.

There is still time to redeem this.

#opla #one piece #monkey d. garp #worldbuilding

[dokushoclub]

I've already started another book in Japanese that I will post about soon, but the 本を守ろうとする猫の話 book hangover is real, so I'm posting a longer quote for you that stuck with me over the last month.

Context: Rintarō was raised by his grandfather who has just died. While he is still grieving, he starts going on adventures with a talking cat to save the books. On those adventures Rintarō is able to change some hearts by reflecting back on lessons his grandfather taught him when he was still alive. This is one of those lessons:

林太郎が学校を休みがちになり、がむしゃらに夏木書店の書棚をあさっていた頃のことだ。学校に嫌気がさしていた林太郎は、本の壁の中に閉じこもり、しだいに外界に対して興味を失って活字の世界だけに没入していった。そんな孫に、無口な祖父は珍しく言葉を重ねて告げた。 ”ただがむしゃらに本を読めば、その分だけ見える世界が広がるわけではない。どれほど多くの知識を詰め込んでも、お前が自分の足で歩かなければ、すべては空虚な借り物でしかないのだよ” 難しい言葉の連なりに首をかしげる孫を、祖父は静かな瞳で見返しながら、 ”本がお前の代わりに人生を歩んでくれるわけではない。自分の足で歩くことを忘れた本読みは、古びた知識で膨らんだ百科事典のようなものだ。誰かが聞いてくれなければ何の役にも立たない骨董品に過ぎない” 祖父は孫の頭をそっと撫でながら付けくわえた。 ”お前はただの物知りになりたいのか？[...]読むはよい。けれども読み終えたら、次は歩き出す時間だ” 夏川草介：本を守ろうとする猫の話 p47f

I though it was a very kind and gentle way for a grandfather who manages an antique book shop himself and who certainly is a book worm just as much as his grandson to reach out to a young boy who was on the verge of shutting himself off completely.

I also think it's generally good advice: Read your books and then walk with the new knowledge and experiences for a while. See were it will lead you and give it space to influence how you see the world around you.

#my book reviews #本を守ろうとする猫の話 #夏川草介 #reading in japanese #japanese books #book quotes #japanese quotes #books #books and reading #you can use a browser reading addon for Japanese to quickly look up words in this post #like #yomichan #10ten reader #rikaikun

[taminoarticles]

— Tamino for Glamcult, #138 THE SANCTUM ISSUE / November 2022 (x)

SURRENDERING TO WHATEVER'S HAPPENING AT THE MOMENT: TAMINO

WORDS BY GRACE POWELL PHOTOGRAPHY BY JORRE JANSSENS

Belgian-Egyptian musician TAMINO-AMIR MOHARAM FOUAD (aka Tamino) is the singer-songwriter pulling on our heartstrings. Grandson to renowned movie star MUHARRAM FOUAD, Tamino has had stardom in his veins from the very beginning. Trained at the AMSTERDAM ROYAL CONSERVATORY, and having seen his first glimpse of fame with the 2017 release, Habibi, the artist has since been heard on stages around Europe. It was the release of his 2018 album, Amir, which made the world stop, listen and reflect as he hypnotised us all with tracks such as Indigo Night and goddess of nature, Persephone. After what felt like a prolonged hiatus — not so much as a cheeky Insta’ story — this year Tamino is back with his sophomore album, Sahar. Glamcult spoke with Tamino after the release of his first album, so why not make a tradition of it? From the flawless sounds of the Oud, the sight of a flamingo stuck in the mud, to his early days studying classical piano — we cover a lot from the backseat of a car en route to his Glamcult shoot in the depths of BELGIUM.

Gc: Hi Tamino. How’s it going? 

T: I’m good thank you — ready for my Glamcult shoot, so you know all about my day! The location is crazy, I didn’t even know this existed in Belgium. 

Gc: Yes, I’m the anonymous producer of your day, ha-ha. It’s going to be great. To start, could you tell us a bit about your musical beginnings?

T: Of course. So, if I go to the very beginning, I started with piano when I was around ten or eleven years old. It was my mum, actually, who proposed it, as she saw that I had a fascination for music. My mum also played classical piano, so it was a logical move for both myself and her. However, I didn’t last very long…

Gc: Logical — but less sustainable?

T: Honestly, I stopped because I didn’t have the patience to study the classical pieces to perfection. Because of this, I then decided to take a break from music for about a year before I started going back to the piano again. This time, I returned with a different mindset and I started to play freely; choosing my own chords and writing my own songs. This began when I was around fourteen.

Gc: So, no emo phase?

T: I did play in a couple of bands before finally performing solo at around seventeen.

Gc: I like this idea of beginning rigidly, and within that rigidity finding your draw to fluidity. Do you still feel like you need this freedom in music today as you did as a child?

T: I always pursue freedom in sound. Even though I love classical music (both listening to it and going to concerts) — and of course, I have admiration for those who are able to learn a piece to perfection. However, it just wasn’t for me as it was always someone else’s latest.

Gc: You recently released the single (and video) Fascination, one of the first tracks from your latest album, Sahar. What inspired this song?

T: Like most of my songs, it all began with noodling on the guitar. I usually begin by humming a melody before finding the words. For this song, however, the words came with the melody. There is this one specific anecdote within this song — “I didn’t cry for that flamingo stuck in the salt. Didn’t care for it at all, While you couldn’t hold your tears, Your fascination’s always fascinated me.” This came from watching BBC Planet with my significant other. It was about how our different reactions to the same scene caused inspiration.

Gc: So, it can really come from anywhere… Any other unusual inspiration points?

T: It’s so difficult to pinpoint! Often it’s less specific than this case. That’s the beautiful thing about songwriting. Often you don’t know how it happens — which is strange in itself. Even though you can sharpen your tools through practice, you still never know what’s going to happen.

Gc: It’s a never-ending journey…

T: Exactly. I feel like when it comes to songwriting, it’s very hard to become a master of your craft.

Gc: However, sonically — do certain genres inspire you? For example, there are many clear Arabic references, alongside folk music and jazz within your work.

T: The influences are for sure there. I love Arabic music.

Gc: Has living in Antwerp influenced your sound at all?

T: It has of course influenced me; however, I wouldn’t know precisely how. Antwerp is a cool place, but I think it’s time to spend some time elsewhere. Although, I’m going on tour soon — so it’s out of the question at the moment. 

Gc: A lot of artists I speak to describe the act of music creation as occuring subconsciously. Do you have the same experience?

T: Yes and no. It’s still me writing, but I can relate to this.

Gc: Your first release from the album, the aptly named The First Disciple, broke your online silence. Why did you pick this song as your reintroduction?

T: This song sits at the heart of the album… It’s also the longest song on the album (a side note, but still cool). Sonically, The First Disciple represents some new sounds I experimented with on this album. The combination of the nylon-string classical guitar with the nylon-string oud was super important to me. Lyrically, this song is also improtant to me.

Gc: Throughout the whole album your sound is far more complex than your previous work. Did this change in sound bring up any nervousness?

T: No, not really. I would have only felt nervous if I wasn't happy with the album.

Gc: That's the truly worst-case scenario.

T: But I'm super happy with the album, and stand fully behind it so I don’t have nerves.

Gc: As you should be. Before the release, you had a social media blackout — why?

T: I feel like when I'm not releasing new music, I have nothing to say. Social media is a HUGE distraction. Those apps are designed for you to become addicted. | know myself; if it's on my phone I will look at it at least three times a day. It was extremely liberating to not have Instagram on my phone for two years, it allowed me to be bored. Boredom is very important for the creative process,

which was the main reason why I didn't have it on my phone.

Gc: It’s kind of insane how today boredom has to be sought after. It’s a hard road to take.

T: It's true. You have to choose boredom, instead of just letting it happen the way it would in the past. lt's a conscious decision to not go on your phone, scroll through Instagram and so forth. We need to let things be as they are.

Gc: You're going on tour. How are you feeling about that?

T: On tour, you're everywhere and nowhere at the same time. It's not real life. However, playing live feels special. It's cliché, but I love playing for people that appreciate your music and the fact that you're sharing something with a group. Sometimes it feels like a transfer of energy. This transfer is healing.

Gc: Music certainly has healing properties. Presumable creating, performing and so forth is your safe space?

T: Performing to such a huge amount of people, you all feel open. You're all surrendering to whatever's happening in the moment. It connects to what we were saying earlier about

distractions. When performing, these distractions are not there, I'm fully in the moment. This moment is then something you can share with so many people. In this space there's room for emotion, there's room for everything to just exist. It feels both healing and freeing. It's the best high there is.

Gc: We're so excited about the launch of Sahar. What do you hope for your audience to feel from the album?

T: Honestly, whatever they want. I really have no say in that.

Gc: Do you feel a separation from your work once it’s released? Like it’s no longer yours?

T: A bit, I see the music as just as much mine as I do the listeners. Of course, I have my interpretations, thoughts, beliefs. I also have hopes for the listener's ability to read into the lyrics or hear about the songs. But in the end, | have no say.

Gc: And finally (and potentially, most importantly) what have you taken away from the album?

T: This album felt more experimental in the recording process. The arrangements really came from letting go (as opposed to being a control freak). So, I think this became a lesson. Letting things go in the creative process can lead to beautiful things. That's been the most important lesson.

#tamino #tamino amir #glamcult #article #interview #english #2022 #with photoshoot #wouldve loved to get better scans but i'll have to settle for photos bc it's such a thick book :(

[hirazuki]

for that ship&kiss thing. celebrimbor/maeglin with number 8?? thank you!

…in secrecy | Celebrimbor & Maeglin

•────────────────────⋅☾ ☽⋅────────────────────•

Aman, a cottage near the border with Avathar. Fourth Age.

"You shouldn't be here," comes the response from behind the wooden door -- finely made, though he does not recognize the craftsmanship -- that has cracked open to reveal pale skin, dark hair, and enough traces of his father's favorite cousin to waken a dull ache in his chest.

Celebrimbor cocks his head to one side, in a way that always prompts others to tell him how much he resembles his grandfather; a source of pride, and irritation. "Is your return among the living meant to be a secret? Did the terms of your release from the Halls not permit for visitors? Or, is this a conclusion you have come to for yourself?"

Silence is his reply, and in it Celebrimbor can hear the snapping of fallen twigs -- the sound of wild things in retreat, scrambling deeper into the forest.

Too much, then. He takes a breath, dampens the inadvertent intensity his spirit has ever burned with, and tries again, softer. "You are not the only one who laid low a city."

"It is not the same."

Distance and disdain, coated in a kind of poisonous pride that seeks to deflect, to set apart and deny others approach lest they notice the stain of shame clinging to reborn flesh and detect the softness lying exposed at hough and wrist and throat.

Oh, this, Celebrimbor knows well; intimately, in fact. This, he can work, with all the ease of coaxing naked gold under heat.

"It seems as though someone has yet to hear the full story," he remarks with a mirthless chuckle, allowing his voice to color with the bitterness and self-derision he is always careful to keep hidden in these unblemished lands; well, almost always. "Truthfully, today marks the beginning of a week-long feast in Tirion and I find I am still ill-suited for crowds. Half of those I could think to impose upon are attending; everyone else has a forge."

Dark eyes blow wide at that last statement, akin to the inquisitive perking of coarse-haired ears or the cautious steps skulking out of the underbrush towards a proffered morsel in his uncle's hand or the curious flicking of a tongue in the presence of an unexpected thought, late at night in the smithy; an indication of interest flaring, however reluctantly -- as Celebrimbor expected. He has had long practice, after all, with courting the attention of the supposedly disinterested, and compared to his successes, the Elf before him hardly places for difficulty.

He makes to speak, and pauses. "Which name do you prefer?" he asks, instead.

"I don't," Maeglin says and turns to go inside, the hair he keeps short brushing the top of his shoulders.

The words are cutting, and the door is left open.

Celebrimbor has never met him before, this cousin of his who is half-Sindar, reared in twilight and young in death, born of the union of blinding light and deeply private darkness, but he knows his story -- no; rather, he knows what they say of the traitor of Gondolin.

He knows what they say of himself, as well.

And he may know nothing of Nan Elmoth, save its hazy reputation, nor what signs might mark Maeglin as his father's son, but, after trading a handful of words, he knows this: Maeglin -- Lómion -- is doubtlessly of the house of Finwë.

Sharp; unyielding; obsidian polished to unbearable reflection that yet remembers the fires in the earth --

Celebrimbor likes him. His manner is familiar in a way that is comforting and painful all at once, and he pointedly decides to blame it on the family resemblance; there is only so much room for specters in his heart, and he is not inclined to give ground to shadows, no matter how they may try to claw at his mind.

Fëanor's only grandson smiles, genuinely -- although there are none there to appreciate the rarity of such a moment -- and follows him indoors.

The place is quiet, dim, and sparse; entirely bare, except for the meagerest of essentials: a lamp, a table, a single chair. There are no tools of any trade or decorative items or personal effects, and the degree of dispossession is such that it can hardly be attributed to a preference of aesthetics.

The rest of the house, presumably, is the same.

It says much and, paired with Maeglin's fingers that have been ceaselessly fidgeting ever since he answered the door -- anxious creatures, ever seeking for something to distract, something to soothe -- it amounts to nothing less than an endless, silent scream.

In a display that is incredibly Fëanorian in its brashness and its intimacy, and, plainly, horrifyingly foreign to his host, Celebrimbor reaches out and takes one of Maeglin's hands in his own, turning it so as to place it against his cheek, and presses his lips into its palm.

Maeglin freezes, going still like the hares in the early morning mists of Eregion -- standing upright amidst the holly trees and rays of first light, statues poised to flee.

"If your hands long to make, cousin," Celebrimbor says, exquisitely aware of his own hypocrisy, "you should let them."

#celebrimbor #maeglin #silmarillion #tolkien #hira writes tolkien #my writing #ANONNNN i've honestly never thought of them interacting before; not seriously at least not beyond crack/silly memes #and now have a million ideas for post-canon aman and i blame you ♡ #i hope you like it!!!! #went with a very /very/ loose interpretation of 'secrecy' here because once the plot bunny bit my ankle #i was unwilling to compromise my 4th age agenda lmao #wrote it as non-shippy but obv you can interpret however you like ^^ #thanks so much for enabling me with my maeglin obsession XD #answering these out of order as blorbos see fit to cooperate #(everyone's cooperating for once actually it's just that some are cooperating a little too much; i.e. won't shut up)