#Anyway. Must. Stick. To principles…

[bisexualseraphim]

Me, struggling to maintain my principles that hating on straight people is more harmful to our community than helpful, when I see videos of young straight girls screaming MOTHER IS MOTHERING at Mitski shows:

[joelscruff]

truth or dare (joel miller x f!reader) 18+

notification blog | kofi | in honor of my bestie han @swiftispunk who recently celebrated her birthday (and in honor of spooky season starting 🎃) i thought i'd step outside the boundaries of what i usually write and try something new. i'd also like to give a huge shoutout to @toxicanonymity whose entire masterlist greatly influenced my desire to try something like this. please heed the warnings!!! and as i said this is my first time writing anything like this so pls be kind 🫠

summary: a harmless game of truth or dare ends with you tied up in a certain mysterious neighbor's garage. rating: 18+ explicit warnings: dubcon (reader is given a choice to leave, but not immediately), dark!joel, age gap (reader is college age, joel is in his fifties), unprotected p in v sex, use of restraints, ropes, spanking, degradation, sir kink, dirty talk (use of 'little girl' as a pet name), face fucking, rough sex, creampie, brief anal play, humiliation, inappropriate use of a household item (he puts a flashlight up her cooch), marking (with a sharpie), size kink (joel is much bigger than reader and can lift her), pls lemme know if i forgot anything word count: 8.3k

Your palms are sweaty, fingers sticking to your skin as you stand at the edge of the property with goosebumps already blooming along your flesh. The air is chilly, that end of summer evening air flooding your nostrils as a car drives past through streams of leftover rainwater, headlights blurring your vision for a moment. It passes quickly and you're alone again, standing on the street corner with a mixture of anticipation and dread filling your trembling body.

Everything had been fine about twenty minutes ago. A typical party with your hometown friends, one last hurrah before everyone splits off for the third year in a row to go back to their respective colleges, back to long lectures and underwhelming frat boys. It had gone the same way it always does when you get together - shots, secrets, schemes. No end of summer party could ever be complete without a game of truth or dare, not for your crowd anyway.

It had started simple. "Which one of us had the best glow-up this year?" "I dare you to text the last guy you slept with." "What's the kinkiest thing you've done with somebody?" "I dare you to show us the last nude someone sent you." Typical borderline adolescent challenges, things you all still followed through with despite being too old for the game - it's the principle of it, to indulge and pretend, if only for a little while, that life is as simple as it once was.

"Who's the last person you had a sex dream about?"

You'd twisted your hands awkwardly in your lap, felt heat rush to the apples of your cheeks. Usually a question like this wouldn't make you hesitate, but the subject of the answer had been a slightly embarrassing one. As soon as the name Joel Miller had fallen from your lips, you'd been met with screams and squeals and excited chatter from every direction.

"He's so fucking creepy though," one of your friends had said with wide eyes, palm over her mouth, "He gives off serial killer vibes."

"Oh please, he's not that bad," another had chimed in, "He's just a loner, kinda mysterious. I see the vision."

"Are we forgetting the part where he's old as hell? Dude must be in his fifties, at least."

"But that means experience."

"It could also mean limp dick."

"You guys are disgusting," you'd moaned, leaning back on your hands, "It was one dream, let's move on."

And they had. Briefly. Until it was once again your turn and they'd all rounded on you with cheshire cat grins and glinting stares. You should have known what was coming when you chose Dare.

"I dare you to go over to his house."

You'd resisted, of course. The dare itself didn't even make much sense; what were you meant to do? Go over and ding-dong-ditch his front door like a twelve year old boy? But it had only snowballed from there, all five girls tossing in their own thoughts and ideas, talking and giggling over each other. "She should ask him on a date." "She should just flirt a little bit, see how he reacts." "She could see how far she can get with him, maybe?" "Oh shit, that's good."

You could have always said no - there was no way any of them could force you to do it, even if it would have ended the party abruptly with grumbled complaints and a slammed door. But the more they talked the more you found yourself listening, letting the concept sink in, the images of the dream you'd had the other night flooding to the front of your mind. Mysterious and elusive Joel Miller, big hands covered in the motor oil he uses to tinker with his truck, trailing his messy fingers between the swells of your breasts...

They'd managed to convince you just by the reminder alone, though also due to the fact that they'd each tossed in a twenty dollar bill and stated that simply getting a kiss on the cheek would warrant a win. The prospect was intriguing; it would be a testament to your own desirability, your game. How far can you get with your quiet neighbor who probably hasn't touched a woman in years? Who'll probably fold the second he realizes someone as young and beautiful as you is interested in him?

"I'll do it," you'd said with a smirk, rising from the hardwood, "How hard can it be?"

Harder than you thought, apparently. Because now you stand a few feet from Joel Miller's house, loitering soundlessly at the edge of his front lawn, hesitating. The sun has gone down, turning the hedges along the side of his property into frighteningly tall shadows, dark and menacing. A light breeze flows past and you wrap yourself tighter in your well-worn maroon cardigan, shivering, staring at your boots and wondering if you can really bring yourself to do this.

It'll be so humiliating if he rejects your advances. On the other hand, will it somehow be less-so if he returns your flirtatiousness and you then have to reject him once you've gotten what you came for? How will that make you look? You're not even really sure why you care - probably because the man has done nothing to you whatsoever, nothing that would warrant such a foolish prank as this being played on him. It makes you feel bad, in a way. As much as you and your friends make fun of him, he really is just a man who keeps to himself - perhaps this is going too far.

You notice light flickering nearby, a reflection of fluorescents in the puddles of his driveway. You figured he'd be in his garage - it's where he spends most of his time, bent over the exposed hood of the truck he's seemingly been working on ever since he moved in at the beginning of the summer. You've never seen him drive it, never even seen him leave the property, but you've passed by the house on more than one occasion. You've seen the way he rolls up the sleeves of his flannel, forearms splattered black and grey, expression focused on the task at hand while sweat drips from his greying temples.

Having a sex dream about him really shouldn't have been that shocking, now that you think about it. The man is a mystery, sure, but he isn't ugly by any means.

You swallow down your qualms, picturing the faces of your friends more than likely smooshed against the living room window a few houses back, watching. As soon as you turn the corner, you'll disappear from view, obstructed by the hedges and the sudden darkness of night. You take one more deep breath, one last burst of chilly evening air into your lungs, and accept your fate.

--

He doesn't notice you walking up his driveway, taking slow and meager steps as you assess the open garage, the truck with its hood popped as usual, the flickering of the florescent lights hanging from the ceiling. He doesn't notice you, but you notice him. You spot a pair of steel toed boots and long denim clad legs sticking out from underneath the truck, hear the clink and clang of metal against metal while he tinkers with something down there, unseen. As you reach the garage it becomes apparent that you still have one last chance to end this before it begins, turn around and take the loss.

But you don't.

"Excuse me," you offer in a weak voice, teetering nervously at the edge of the garage door, neither inside nor out - neutral ground.

The clinking stops, replaced by the steady pounding of your heart in your chest, the heaviness of your breathing. You try to loosen your hands from their fisted forms and unclench your fingers, focusing on the stretch of flesh and bone while the legs beneath the car slowly begin to inch forward. He's not laying on any type of support, one of those wheeled contraptions you've seen other people use - no, he's simply got his back to the ground, a back and body that's slowly coming into view.

His black and green flannel rides up where he's been laying on it, as well as the grey t-shirt he wears beneath; as he slides out from under the car you spot a bare sliver of skin just above his waistband, a patch of hair that trails down into his jeans. A lump forms in your throat. When he finally peeks his head out, you swallow around it and try to remember to breathe.

Greying hair slicked back behind his ears, cheekbones smeared slightly with something black, scruff lining a strong yet soft jawline, a plump bottom lip, and those eyes... dark brown, almost black. It's the face that's practically been haunting you all summer, whether you want to admit it to yourself or not.

His brow furrows as soon as he sees you, "Can I help you?"

It's not the first time you've heard him talk, but it's certainly the first time he's ever spoken directly to you. His accent is stronger than you remember, words slipping smoothly past his lips like butter as he eyes you from the floor of his garage, knees up, hands still hidden in the darkness. A few seconds pass before you realize he's asked you a question.

"Oh, um-" You haven't thought this through very far, that's for sure. What the fuck do you even say? You take a breath and remind yourself that you're good at this, have seduced your fair share of frat boys in the past two years with minimal effort and have never heard the word no. Sure, Joel Miller isn't a frat boy - far from it - but underneath his cold exterior he's still very much a man, and very much capable of falling under the spell of a beautiful woman. You hope, anyway.

"I was just taking a walk," you lie, "Saw your light on, thought I'd come say hi."

He stares at you blankly, like he's unsure exactly how he's supposed to respond - or perhaps he's already seeing through your façade. You take a step into his garage, poised at the edge as you lean casually against the opening.

"Honestly, um-" you push some hair behind your ear and attempt to look shy, though it's not a huge jump from how you're actually feeling, "I've been meaning to talk to you, before I go back to college."

At your words he raises an eyebrow and slowly brings his hands downwards, palms pressing flat against the dark concrete. You watch as he eases himself up and out from under the truck, and god he's tall - tall and broad and huge compared to you, a fact that sends a little flutter into your belly. He takes a step toward the work bench against the wall, eyes still on you as he reaches down and picks up a rag to wipe his hands, big and wide and streaked with oil. You remember your dream and feel a twinge in your underwear.

"Talk to me about what?" he asks, massaging the rag against his fingers.

You shrug as nonchalantly as you can, taking another step inside his garage, closer to where he stands at the work bench. You cross your legs in an attempt to show them off, stretching your ankle toward a spare tire on the floor and accentuating the sheerness of your black tights, the little run that splits the material at the inside of your knee, the hint of bare skin that peeks out beneath.

"Nothing in particular," you say, keeping your voice soft and steady but doing your best to keep that shy girlishness present, "Just... wanted to." You peer up at him from under your lashes and bite your lip, then reach out your hand for him to take. You say your name.

He assesses your hand but doesn't take it, brow still furrowed. "Joel," he replies, "And I'm a bit preoccupied at the moment. Don't really have time to talk." His voice is cold and gruff, absolutely no sign of interest or attraction - dammit.

"What're you doing?" you ask, tilting your head.

He continues to stare at you blankly, "What does it look like I'm doin'?"

Okaaaay, then.

You shrug again and take another step, turning to look at the wall next to you. Tools line the shelves, wrenches and screwdrivers and the like dangling rather precariously here and there, smeared in motor oil and dust. It's a mess but you'd be willing to bet that it's organized chaos, that he likes it this way.

"What's this?" you ask, pointing to a particularly large object, something that looks like a mixture between a pair of scissors and a wrench.

"Bolt cutters," he supplies you monotonously.

"Ohh," you say with a nod, leaning a bit into the confused pretty girl stereotype and hoping maybe he's a sucker for it, "And what's that?" You point toward a small cylindrical object, black and tactical, only a few inches long.

"You never seen a flashlight before?"

Oh. Right. "Woops," you giggle, "Sorry."

You turn your face to look at him sheepishly and he's still watching you, big arms now crossed against his broad chest - impatient. Well, this is clearly not working either. He's frowning, eyes so focused on your face that you feel almost naked beneath it, like he's staring into your soul. You clear your throat awkwardly and tug your bottom lip between your teeth, breaking your own gaze away from him and trying to find something else to comment on.

"So you've been working on your truck," you state, gesturing toward the vehicle as if only just noticing it was even there, "What's - uh - what's wrong with it?"

He's clearly not buying into whatever the fuck you're even trying to sell. He remains silent, eyes still on you, and suddenly it's like you've never even interacted with a man before - and to be honest, maybe you haven't. Frat boys are certainly not men by any means, and nowhere near in the same league as Joel Miller by a long shot, probably almost triple their age with a dark and mysterious aura that feels almost suffocating. He just stares at you, slightly unnerving, but also seductive in its own way, almost like he's challenging you.

"What do you want?" he asks blankly.

"I-I told you," your voice is already faltering, losing its flirtatious edge the more you realize how dumb of an idea this was, "I just wanted to talk to you."

"Yeah, I got that," he says stiffly, "Why?"

You've already exhausted the avenues you thought might work, which means you've got one last chance before he sends you packing. With bated breath you take the final few steps toward him and - averting your gaze - you reach your hand out to touch his forearm with your fingertips. It's feather light, but you're suddenly very aware of the goosebumps that rise on his freckled flesh, the way the thick hair on his arms seems to stand on end the second your skin touches his. Okay, now we're getting somewhere.

"I think you're handsome," you murmur softly, feeling warmth rush to your cheeks when you realize that it's not a lie. And it really isn't. As your gaze gradually tilts up you catch a glimpse of the hair on his chest, peeking out from under his grey t-shirt. You spot his pecs beneath the fabric of his flannel, see the throbbing veins in his neck, the coarseness of his scruff, the sharp curve of his nose, and those fucking eyes - looking at you with a darkness, a lust, that wasn't there before.

He's not just handsome; he's fucking gorgeous.

"What're you doin'?" he asks you, that gruffness still present but being taken over by something else, something darker.

"Nothing," you breathe, still trailing your fingers along his forearm until they reach its apex and dip into the soft part behind his elbow, damp with sweat. You swallow, throat going dry as you stroke his skin with your thumb.

"Doesn't feel like nothin'," his voice is quieter, matching yours, and he tilts his head slightly as he continues to stare into your eyes, "Why're you really here, sweetheart?"

Sweetheart. The word sends a burst of warmth to your chest, a smile to your lips. You unlock your eyes from his bashfully, watching your own movements as you trail your fingers back down toward his hand and wrap them around one of his fingers, so thick compared to your own. You squeeze gently, biting your lip again as you peer back up at him. Here it is. Moment of truth. You tilt your head up slightly, eyelashes fluttering as you lean forward to connect your lips with his.

Except, they don't connect.

Instead he pulls his hands away from you, brings them upwards and wraps them around your upper arms, squeezing tightly. Your eyes widen, confusion flooding your features.

"Turn around and bend over."

"W-what?" Shock doesn't even begin to describe the ice cold feeling that now makes its way through your body, edged with something else - something you can't explain.

"Turn around," he repeats, his big hands squeezing your arms even tighter - relentless, firm - as he peers down at you with a dark hunger in his eyes, glinting black beneath the fluorescents, "And bend over."

He does not give you another chance to obey - you're too frozen in surprise and confusion to do anything yourself. Instead, he uses the force of his weight on your arms to spin you on the spot, shoving you against the work bench. You feel one of his hands move from your arm to your back, pushing hard until you fold, warm cheek coming to rest against the cold wood.

"Wh-what are you doing?" your voice is meager, weak, and you feel him wrap one of his hands around both your wrists like it's nothing, pinning them against your back like they're simply twigs in his wide palm.

"What you're clearly fuckin' beggin' for," he replies gruffly, and you feel his other hand at your skirt, feel the brush of his fingertips at the hem as he reaches upward to grip the band of your tights. Your eyes widen and instinctively you pull back, pull away - he just pushes you back down.

"I'm not-" you begin, shock quickly being replaced with fear when you realize how easily overpowered you are, how fluidly he's able to tug down your tights and expose your ass to him, clad in only a black thong already lost between your cheeks.

"Oh, you're not, huh?" his voice is cold and stoic, angry, "You think you can play games with me, little girl?" His hand comes to rest against the swell of your behind and you suddenly feel his breath above you, hot in your ear, "Tell me why you're really here."

You try to lift your head up to look at him better but he just shoves you back down again. Panic floods your body, mixed with the unmistakable burn of arousal. You feel yourself twitch in your underwear, feel a sudden gush of warmth spill inside the fabric as he begins to trail his finger up and down the thin line of black cotton.

"I-I'm..." You're at a complete loss for words, unable to articulate anything, unsure of what exactly is happening - or about to happen. Two minutes ago you'd been sure he was about to tell you to leave, practically kick you out of the garage himself, and now you're not sure leaving is even a possibility.

He pulls his hand back and you cry out when it comes down to slap against one of your cheeks, a sharp sting and burn you hadn't been anticipating.

"Tell me why you're here," he repeats - authoritarian, firm.

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out except a frightened squeak, something which clearly eggs him on even more. He spanks you again, harder this time, palm flat and wide against your pebbled flesh. The sound that slips past your lips is somehow akin to a moan of some sort, guttural and deep.

"I'll just make it harder and harder, sweetheart," he says then, and the pet name no longer contains the warmth it did mere moments ago; instead it's cold and detached, mocking. You're still reeling when his hand comes down to slap against you again, even harder this time, and your hands ball into fists behind your back as you let out another low moan. More slick gushes into your panties and it's impossible to deny that somehow, despite the fear twinging in your heart, you're so fucking turned on.

"M-my friends," you gasp out, and you feel him squeeze your abused ass cheek which you're sure is already dark with his handprint, "They- they dared me to see how far I c-could get with you."

He lets your words sink in for a moment, squeezing again - tighter, so tight that it hurts. You whimper against the wooden top of the work bench, legs shaking.

"So you came here to get fucked," he finally states.

"N-no, I swear, I-"

"Wasn't a question," he interrupts, and you feel his other hand tighten around your wrists, "You came here to get fucked so you're gonna get fucked, end of story."

"But I-"

Without any warning he suddenly pushes himself up against you from behind, the rough denim of his jeans pressing deliciously up against your exposed skin. You gasp, eyes going wide when you feel the long, thick shape of his dick between your cheeks, huge and hard. He holds it there, his free hand coming down to lay flat beside your head against the work bench.

"You feel that?" he asks, voice suddenly quieter but still full of that ice cold malice, "You feel that cock?"

Fuck. "Y-yes," you breathe, "I feel it."

"You have five seconds before i close this door and stuff you full, understand?" Suddenly all you can hear is the heavy sound of his breathing, the panting of your own, the thud of your heart where it presses painfully against the wood. He's giving you an out.

"I- I-" you swallow, brows furrowing when you feel his hand slacken around your wrists. You could pull away now, yank yourself out of his grasp and sprint down his driveway, return to your friends. Forget this ever even happened.

It's your last chance.

"Five," he begins, breath warm against your face.

Run. Just run.

"Four."

But why?

"Three."

Why don't you want to run?

"Two."

Why do you want to stay?

"One."

He pulls his hand up from the work bench and hits a button on the wall, eliciting a loud mechanical noise to your left as the garage door starts to close. You watch with wide eyes as your chance to leave slowly vanishes inch by inch until it's gone completely, and yet no part of you itches to run, to escape. There's nothing to escape from, you realize. You want to be here. You want him to fuck you.

As the reality of your situation starts to settle, his grip around your wrists tightens once again. You sense him reaching up somewhere above you, and you suddenly feel the harsh texture of what feels like thickly braided rope wrapping around your wrists. The realization that he's restraining you sends another pool of release into your panties, another faint squeak past your lips.

"You gonna stay still for me?" he asks, voice dark and clearer now in the silence of his garage, no sounds of rain or cars to disrupt you, "Huh? You gonna be a good girl?"

"Yes," you breathe, nodding against the wood.

"Say it."

"I'm gonna stay still," you promise, "I'm gonna be a good girl."

He finishes knotting the rope around your wrists, tight and uncomfortable against your skin. He pushes his groin up against your ass again, brings his now free hands downward to reach through your cardigan and squeeze your breasts. Your nipples are hard beneath the soft cotton of your shirt, no bra between the layer of material and your bare skin; he tweaks them in his fingers and you shudder.

"These are mine," he whispers in your ear, scruff nuzzling against the side of your face, "These tits, this ass," he drops his hands from your breasts to squeeze your cheeks again, "and this pussy." His hand drops to the puffy shape of your lips beneath your thong and you whimper. "Understand?"

"Y-yes."

"Yes, what?"

You're not sure what he's asking for, what he wants you to say. You take a guess. "Yes, sir," you whisper, and you feel him smile against your ear. Bingo.

He doesn't bother to pull your tights down the rest of the way; instead, he rips them, pulling them apart in his big hands and reaching inside to curl his index finger around the thin strip of your thong. He pulls it - hard - and it rips from you with a rough tearing sound and a painful sting, eliciting a loud gasp from you which he rewards with another spank.

You feel his finger slip between your lips for a moment, gathering some of your release before he pulls it away. "Juicy fuckin' pussy," he mutters, and you hear the sound of his zipper coming undone, vulgar in the quiet room. You have no time to ask about protection, no time to even really process how quickly this is already happening, before you feel the warm tip of his cock pushing against your twitching hole. You gasp again, hands furling under the ropes.

"Shh," he quiets you, stilling for a second, "Don't squirm."

"Sorry," you whisper, tears pricking in your eyes, "I'm sorry."

"What're you sorry for?" he murmurs, feeding his cock to you in small increments, reveling in the noises falling past your lips. It's so fucking big, bigger than you'd anticipated - it feels like he's spearing you, splitting you in half, especially without much preparation. It stretches and burns, but the warmth of it, the way it pulses as it invades your body, just makes you gush even more. "Hm?" he continues, "What're you sorry for? You sorry for squirmin' or sorry you pissed me off?"

Your eyes roll back as he bottoms out, his pubic hair pressing coarsely against your pussy lips, heavy balls firm to your ass. You try to speak but it's hard to get the words out when you're so full, the wide tip of him pushing into your cervix.

"You a virgin?" he asks you then, voice changing for a moment, like for the briefest of seconds he's wondering whether he should have gone slower.

You shake your head quickly, "N-no," you manage to gasp out.

"Feel like a fuckin' virgin," he grunts, pulling out and then immediately slamming back inside. Your head bumps against the work bench, a groan falling from your mouth as he makes a home inside you. "Christ," he mutters, "Tight little thing. You feel me in your stomach, baby?"

You're not sure he wants you to answer, but it becomes clear when his hand slaps down on your ass cheek again and you cry out.

"Yes," you moan, then quickly amend, "Yes, sir."

"S'what happens when you come in here, actin' like a little slut," he suddenly reaches for your cardigan and yanks it off - it catches on your restrained hands and he simply rips it and tosses it to the floor, "But then again, you're not actin', are you? Huh? What's a slut like you doin' wearin' all these fuckin' layers?"

"I'm s-sorry," you repeat, already mourning the loss of your favorite sweater, now ripped to shreds at your feet.

"Sorry's not good enough, little girl," he breathes, thrusting into you again so hard that you yelp, cheek still pressed into the splintered wood of the work bench, "That's it, fuckin' take it."

He fucks you without any reservations, any inhibitions. Your legs shake and you can hear the slap of his hairy thighs against yours as he pounds into you relentlessly. You have no choice but to take it, the stretch of his huge cock becoming less painful the more he gives it to you over and over, the room full of the wet squelch of your pussy gripping him. He grabs your hips, fingertips digging into your bare flesh as he takes and takes; you wish you could see his face, wish you could see how he looks when he's fucking you, getting his pleasure. The thought makes you whine, tears streaming down your face as your body moves back and forth against the work bench.

It feels fucking amazing. You've never had a cock as big as his before, never been fucked so deep and so hard, like he doesn't care if he breaks you, makes you cry. He hasn't touched your clit and yet you already feel you could come from just this, just the relentless push and pull of his dick inside you. Unfortunately, just as soon as you feel your orgasm starting to build, he pulls out. Your brow furrows.

"Stand up," he orders, "and turn around."

You obey, relief overtaking you as soon as you're no longer bent at such an awkward angle. The moment you turn to face him you barely get a look at his face before he's reaching down and tearing your shirt in half - easily, like it's nothing. You don't even have time to wonder how the hell you're gonna get home with all your clothes ripped to shreds when his mouth is suddenly wrapped around your left nipple, and you whine at the sensation. You peer down at him, biting your lip and watching his wet lips suckle around the hard bud, beard scratching deliciously against your skin. Your hand aches to cup the back of his head but it's still pinned behind your back, tied tight beneath the rope.

"Fuck," you whimper, and his dark gaze flashes up to meet yours as he sucks, the hint of a smirk on his lips when he pulls away.

"Feels good, does it?" he asks, and seeing the words come out of his mouth is somehow more sinful than when you could only hear them, "You like bein' used?"

You nod almost immediately despite never having experienced anything like this in your life - though admittedly you've undeniably wanted to experience this, ached to have somebody take control, tell you what to do, make you do things. It's like you've somehow known subconsciously all summer that Joel Miller could be that person for you, despite never having said two words to him. It was just a feeling, an instinct, and that dream...

"Yeah?" he continues, and suddenly his hand comes up to cup your pussy, thumb finally pressing against your clit. You cry out, tears still trickling down your cheeks. "Said you were in college, right? You take any college dick up here? Be honest now."

You nod again, "Y-yes."

"How many?"

"I... I don't know," you breathe. It's the truth, and you can tell as soon as the words leave your mouth that it does something to him. He presses his thumb harder against your clit, two fingers slipping up inside of you.

"'Course you don't know," he murmurs, pushing them as deep inside as he can, making you whimper, "You wouldn't know, would you?"

Your thighs tighten together - squeezing his hand - and he just smirks again, curving his fingers and making you moan. Your lower back digs into the work bench as he stands, pushes you up against it and peers down into your eyes again with a hunger that's only getting worse. You assess his expression, the pout of his lips as he fucks you with his fingers, the focused lines creased into his forehead. So fucking handsome.

"You're not a good girl," he breathes, nose brushing yours, "Knew it from the day I saw you. You're just made for takin' cock. Am I right?"

"Yes," you whisper, nodding shakily and bumping your lips up toward his - he pulls away again and you can't help but feel disappointed, aching to feel his lips against yours.

"Tonight you're made to take my cock, that clear?" he continues, and you watch as his other hand travels downward to wrap around it - just out of your periphery. He's too close to you, crowded so much in your space that you know he won't like it if you break eye contact. You can tell by his arm movements that he's pumping himself at the same speed he's fucking you with his fingers, inhaling deeply, "I'm gonna ruin you, sweetheart. Whether you like it or not."

"Y-yes sir," you whisper, voice squeaking when he speeds up his fingers and pumps them in and out with fervor, thumb rubbing furiously against your clit. Yet again he brings you almost to the edge and then removes his hand completely, stepping back with a low chuckle when you whimper pathetically.

Your disappointment only lasts a moment because now you can see him, see the girthy length of him that's already been inside of you hanging out of his zipper, glistening with your slick. He's huge, tip dark and intrusive, beads of his own arousal dripping from the slit; your mouth waters. His eyes cast down to where you're looking and he smiles, dark and mocking.

"Never gonna see another dick like this, darlin'," he breathes, "So you better start showin' your appreciation." His eyes glint. "Kneel."

You're practically already on your way to kneeling before he says it, in awe of the sheer girth and shape of him. The second your bare knees hit the cold floor he's crowding you again, hand coming around to hold the back of your head.

"Open wide, baby," he murmurs.

Your jaw drops and he plunges inside your mouth quickly and seamlessly, making you gasp around his length as your eyes widen. You can't breathe, looking up at him with more tears already fogging your vision as he immediately slips into the depths of your throat with no hesitation. You gag, eyes bulging as you attempt to swallow around the intrusion, find your breath, but it's impossible.

"Yeah," he breathes, both of his hands cradling your face and holding you still as he lets his cock sit unmoving in your throat, "Yeah, that's it. That's what you're made for."

He only holds it there for a few seconds but by the time he pulls it out you're gasping for air, coughing and spluttering as tears stream relentlessly down your cheeks. He keeps cradling your face, tuts to himself as you try to get your breath back. The head of his cock bumps softly against your bottom lip.

"Not off to a great start, are we?" he murmurs, "Let's try again."

He pushes his cock past your lips again and you try your hardest not to gag, a little more prepared this time. The pulsing head of his cock situates itself firmly in your throat, the pubic hair at the base tickling your nose while his balls bounce against your chin. You look up at him with pleading eyes, watch as he stares down at you with nothing but malice in his expression, contempt. You're just a hole to him, nothing more.

He pulls out and lets you gasp another breath before he's shoving himself back in, hands moving back to hold your head firmly as he fucks your face. You don't move - you don't need to; he does all the work as he drags your head back and forth along his cock, hitting the back of your throat over and over again until you're gagging and practically sobbing for air. Your knees ache against the concrete floor and you know you'll have bruises tomorrow, know that you probably won't be able to swallow properly for a few days either. Somehow, you don't really care.

When he's gotten his fill he yanks himself out and allows you to catch your breath for a few seconds, throat constricting around nothing while you choke and gasp.

"Stand up," he orders, and even though you're still gasping for air you manage to bring yourself back up, legs shaking. Saliva drips down your chin, drooling from your mouth in long strands, but with your hands tied you can't make any attempt to clean yourself up - he probably wouldn't want you to anyway.

His wide palms are suddenly on your hips, and he picks you up and places you on top of the work bench with minimal effort, arms bulging. You're completely naked now save for your ripped tights while he's still fully clothed, dripping cock still peeking out past his zipper, covered in your saliva. He steps between your legs and pushes your thighs open, then slips inside of you once again in one short push, making you yelp.

"Oh, please," he grumbles, gripping your hips tightly and pulling your bare body taut against him, head hitting his chest, "We both know you can take it."

It's not like you have any other choice at this point. He fucks you harder than he had before, now that he has easier access, can pull you so firmly against him that his entire length is continuously swallowed up entirely by your dripping pussy. His nails dig into your skin as his cock fucks up against your cervix over and over, so relentless it's almost painful. It's overwhelming how huge he is, not just his cock but his body in general, the way he towers over you and watches your expressions as he takes what's now his.

"Poor little thing," he mumbles, bringing one of his hands up to thumb the tears on your face, "Never been so full, huh? It's okay, shhh," his finger finds your lips and pushes against them almost mockingly, like he's chastising you, "Shhh, this is what you asked for, remember? S'what you wanted." You shake your head but he just nods, "Yeah, it is. You wanted that cock and now you're gettin' it."

Suddenly you're being lifted from the workbench, carried in his embrace with his cock still buried deep inside. You cry out, wrists straining against the ropes, itching to wrap your arms around his neck and hold yourself up with more stability. His arms come up to stretch along the expanse of your back, holding you still and pulling you even closer. As if on instinct your legs bend upwards to wrap around his waist, curling around his lower back while he pistons inside of you without restraint, without mercy.

"Fuck," you almost scream, feeling the rough denim of his jeans scratching against your ass, the heaviness of his balls slapping against you over and over again, "Fuckfuckfuck!"

"Yeah, there she is, there's that little slut," he says, a smile spreading across his face, voice somehow calm despite the fact that he's pounding into you over and over, "Nothin' like gettin' fucked stupid to sort ya out, huh? Needed to be punished, didn't you, sweetheart?"

You don't answer, can't answer, eyes rolling back as he fucks you with abandon. Of course it's not a surprise when he lands a hard spank against your ass, grips your cheek tightly in his palm and growls roughly in your ear, "Answer me, little girl."

"Yes," you force yourself to gasp out, head tilting back, "Yes sir, yes."

"S'right," he mutters, and you suddenly feel the pads of his fingers against your clit, rubbing at an aggressively fast pace that sends depraved noises spitting past your lips, "Come on that cock, tighten up that little pussy even more for me, baby, come on."

It only takes seconds for him to make you come, your eyes rolling back as your body shakes and writhes in his grasp. He doesn't slow his movements, keeps fucking you deep and hard as your legs loosen at his waist and you flop like a ragdoll in his arms.

"Chokin' that dick," he murmurs, "Had so many cocks in this little hole and you're still the tightest thing I've fucked," his brow furrows as he watches your face, watches as your eyes flutter open and your jaw slackens, "And what about your other hole, baby?" You feel one of his fingers prod against your asshole, circle the rim as he continues to bounce you up and down, "Ever had a cock in there?"

You tense up a little in his embrace, eyes widening. At your reaction he slows his movements, still holding you upright and allowing you to just sit on his cock for a moment while he continues to prod your asshole, "I'll take that as a no," he mutters, "Think my cock'll fit up there?"

"It won't," you whisper immediately, shaking your head.

He assesses your expression, eyes trailing up and down your face calculatingly, like he's weighing the pros and cons. Your heart stutters in your chest and you feel that fear from earlier slowly begin to creep back into your psyche, hands shaking under the rope.

"I won't," he states, and relief floods through your body; you relax in his embrace, becoming aware again of his cock still buried deep inside you. He very carefully prods the tip of his index finger inside your asshole and your eyes go wide again, mouth opening in protest. "Yet," he amends, smiling coldly at you, "I won't yet. Not today."

He pulls his finger out and walks with you to the work bench again, places you down gentler than before and peers at you with something in his gaze that you can't place, a curiosity that wasn't there before. It's gone in an instant though, and then he's fucking into you again without warning, gripping tight to your hips and slamming back and forth until you see stars.

"You thought this'd be so funny, didn't you?" he growls, looking at you again with that detached contempt, black eyes locked with yours. He brings his hand down and starts rubbing your clit again, not caring that you only just came a moment ago. "Thought you'd come here, have your fun, and leave again. But it's not so funny anymore, is it? Huh? Is it funny?"

"N-no," you gasp out, overstimulated to the point of even more tears as you squirm and writhe on the work bench, pussy aching from the insistent way he's pounding you and the relentless rubbing of his fingers against your clit.

"S'the last time you show up here tellin' lies," he mutters, "Understand me? Any time you come into my house from now on you're gettin' fucked, got it?"

"Y-yes," you cry, hands futilely attempting to ball into fists behind your back, and he shakes his head.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, sir!" you scream it, and just as the words pass your lips he stills inside of you, cock twitching as he starts to come. Your eyes go wide, mouth dropping open as his hand sends you into another climax just as he reaches his. Your head falls against his chest and you hear him groan above you, feel the way his cock pulsates and throbs and spits his cum in long and heavy spurts. Your thighs twitch and you feel his hand at your back, pulling you in close as he cups the back of your head.

You stay like that for a moment without speaking, your heavy breaths the only sound in the garage other than the rain now pelting heavily against the door. You swear you can hear his heartbeat.

"Good little girl, warmin' my cock," he murmurs in your ear, and you're still catching your breath, eyes closed, sobs wracking from your throat repeatedly. "Full o'me, huh? You feel all that, baby?"

You can only nod against his chest, wrists still straining against the rope as your toes curl somewhere below you and your body continues to shake. His cum settles warmly deep inside and your eyes roll back a bit when he pushes in further, like he's trying to keep it inside for as long as he can.

"Guess I found a new little cum dumpster, huh?" he whispers, carding his fingers through your hair, "I'll have to say thank you to your friends, or -" he pauses thoughtfully for a moment, "maybe I'll just have to send 'em a little message back with you."

You pull your face back from his chest, peering up at him with tired confusion. He reaches down and pulls out one of the drawers of the work bench, coming back up with a sharpie. You watch with fluttering lashes, unable to stop him - and not really wanting to - as he uncaps the marker and pushes your hair out of the way to write something across your chest, the cold tip making you jolt slightly.

"Shh," he murmurs, "It's okay, I'll untie ya in a sec."

It doesn't take him very long to finish writing whatever it is on your skin, and then he's slowly pulling his cock out of you. You whimper at the loss, thighs twitching as you peer down and watch his softening length slip past your hole, followed by a steady stream of his cum. He quickly reaches up and pushes what he can back inside, thumbing it back in carefully while the reality of what's just happened really begins to settle. You just let a man in his fifties tie you up, use you, come inside you, and write on your chest.

"Can't have all that slippin' out yet," he mutters, "Now, what can we use?" His eyes dart up to the shelves above you and he reaches up to grab something; when his hand comes back down you see the pocket flashlight from earlier, see the slightly flared base and know almost immediately what he's planning on using it for.

For some reason - whatever reason it is that you stayed here after he gave you an out, whatever reason you really came here in the first place - you don't protest.

He brings the flashlight downwards and quickly removes his hand from your pussy to replace it with the wide end, slipping it inside with only minimal resistance. You whimper and he hushes you, brushing his nose against yours as he assesses his handiwork.

"That should do it," he murmurs, then peers back up at you and pushes some stray hair out of your face "You keep that in there 'til you get home, okay?" His eyes have softened a bit, looking more similar to the way they did when you first showed up - is this the real him? You honestly have no idea.

You don't say anything, just nod slowly, feeling the anxiety from earlier begin to sink in yet again. How are you going to get home when you have no clothes? How are you going to explain to your friends what happened? How can you tell them - or show them - what you let him do to you?

These questions are clearly none of his concern. You watch as he backs up and gestures for you to stand with him; you do, with beyond shaky legs and the cold metal of the flashlight between your thighs.

"Turn around," he orders.

You feel him untie the rope from your wrists, essentially ending your time here - whatever it even was. It somehow doesn't feel real. You let them hang limply at your sides, feeling embarrassment flood your cheeks as you turn back around to look at him. He's watching you with a smirk, arms crossed - his dick is back in his jeans. He looks no different than he had when you arrived.

"Now get the fuck out," he says, dark eyes glinting once again under the flickering fluorescents, "before I change my mind."

--

The air is still chilly. The road is still wet. But thankfully, there are no cars.

You don't know how you manage to get home without anyone seeing you - hunched over, naked in the darkness, avoiding the streetlights, trying to ignore the ache between your legs and the icy intrusiveness of the flashlight still lodged inside of you - but you do. Your palms are sweaty again, heart pounding at the thought of your friends coming to greet you at the door, for the shock and confusion and screaming to begin - but that doesn't happen.

The moment you're back in the house you pull a jacket down from the coat rack and cover yourself, tiptoeing past the living room and waiting to be accosted by the friends who put you in this situation to begin with. Instead, they're nowhere to be seen. You hear the faint echo of laughter from the kitchen, hear the sounds of glass clattering and a fridge being shut. It's like they've already forgotten you even left, like the game meant nothing, and they've already found something new to entertain them, something better.

As if your futile attempt at getting a kiss on the cheek from Joel Miller is already something lost in the past.

And, you think, as you shakily climb the stairs and creep into the bathroom, tear the jacket from your shoulders and stare at your bare chest in the bathroom mirror, see the dark permanent lines that read TRUTH OR DARE...

Maybe that's how it should be.

[kiwi]

I love Joe Cool Cat!! Question: did you use a particular pattern as a base or follow any specific set of design principles?

omg thank you for letting me talk abt puppets, i have been rabid

i followed this video to make the head shape and mouthplate (joe cool cats head is just flatter than the example, and i shaved down the jaw mouthplate a bit so that he has sort of an overbite, which left room for me to add fangs)

for the rest i winged it! its all stuff i found around the house so some of the materials arent ideal. the skin is felt which doesnt move well and makes him kinda stiff, so next time i definitely want to try fleece or fake fur

however the felt worked really well for the hands! its two flat hand shapes sandwiched together with a wire skeleton in between so theyre posable, like kermit the frog's. if you plan to make posable fingers though you should really use armature wire instead of random wire lying around like i did :( one of his fingers is broken already but it had a great grip before it busted. his other hand isnt attached to his vest at all, the fingers are just strong enough to hold it on his own! this leaves space for movement as the middle of his arm flaps around and makes him more lifelike

his body is just a simple rectangle of fabric made into a tube (like the sleeve of a shirt) and his arms are attached by safety pins so that they can be removed and replaced. the pins are hidden by his vest, which is also detached so that it can move naturally and allow for repairs. i learned that by looking at the notes from the jim henson team on display at the puppet museum in atlanta! :•) definitely a must visit if youre able

design wise, hes based on the vibes of the band The Stray Cats, especially their songs Stray Cat Strut and Nine Lives. id like to add more patches and buttons on his vest (the little pin he's wearing is made by covering a sewing button with fabric). the vest itself is a single piece with holes cut out for the arms because i was not about to follow a clothing pattern

things i would replace or do differently next time:

- more flexible fabric on the head. stiff felt doesnt work well!

- use stronger wire specifically meant for posing in the hands

- make the arms a little shorter and attach the pole by the wrist instead of the elbow. i wanted him to be kinda long and skinny but overdid it, and i thought i was clever by making the stick come out of his elbow. his movements look cool but hes tricky to maneuver, especially when trying to raise his hand to his face (arms too long and the stick often gets in the actual puppeteer's way)

- try using a little less hot glue and a little more sewing for ease of movement and repair

anyway yeah ive been super into learning about this stuff lately and im working on a blinking puppet next! i might be doing a small puppet show next month if i finish the other members in joe cool cat's band. if anybody has questions or wants to talk puppets dont be shy pls! im already talking my roommates ears off about it lol

[4dkellysworld]

Alright so what I do to release is I bring up a thought or desire that I want to let go of. For example, a desire like I want to have clear skin. I then ask 'can I let go of this desire?" And then ask 'would I let go of this desire?' And finally I ask 'When?'. (Because I obviously don't want to carry that desire with me anymore and would like to be done with it, my answer towards those questions are always yes.) After the process I do tend to feel a little light sometimes, but then when I think about the desire again I still want it.

I just finished reading a pdf that goes into details on Lester's experience with dropping limitations and how he did it within those 3 months. And he basically talked about how some thoughts would take some time to drop and he would basically just keep releasing those until they were fully gone. Reading that helped me realize that maybe I am doing this right and I just need to keep releasing the desire and it will soon completely go. I have had this desire for almost 7 years now so i guess my attachment to it might be too strong and so that it why it's not going away in one session?

But anyways your inputs are always appreciated so if there is anything you want to let me know about or help me with, like maybe the conclusions i came to aren't fully correct, you can.

It does look like you're releasing correctly. However, as I've reiterated in many of my previous posts/answers now, releasing is just one form of letting go of ego, not the only one. I've found it best not to get too fixated on sticking to the one method and try to make everything fit into it by necessarily applying it to absolutely everything, it's better to assess each limitation on a case by case basis, be flexible and then do what feels right intuitively. It may be that releasing is not the best way to go about it for this particular desire. (But yes, for certain thoughts that are deeply rooted, it can take more than one session to completely release. It's best not to have expectations on how long it takes to release something)

Here are some other forms of letting go of ego you could explore if it resonates with you.

Identify the causative thoughts for why you don't have clear skin (for your example) and then drop them.

If we want a perfect body and we don’t have a perfect body, it means that we don’t have the conviction that we can make the body perfect. It means we are subconsciously holding in our mind a consciousness of an imperfect body. The body is an exact copy of the mind, the body being only our consciousness projected outwardly. We must change our subconscious thinking until we subconsciously have the conviction that our body is perfect. That will do it. - Lester Levenson, The Keys to the Ultimate Freedom

This follows the principle of taking responsibility for everything that happens to you, including the body and all circumstances. The body is simply a manifestation of your thoughts. For example, when people get sick, it's really that they are doing it to themselves (most often it's unconscious) as a result of various thoughts they had previously that became a habit and mindset. Taking Lester as an example, he found out that his health issues were a result of wanting love and approval from the world, wanting to change things in the world and fearing death itself. For past me who had health challenges, I realized I was used to thinking as the victim and believed that I needed to be in a state that garnered pity (such as being sick) in order to be safe and perceived as non-threatening and this naturally manifested eventually in health issues because I wanted to be safe and felt I wasn't! In other examples Lester has said, he has mentioned that skin rashes are really manifestations of mental irritations or conflicts that have now surfaced and to correct this is to identify what it is and then resolve it (undo it, see it isn't true, drop it). I've also realized that everything on the body are quite literally just thoughts that have taken form and are being expressed on the body (including suppressed emotions which is why releasing is important!) - if the body is not in a state of harmony, then the mind is not either because all comes from the mind. Obviously all limitations are silly to hold onto once you identify what they are and they should be dropped. These are just examples and your own thoughts that manifested into skin that you don't prefer won't necessarily be the same as these.

2. Identify why this particular desire exists. What does it symbolize to you? Beauty? Freedom? Purity? Health? All of the above or something else? Be honest with yourself and see what it represents to you. This is the lack that you perceive, this is what you think you don't have but in fact as infinite beings we never lack anything, the lack and limitations are just illusions, old programming & conditioning we once believed and accepted that are now operating automatically in the background but it isn't true. Then can you see how that lack isn't true after identifying it (feel free to reason it out and use logic to see how it is untrue)? If not, apply the exercise detailed here to what you perceive you lack (replace love with whatever it is you identified).

Once this core lack has been properly addressed and dissolved, you could see yourself having the symbol too (in whatever way suits you) but I think it's important not to attribute fulfillment or happiness to these externals. See first that it is all coming from within you then once you've set that right, you can have the symbol too if you want - so long you understand it's only a symbol and you aren't being dependent on it for fulfilling perceived lack.

You could try let go of it in a 4 step process as I've detailed in the second part of this ask here. I recommend doing each step completely and mindfully before moving onto the next rather than rush through them and then have to repeat the whole thing again.

Release any emotions and feelings attached to the limitation that is to be dropped by bringing it to mind and allowing them to be. You can use this method as a guide and modify it how you feel is best

Investigate within and identify the causative thoughts for the limitation then drop them

Identify what the core essence(s) are that you believe you lack (that this limitation represents or what you want this symbol to fulfill) and then either drop the belief of lack or allow yourself to see, feel and know that you are complete, whole and fulfilled (using whatever method feels right).

(Optional) See yourself having the symbol if you want - so long you understand it's only a symbol and aren't dependent on it for fulfilling perceived lack.

In all of this, the attitude is not to try to get rid of or fix something that is "wrong". Apply lots of love, kindness, compassion, understanding and patience. Don't fight the dream - the more you resist, the more it persists but what you look at and accept is given the opportunity to be released and dissolved. Accept everything and see them as neutral, even the parts that you don't prefer. Allow everything to be as it is. Then allow yourself to change your mind and think differently in ways that you prefer, without trying to make anything happen in the world. As Neville said "Indifference is the knife that severs. Feeling is the tie that binds."

Patience is key. Drop all expectations. Just focus on your state of consciousness, instead of getting things in the world. Don't look to the world for what is within.

[cha-melodius]

Five Ten Under 500

There have been a bunch of open tags on this one but @three-drink-amy tagged me directly so here goes. To start I have to say it's wild to me, as someone coming from small or quiet fandoms, and who joined the RWRB community well before the movie, that netting under 500 kudos is now considered a lower number in this fandom. A couple of years ago it meant a lot to me to hit 500 kudos for the first time on a fic. Anyway.

I've loved seeing everyone's lists (so many new fics added to my tbr!), but they've also reminded me that there is a definite recency bias, especially among fics that didn't already have a good number of kudos. So, all of my choices are fics that were released before the movie came out. Even with that, I couldn't stick with only five, so you get five more under the cut (and I still had to leave out a lot of fics I loved, including others from the same authors listed here).

Culper Ring, 1778–1783 by @historicallysam This is a series of 10 vignettes set during the American revolution and not one of these fics has over 100 kudos, which is a crime. So well-written and researched, and full of intrigue and feelings, I will always champion this series of fics.

Why Do We Even HAVE That Curse? by @cricketnationrise The Mummy AU. Who doesn't love The Mummy?? I might be biased because I betaed this one but if you love action and adventure and romance, you must read this!

The Way You Seemed by @orchidscript 1950s High School AU—think Grease but gayer. I think this might be one of the first Cora fics I read, and it bowled me over. The vibes, the romance, the historical accuracy, it's so so excellent.

Red, White, & Royal Ballet by @tintagel-or-cockleshells Ballet AU. Everything you want out of an enemies/rivals to lovers arc, and so much excellent ballet. Includes videos!

Love and Hate at the Farmers' Market by @myheartalivewrites Farmers market vendors AU. This is soooooo adorable and about to be very seasonable! Never get tired of Alex being mad about Henry's very existence.

El Chico Del Apartamento 512 by @14carrotghoul A cute little enemies-to-lovers neighbors AU and an absolute riot!

Soli by @cheesecurdsgravyandfries Orchestra AU! As an oboist, Henry as principle oboe owns my entire heart. This is so sweet and lovely!

make the yuletide gay by @dumbpeachjuice The concept behind this one is absolutely unhinged, but it's just as hilarious as you would expect from our dear peaches. Put it on your list for reading this holiday season!

a pillar i am, upright by inmoonlightigetseasick Surprise surprise, another historical AU. Medieval knight/prince, together at the front of war. Really wonderful development of their relationship and truly excellent vibes.

and if you'll forgive me the self-promotion...

The Spirit of Giving by yours truly Also for the holidays, a neighbors AU that leans heavily on the food as a metaphor for love trope.

[aishangotome]

Minamoto no Yoshitsune: Chapter 5

Chapter 4

♡———♡

Yoshino: Yoshitsune-sama…?

???: …

When I called out to him hesitantly, the man turned around and removed his mask…

Yoshitsune: How did you know?

He tilted his head in wonder.

(It really was Yoshitsune-sama!)

Yoshino: Wh-Why are you... here of all places...?

(I thought the next time we'd meet would be on the battlefield...)

I called out to him on impulse, but my body stiffened at the realization that I was alone with an enemy commander, and I took a step back.

Yoshitsune: Don't be so wary. I have no intention of causing a commotion here.

Yoshino: Is that so...?

(But I can't imagine him coming to enemy territory alone. He must have someone with him...)

As I looked around, Yoshitsune-sama spoke as if he had read my mind.

Yoshitsune: I came to Kamakura alone.

Yoshitsune: I didn't even tell Benkei and the others. I infiltrated under the cover of the festival's commotion.

Yoshino: Infiltrated...?

To my question, Yoshitsune-sama kept his distance and threw out words.

Yoshitsune: Well, you've discovered my true identity, haven't you?

Yoshitsune: It was a waste, even though I tried to appear with a mask I luckily had with me.

(He went through the trouble of wearing a mask to hide his identity from me. But...)

Yoshino: Why did you even have a mask in the first place? Was it perhaps for a disguise or something...?

Yoshitsune: No.

He looked down at the fox mask, looking a little disappointed.

Yoshitsune: I don't dislike the festival atmosphere. I thought I could enjoy it a little.

(Wh-What an unexpected reason!)

(Is Yoshitsune-sama... a bit of an airhead?)

Yoshitsune: ––Anyway,

Yoshitsune: I promise I won't harm Yoshino tonight.

Yoshitsune: In exchange, you must not make a fuss until I leave.

(So it's not reconnaissance either?)

Yoshitsune-sama's straightforward words didn't seem to contain any lies.

(I know it's dangerous to trust an enemy commander, but...)

(Yoshitsune-sama kept his promise to 'spare me' before.)

(And most of all, he saved me when I was about to be assaulted by bandits.)

Encouraged by this fact, I lowered my guard.

Yoshino: Um, it's a bit late to ask, but why did you save me?

Yoshitsune: That's...

Yoshitsune-sama opened his mouth slowly, his expression unchanged.

Yoshitsune: I have no right to judge you either.

Yoshitsune: It leaves a bad taste to ignore someone when you have the means to help.

(Ah––)

**cabin flashback**

Yoshitsune: Why did you help him, knowing he was your enemy?

Yoshino: What…?

Yoshitsune: Answer me.

Yoshino: Well…

Yoshino: …I’m a pharmacist.

Yoshino: Having the means to treat someone and yet ignoring an injured person right in front of you is akin to being a murderer.

**end of flashback**

Back then, Yoshitsune-sama dismissed me, but he also said... "Everyone has contradictions."

(If he hates Yoritomo-sama enough to borrow the power of ayakashi,)

(Then surely he should kill me, who cooperates with Yoritomo, by any means necessary.)

And yet, Yoshitsune-sama extended a helping hand to me in my time of need.

Yoshino: Th... thank you, Yoshitsune-sama.

Yoshitsune: I did it of my own accord.

His nonchalant dismissal of his actions felt somewhat dazzling.

––At the same time, I recalled the day I saw Yoshitsune-sama in battle.

(I was chilled when I saw him charge towards the enemy without fear of injury.)

He skillfully maneuvered his horse, advancing towards the enemy.

Many soldiers were repelled by the overwhelming difference in strength.

(And yet...)

No matter how skilled he is in tactics, no matter how dangerous his fighting style, Yoshitsune-sama always sticks to his principles in the end.

(I don't think Yoritomo-sama would fight so recklessly. But...)

**imperial palace flashback**

Yoritomo: I intend to guarantee your personal safety, at the very least, since I’m bringing a mere woman onto the battlefield.

Yoritomo: However, there’s no such thing as absolute safety, as you experienced in the previous battle.

Yoritomo: Even so, it is the shogunate’s decision to continue involving you in this matter.

Yoritomo: Therefore, if you choose to cooperate with us of your own volition, it would be only fair to guarantee you better treatment than before.

**end of flashback**

(The more I get to know Yoritomo-sama, the more I feel that he is a fair person, even if it's hard to understand.)

(... There are some similarities between Yoritomo-sama and Yoshitsune-sama after all.)

The fact that these two were enemies caused a sharp pain in my chest.

Yoshitsune: Yoshino? Is something wrong?

Yoshino: ...N-No, it's nothing.

I was startled to realize that I had unconsciously clenched my fingers.

Yoshitsune: I see. Then, I must be going.

(...!)

As Yoshitsune-sama turned to leave, I called out to him on impulse.

Yoshino: Wait!

Yoshitsune: What is it?

(Oh no, I just...)

I was confused, not knowing why I had called out to him.

But for some reason, I felt like I shouldn't just let him go like this.

My eyes suddenly fell on the package I was holding.

Yoshino: ...Do you dislike dango?

Yoshitsune: ...Dango?

Yoshino: I just bought it at a stall. Would you like to eat it as a thank you for helping me?

Yoshitsune: There's no need for thanks. I did it of my own accord.

Yoshino: That's not how it works. I'd feel bad if I didn't do anything...

Yoshino: Ah, perhaps you don't eat dango? Should I have bought something else?

(Was it rude to offer food from a stall in the first place...?)

Yoshitsune-sama furrowed his brow slightly, as if a little perplexed by my anxious rambling.

Yoshitsune: That's not the case, but...

Yoshino: Th... then, please.

Yoshitsune: Very well.

(Thank goodness...)

We sat side by side on the stone steps, and I quickly took out the dango.

Yoshino: Here you go.

Yoshitsune: Ah. Thank you.

Yoshitsune-sama received the dango and casually popped it into his mouth.

Yoshino: Wow... It's so chewy and delicious.

Yoshitsune: ...Indeed.

(I should buy some for Tamamo as a souvenir.)

(Ah, but he's a gourmet, so he might say, "Dango from a stall?")

Yoshitsune: ............

(Huh? ...He seems to be frozen.)

Yoshino: ...Lord Yoshitsune? Did you not like it?

Yoshitsune: The taste is fine.

Yoshitsune: ...But this dango is quite chewy and a bit of a struggle.

Yoshitsune: It's difficult to time the chewing.

(Eh?)

Yoshino: Does that mean you don't like chewy things?

Yoshitsune: It seems so. It makes me sleepy while eating.

(Yet another unexpected side of him...)

(The difference between his appearance and his demeanor on the battlefield is truly extreme!)

Yoshino: I'm sorry, I didn't know... I should have gotten something else.

Yoshitsune: It's alright.

Yoshitsune: Your gratitude has been conveyed sufficiently.

Yoshino: Yoshitsune-sama...

(He really is... a sincere person through and through.)

--CHOICES--

You're so kind

Thank you

I'll choose something different next time

--------------

Yoshino: You're kind.

Yoshitsune: I merely stated the obvious.

Yoshitsune: But if that's how you see it, then so be it.

Having finished the dango, Yoshitsune-sama mutters to himself.

Yoshitsune: ...What a pleasant breeze.

The leaves rustle in the night wind, creating a soothing sound.

As I listen to the sound of the leaves and look up at the night sky, I see a pale moon floating.

Yoshitsune: The moon is beautiful tonight.

Yoshitsune: The moon seen in Hiraizumi is no different in beauty from the moon seen in Kamakura.

(Speaking of which...)

Yoshitsune-sama's words remind me of our first encounter.

Yoshino: You said you came to Kamakura alone, didn't you, Yoshitsune-sama?

Yoshitsune: If Benkei-san knew, he would nag me endlessly.

(Benkei-san... is that the scary-looking guy?)

(He's surprisingly overprotective...)

Yoshino: Why did you come all the way to Kamakura?

Yoshitsune: Well...

Yoshitsune-sama's eyes seemed to darken in the night.

A brief silence filled the air as I held my breath, and then a low voice echoed in the wind.

Yoshitsune: I wanted to see the town I would eventually destroy one last time before the battle.

(The last time...?)

Yoshino: Have you been to Kamakura before?

Yoshitsune: I stayed here when I was under Yoritomo-sama.

Yoshitsune: I was quite fond of Kamakura, but...

Yoshitsune: Shortly after the war with the Heike, I was exiled by Yoritomo-sama.

Yoshino: That's terrible...

(To think that it was his own brother who exiled him...)

Yoshitsune: That's why I came here to burn this last image into my memory.

Yoshitsune: ...The town and its people. They haven't changed from my memories.

Various emotions cast fleeting shadows on his sculpted, white profile.

Only he could know what those feelings were.

(But... I feel like I've touched Yoshitsune-sama's heart a little.)

We both fell silent, lost in our own thoughts, when––

???: Hey, hey...

(A child's voice...?)

A small boy emerged from the trees.

Boy: ...Oh man, he's not here either.

Yoshino: What's wrong? Are you looking for someone?

Boy: Ah, there are people here!

The boy notices us and approaches.

Boy: Have you seen my little brother? He's wearing a blue kimono...

Yoshino: No, I haven't seen him.

Boy: I see...

Yoshitsune-sama suddenly speaks to the dejected boy.

Yoshitsune: Did you get separated?

The boy flinches at the quiet question, then nods timidly.

Boy: Yeah... We had a fight, and he ran off.

Yoshino: Oh dear, that's worrying.

(With so many people in town, it must be hard to find someone once you're separated...)

Boy: It was his fault to begin with. But maybe I got too angry...

Boy: ...I looked everywhere, but I couldn't find him.

The boy clenches his small hands and tears well up in his eyes.

Boy: He must hate me now...

(Ah... It's easy to feel insecure after a fight.)

Yoshino: It's alright––

As I start to speak--

Yoshitsune: There's no brother who can easily hate his older brother.

(Yoshitsune-sama...?)

Yoshitsune-sama's words made the boy blink.

Boy: Really...?

Yoshitsune: Yes.

Yoshitsune-sama gently placed his hand on the boy's head.

Yoshitsune: But it's better to get along from now on.

Yoshitsune: ––Because people can't always walk the same path forever.

(Ah...)

Yoshitsune-sama's profile, illuminated by the moonlight, floated whitely in the darkness.

(I've never seen anyone with such a sad face.)

Even though his expression shouldn't have changed...

My heart tightened at the emotions quietly swirling in his eyes.

(Why does he look like that?)

I was incredibly curious, but...

(...I need to think about this child right now.)

I met the boy's eyes and spoke to him gently.

Yoshino: If you'd like, I can help you look for him.

Boy: Really?

Yoshino: Of course!

Yoshitsune: Then I shall join the search as well.

Yoshino: Really!?

Boy: Th-Thank you, big brother, big sister!

(But...)

I whispered to Yoshitsune-sama.

Yoshino: Is it alright? What if someone sees your face?

Yoshitsune: No one would think I'd be attending a festival with women and children.

Yoshino: Ah, that's true...

Yoshitsune: Besides, if need be, I can carve a path for myself even if I become a fugitive.

(He's that confident in his abilities.)

Yoshino: ...I understand. If you say so.

Yoshitsune-sama nodded once and looked around.

Yoshitsune: We haven't seen your brother since we've been here. Let's go out into the town.

Yoshino: Yes, he might be wandering around, drawn by the festival sounds.

I held out my hand to the boy.

Yoshino: Let's hold hands so we don't get separated, okay?

Boy: Okay!

The boy smiled brightly and took my hand.

Then, he boldly reached out his other hand to Yoshitsune-sama.

Boy: Here, big brother!

Yoshitsune: .....

(Wow...)

Yoshino: Um, this person... well, he's not the type to do that sort of thing...

Yoshitsune: Is this alright?

(Eh?)

Yoshitsune-sama, who had taken the boy's hand, asked flatly.

Boy: Yeah! Let's go, let's go!

Yoshino: W-Wait...!

I was pulled along by the boy, who started walking excitedly.

(...This feels strange. How do we look to others?)

(We certainly don't look like a family.)

Perhaps because the festival music was getting closer, I felt strangely restless.

(I wonder what Yoshitsune-sama is thinking?)

I glanced at his white profile, but as usual, I couldn't read his expression.

-

The town was even more crowded than before.

Yoshitsune: He doesn't seem to be here... Let's try looking over there.

Yoshino: Yes.

(I hope we find him soon...)

Boy: ...Ah!

Yoshitsune: What is it?

.

.

.

.

.

Chapter 5 Premium Story

If you’d like to support my translations, feel free to buy me a coffee here! :)

[slyandthefamilybook]

hey, just wanted to say I have some serious respect for your genuine… neutrality I think is the wrong word. nuance, maybe? about Israel/Palestine stuff.

everything I see tells me you just want peace and comfort for people, and that you’ve managed to stay vocal and hold your ground despite attempts to the contrary by parties on both ends of the issue.

is there some pro-israel bias in what you do? maybe. id have to spend a lot more time getting a sense of how you operate to know. but ive seen enough antisemitism go unchallenged in pro-Palestine conversations that I think tumblr needs a bit of that pulling in the other direction.

if I ever start being politically active online outside of just reblogging stuff I think I would use your work here as an example, and id be quite satisfied if I lived up to it.

This is...extremely flattering, thank you. I'm honored to be held up as a standard of reasonability.

I think "pro-Israel bias" is tricky to define. A lot of people will accuse me of being pro-Israel, or at best neutral (which would be pro-Israel anyways, as they have the majority of the power). The problem is, the worse things get the harder people will fight. And the harder people fight, the further they want to go. Things keep escalating as both sides leapfrog to the greatest extreme, until neither one will accept anything less than total domination. I believe that in this rhetorical arms race, my position has remained steadfastly reasonable.

I believe first and foremost that human life is inherently valuable, and that we must do everything we can to protect it. But I'm not an idiot. I know that the world is complicated and that waters are often muddied. I'm an anarcho-communist, but I'm not going to let my political ideals blind me to reality. So if I support freedom from suffering for Palestinians, then the Zionists hate me, and that's fine. And if I support the Israelis who were taken from their homes, then the tankies hate me, and that's fine. I'm comfortable knowing I'm sticking to my principles. When Emma Lazarus said "until we are all free, we are none of us free" she was speaking out against sectarianism. Against the idea that we should only care for our own. I believe in doing things that help people. Bibi and Sinwar are helping no one but themselves with their endless assaults on civilians. War and revenge help no one except the people at the top. Far-right religious fundamentalism helps no one except the people at the top

It may sound trite, but war is not about one side versus another; it's about death versus life. There are people who are alive, and people who are not. Living people have the potential to do so much good. Dead people have the potential to decompose under 6 feet of earth. We must choose to create more life, not more death

[prongsfish]

sigh

im post blocked

anyway

FISHALICIOUS

WHAT ARE YOUR FAVOURITE EVAN ROSIER HEADCANONS

(ive been asking everyone because he's slowly becoming my favourite)

just now realising you asked this nearly a month ago i'm so sorry i don't know why i struggle with answering asks so much!! but anyways evan headcanons i will GLADLY give. my characterisation of him is less concrete than characters like barty or regulus but i think about him loads still i love him...

this is a classic ofc but i will always see him and pandora as twins!! i love siblings in media so much and i think it allows for suuupper interesting dynamics between them, even in canon

in muggle aus my go-to career for him is either a piercer or something in the medical science field. i can just picture him as this mildly off-putting medsci student who goes on to be a forensic pathologist or something, he's really intrigued by the human body and how it functions in various ways. could definitely also go the way of unlicensed surgeon or mad scientist who performs fucked up experiments on people but that sort of thing doesn't quite fit into every fic lmaoo

i've always thought of him as more of a piercings guy than a tattoo guy (which is the opposite to barty). he'd definitely have both but i associate him more with piercings if that makes sense? i imagine he'd have a labret, bridge, stretched lobes (~7/8"), stretched septum (~0g), eyebrows (normal and middle placements), and high nostrils. all symmetrical!! plus probably some other non-facial piercings

he'd love sci-fi, thriller, and horror (especially psychological) films. anything super tense and probably confusing

when he was a child he and pandora would trap and kill insects. they'd spend ages examining little bug bodies and dissecting them with sticks and stuff... as he grew older he became more and more interested in bigger animals. occasionally he would kill animals himself but more often he'd search for those already dead, especially roadkill. once he was finished with any given specimen he'd carefully remove, clean, and reconstruct their skeletons to give to pandora. she didn't like the organs stuff as much as he did but she loved collecting bones and taxidermy insects, in exchange one year for his birthday (10-14th, maybe) she spent ages searching to buy him a surgical set from an antique store

waaay scarier than barty. if you don't know them you might be more initially scared by barty but while barty is loud and crazy and violent and laughs at pain/danger, evan is creepy. he knows way a million and one ways to kill someone without leaving behind any evidence. he knows every single pressure point on the human body. someone mentions a medicine they've taken their whole life for the first time and when someone else asks what it is he can explain in minute detail exactly how it works to the point where not even the person who takes it knew even half of what he says. he's super quiet moving without even meaning to be so he scares the shit out of people all the time. he doesn't blink as often as he should but just often enough that you don't notice until you're paying attention. and this is all revealed gradually, whereas barty's most "scary" traits are purposefully the most surface level things about him

he loooves medical dramas. he's watched tons of them. he HATES the good doctor though, purely on principle because once someone said that must be his favourite because he's autistic. his actual favourite is house

he runs cold and NEVER wears shorts. lots of beanies and jackets

these were so random and i went on a few tangents but oh well i did like five other things between writing these so it's a bit of a mess LMAO

[boysaremytoys]

geez yes you are correct, one must exercise autonomy, and not wanting to is a good enough reason, just read the room and have some sympathy because it's not about moral obligation or whatever it's about opening up even barely about a bad interaction. we don't think others are morally obligated to have sex he just wanted some compassion after things go sour

if you can't manage a 'yeah that's within her rights but it still sucks, sorry that happened to you. it isn't universal if that's any consolation' why respond? there are ways to stick to your principles without callousness! there must be some communication gap here if that was your intention anyway

i’m not going to change my response. if the story had simply been “things didn’t work out with this person” it would be different. multiple times i’ve had men come to me here portraying women negatively and i don’t know what’s given the impression that i would commiserate. there are plenty of men who would respond “what a bitch”—go to one of them, not me.

[mariana-oconnor]

The Cardboard Box pt 1

An uninspiring title, but apparently it's controversial? All my brain is thinking (I am still le tired) is 'Big fish, little fish, cardboard box' over and over again.

If you don't get that reference, that's probably for the best. the early noughties were weird.

Anyway. I hereby do swear that this time I shall read the text more carefully and all my claims, accusations and harebrained ideas will be based in textual evidence and not mere vibes alone. One cannot thrive on vibes alone!

I'm going to try anyway. I may still dislike characters on principle, though.

He did however take a particular fancy to some of the paragraphs at the beginning of the tale and urged me adapt them for later revisions of my story ‘The Resident Patient’, which I sent to you in January.

OK, so is this going to be an AU version of The Resident Patient? Because I feel like that gives me a head start on the guessing.

I did a side by side of the two and overall it seems pretty much the same, except we're now in August and it's blazing hot. I shudder to think how Watson would have described August in the UK last year. Then we have the discussion about Holmes reading Watson's mind body language. Until we get to the first significant difference:

"Have you observed in the paper a short paragraph referring to the remarkable contents of a packet sent through the post to Miss Cushing, of Cross Street, Croydon?” "No, I saw nothing."

Aha, the titular cardboard box, one wonders?

Watson is really falling behind in his paper reading duties. Holmes is doing all the legwork here. Honestly. You just can't get a good chronicler these days! But he's still making Watson read it aloud.

Holmes does like hearing things read aloud. He'd be all over audiobooks, but he's got Watson for that so it's all good.

I picked up the paper which he had thrown back to me and read the paragraph indicated. It was headed, “A Gruesome Packet.”

Ooooh, I think I might remember a bit of this one. I might remember what's in the box, anyway.

Sorry, that was my contractual obligation.

“Miss Susan Cushing, living at Cross Street, Croydon, has been made the victim of what must be regarded as a peculiarly revolting practical joke unless some more sinister meaning should prove to be attached to the incident."

If it's what I think it is then practical jokes were significantly more aggressive in the Victorian Era. I don't think even TikTok has graduated to this level. We're getting a pretty weird look at the 1800s English sense of humour: beating other children with sticks and... this.

"A cardboard box was inside, which was filled with coarse salt."

Everyone needs some seasoning on their... "two human ears [...] quite freshly severed".

Okay, poor taste, poor taste. I know it's there for preservation. Also weirdly I thought it was going to be fingers. Don't know why I thought that. But yes, this is quite the jape, my friend. I just cut off some human ears and sent them to you.

How is this a practical joke? These are genuine freshly cut ears. Even if they're from a cadaver, that's theft and criminal damage at the very least. Isn't it? And I thought they were particularly strict on stuff like that in the 1800s. We're a little late for the Resurrection Man and Burke and Hare, but they did not like people messing around with corpses.

Okay, research research: 'The Anatomy Act of 1832 made it legal for corpses from workhouses that remained unclaimed after forty-eight hours to be used to satisfy the demands of the anatomists.'

Welp, I guess it was okay to do anything to corpses if they were the corpses of poor people with no friends or family (or at least no friends/family who could afford to claim them).

I mean, on one hand it stopped people from being murdered and science needed bodies to learn how bodies work better (good lord did we need to learn how bodies work better) but on the other hand, this does make me uncomfortable. Workhouse in life, still put to work in death. Also, from a purely scientific viewpoint, your sample is biased. You need some rich people bodies in there, too.

"There is no indication as to the sender, and the matter is the more mysterious as Miss Cushing, who is a maiden lady of fifty, has led a most retired life, and has so few acquaintances or correspondents that it is a rare event for her to receive anything through the post."

So, either she's secretly running an underground crime ring. Or the ears were meant for someone else with the name S. Cushing.

"...she let apartments in her house to three young medical students..."

Oh, yeah, fine. All makes sense now. Medical students are fucking feral. I have met literally one in my life who I would have been comfortable to have as a doctor, and I think he was just really good at hiding it. Guy once got 'kidnapped' by an entire female hockey team and ended up in an entirely different city. Another one I know just kept a dead squirrel in the shared freezer so he could do dissection practice on it.

I'd put the Dead Dove, Do Not Eat gif, but he didn't even label the fucker.

"...their noisy and irregular habits..."

Medical students... yeah.

"In the meantime, the matter is being actively investigated, Mr. Lestrade, one of the very smartest of our detective officers, being in charge of the case.”

Oh hai, Lestrade!

At least the police are putting an actual detective on the case and not just saying 'oh it's a silly prank' and ignoring the transportation of human body parts. Was it illegal to send human remains by the royal mail at that time?

“I think that this case is very much in your line. We have every hope of clearing the matter up, but we find a little difficulty in getting anything to work upon."

'We're totally going to do this, we just don't have... any idea how. But we totally could!'

"The box is a half-pound box of honeydew tobacco and does not help us in any way."

Did somebody say... TOBACCO?

A specialist subject has entered the chat.

If Holmes doesn't use his extensive and very detailed knowledge of tobacco to help solve this case, I will be v. disappoint.

Lestrade, as wiry, as dapper, and as ferret-like as ever...

Watson is contractually obliged to remind you that Lestrade looks like a ferret every time he appears. His publisher insists on it.

I'm informed that an antimacassar is an arm cover for an armchair or sofa. My Nana used to have them. They had tassels and I'd get told off for plaiting the threads in the tassels together. Good times.

“Why in my presence, sir?” “In case he wished to ask any questions.” “What is the use of asking me questions when I tell you I know nothing whatever about it?”

Miss Cushing has very strong Done With This energy and I am here for it. Those are not her ears. She has perfectly good ones thank you very much, and she does not need any more. Why are you still bothering her?

“Quite so, madam,” said Holmes in his soothing way. “I have no doubt that you have been annoyed more than enough already over this business.”

Holmes once again showing that he does have emotional intelligence no matter what people might think.

“The importance lies in the fact that the knot is left intact, and that this knot is of a peculiar character.”

Oh, not the tobacco knowledge, but the knot knowledge. I see 'peculiar' and 'knot' in the same sentence and I immediately think 'sailing'.

Address printed in rather straggling characters: ‘Miss S. Cushing, Cross Street, Croydon.’ Done with a broad-pointed pen, probably a J, and with very inferior ink. The word ‘Croydon’ has been originally spelled with an ‘i’, which has been changed to ‘y’.

Our sender has poor handwriting and poor spelling, then. The 'wrong person' theory is growing stronger. The likelihood that Miss Cushing is a criminal mastermind diminshes. Shame.

He took out the two ears as he spoke, and laying a board across his knee he examined them minutely.

Is he wearing gloves? Please tell me he's wearing gloves.

“Bodies in the dissecting-rooms are injected with preservative fluid. These ears bear no signs of this. They are fresh, too. They have been cut off with a blunt instrument, which would hardly happen if a student had done it."

This feels like something the police should already have noticed. If the questions are 'Where did these ears come from? Has a crime been committed?' you would think someone would have considered whether they were from a preserved corpse or someone fresh. I know that policing has changed a lot since then and forensic medicine wasn't really a thing, but clearly they suspected foul play was a possibility, because Lestrade called for Holmes.

"We know that this woman has led a most quiet and respectable life at Penge and here for the last twenty years. She has hardly been away from her home for a day during that time."

Oh, Lestrade. The things you can do without leaving your home. She might have anyone buried under the floorboards. She might have been sending blackmail letters to her neighbours. She might have been doing any number of things. I still think the wrong person got the parcel, but saying that she's just too respectable for this is very optimistic of you.

I do agree that if she knew what the ears were about, she probably wouldn't have told anyone about them. Unless she's in such a secure position that she doesn't think anyone would ever trace anything back to her. In most situations, it wouldn't be the best move.

"One of these ears is a woman's, small, finely formed, and pierced for an earring."

Did no men wear earrings in Victorian times? Admittedly, probably not 'respectable' men, but the knot's already pointing me at sailor (as is the tarring on the string, tbh) and it used to be a thing that tattoos were mostly a sailor thing over here, and piercing is a similar kind of body art. So a woman or a sailor with small ears.

omg. pirates.

"The other is a man's, sun-burned, discoloured, and also pierced for an earring."

Oh, okay, so the earring wasn't the thing. Doesn't prevent the first ear from belonging to a small pirate, though. Sunburned also makes me think sailors. They have to be outside a lot with no shade. Sunburn on your ears is the worst. They have my sincere sympathy.

Also, y'know, cause they got their ear cut off - with a blunt blade, which... eesh.

"These two people are presumably dead, or we should have heard their story before now."

I mean, they could have been kidnapped and this could be proof of life. These days if you get an unsolicited body part in the real life mail the mind does go to kidnapping. Maybe that originates here - but they have no way of knowing whether the ear was detached ante or post mortem at this point, do they? So it's more proof of having, rather than proof of life. And I don't think I'd recognise my friends or family by their ears, so it's not even really that. If the earrings had been attached then I might recognise them.

Yeah... s'weird. But it doesn't necessarily mean they're dead. Although... Victorian hygiene and understanding of germ theory.

...

Yeah, they've got sepsis. They're dead.

Question spiral! Holmes just asking himself question after question is very relatable. And bringing up all relevant points about how if Miss Cushing knows what's going on, taking the ears to the police but telling them nothing is the weirdest possible response.

I'm assuming that the subject of this email is wrong, because if this is part 1 of 1, there is no conclusion to this story and so without further evidence, I am forced to believe that one large pirate and one small pirate, genders unknown, are currently dead/dying of sepsis and the true recipient of these ears, M. S Cushing (any or all letters interchangeable) has heard nothing of their fate. Although, given it was in the newspaper, they probably have heard about it by now. So maybe they don't need the ears.

No idea why the ears were sent though. Proof of a hit? Proof of life? Just a creepy serial killer who likes to send the ears of their past victim to their next victim? Probably not that one, seems a bit Criminal Minds for a Sherlock Holmes story, but you never know.

[liaromancewriter]

The Unexpected Valentine

Premise: The interns celebrate their first Valentine’s Day in Boston, and it’s full of surprises.

Book: Open Heart Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x Cassie Valentine (F!MC); feat. Sienna Trinh, Bryce Lahela, Jackie Varma, Elijah Greene Rating/Category: General. Fluff. Words: 1,790

A/N: Submission for @choicesficwriterscreations Valentine's Day event; for @choicesmonthlychallenge Valentine's Day platonic prompt - candy hearts; @choices-february2023 Day 14 "Valentine's Day".

The nurses’ stations on almost every floor were festooned in pink and white paper hearts. Some diehard romantics wore red heart pins on their scrubs, while others smiled more than usual, humming jaunty tunes as they did their work.

Valentine’s Day wasn’t until the end of the week, but that didn’t stop people from getting into the spirit early. Nurse Sarah was responsible for this year’s resident Secret Valentine Exchange and was determined to make it the best one yet.

All she needed was to track down one stubborn intern that had managed to avoid detection. But Sarah was on a mission, and nothing and no one would get in her way.

Cassie Valentine wasn’t thinking of anything but her latest patient. She was working with a new attending, one who seemed to disappear whenever she needed guidance. She was a February intern and could fly solo easily for less complicated cases. This case was anything but usual.

She missed working with Dr. Ramsey, even if the man was more likely to ask questions than provide answers. But at least his questions pushed her to think out of the box. Not go round and round in circles.

Lost in thought, she didn’t notice someone chasing her or calling her name until a hand fell on her shoulder. Startled, she turned her head to see Nurse Sarah breathing heavily and clutching her waist as if she had a stitch on the side.

“Wow, you’re a really fast walker,” Sarah huffed. “I chased you down two hallways, and you’re not even winded.”

Cassie knew she’d been practically running, as she often did when thinking, and felt sorry for the other woman.

“I’m sorry, Sarah. I was lost in thought,” Cassie said sincerely. “How can I help?”

Sarah held out a post-it note and pen. “You haven’t entered your name in the Secret Valentine Exchange. Today is the last day. We’ll pick names at the end of shift.”

“Yeah, I don’t do V-Day,” Cassie said, not even bothering to hide her disdain for the holiday, which wasn’t really a holiday but a marketing gimmick.

“But your last name is Valentine,” Sarah sputtered.

Cassie just knew this would come up. She loved romance, but all her life, she had to contend with people making fun as soon as February started because of the peculiarity of her last name.

She lifted her chin mulishly. “Your point is…?”

“It’s practically your day,” Sarah said in a tone that implied it should be obvious. And then she waved her hand dismissively. “Anyway, everyone else is signed up, and the numbers will be uneven if you don’t. So, it’s required.”

Cassie wanted to argue and stick to her principles, but Sarah’s determined expression told her there was no point. That didn’t mean she would take it lying down. She took the post-it and pen, scribbled a name, and handed Sarah the folded paper.

Smugly satisfied, Sarah thanked her and returned to her station.

“What was that about?”

Thinking she was alone, Cassie practically jumped at the masculine voice behind her. She glanced over her shoulder to see Ethan standing in the patient room doorway.

Her heart skipped a beat as it often did in his presence, and her green eyes filled with longing before she schooled her features into a neutral expression.

“Stupid Valentine’s Day,” she muttered under her breath.

He must have had bat ears because he heard her clearly. The quick, amused grin that flashed across his face was disarming, as was the warmth in his blue eyes. Despite her best intentions to keep things professional, she was charmed and wished he would smile more.

“Not a fan?” he drawled, leaning against the wall and folding his arms across his chest. “I have to say, I’m surprised.”

“Join the club.” She rolled her eyes.

The shrill sound of a pager—his—cut the moment short. She thought he looked grim as he read the message and wondered if it was about Naveen.

Before she could ask him about it, he dropped the pager in his coat pocket, gave her a brief nod, and walked away without another word.

A few days later, Cassie walked into Edenbrook for her shift with Sienna bubbling in excitement beside her, a baker’s box full of heart-shaped cookies clutched in her hands. Her friend had been like this for several days, eager for Valentine’s Day and a romantic dinner with her idiot of a boyfriend.

Of course, Sienna didn’t think Wayne was an idiot despite evidence to the contrary. It took all of Cassie’s self-control not to shake her and make her see Wayne for the supercilious loser he was. But that’s not what friends did.

If Sienna was happy with Wayne, Cassie had no right to interfere or make her feel bad about it. Not like Jackie often did, which inevitably led to Sienna retreating to her room on the pretense of studying.

She would be supportive and pleasant, even if it killed her. Besides, Wayne would show his true colors eventually. Cassie had met enough people like that to know it was only a matter of time.

“He still hasn’t told me where we’re going,” Sienna said as they swiped in and walked into the near-empty locker room. “But I dropped enough hints about this French bistro I want to try. So, fingers crossed!”

Cassie flushed when she realized Sienna was looking expectantly at her, and she hadn’t heard a word Sienna said until now. “I’m sure it will be lovely.”

Wanting to make amends for her inattentiveness, she gave Sienna a one-armed hug. “I’ll make sure you get out of here on time. Tell you what. If you want to leave early to get ready, just page me, and I’ll cover your patients.”

“Thanks, Cassie,” Sienna said, smiling widely. “I might take you up on that.”

They both turned away to change into scrubs. Cassie unfastened her bag and saw the square-shaped red jewelry box for the Secret Valentine Exchange. She’d been ecstatic to get Sienna’s name in the draw and had known exactly what to buy her bestie.

Now it was just a matter of getting Sienna out of the way so she could hide it in her locker for later.

“I’m going to find Danny and Raf before shift starts, give them their cookies,” Sienna told her, slamming the locker door shut. “See you at morning sign-out?”

“You bet.”

Cassie waited for a beat in case Sienna came back. Judging the coast to be clear, she took out the jewelry box, tucked a Secret Valentine note into the seam, and placed it on the shelf next to Sienna’s tote so she wouldn’t miss it.

“I thought I got Sienna in the Secret Valentine Exchange,” a male voice said behind her.

Caught unawares for the second time in so many days, Cassie jumped and spun on her heels to face Bryce. He was leaning against one of the lockers, a small bouquet of pink roses in his hands, brows furrowed in confusion.

Before Cassie could respond, Jackie walked into view with Elijah following, each holding a present.

“What’s up, meathead?” Jackie asked, brushing past Bryce to set the gift bag on the bench.

She cocked her head when she saw Cassie standing in front of Sienna’s open locker and the red jewelry box.

“Wait a minute,” she started, looking first at Cassie, then Bryce and the flowers he was holding. “Are those Sienna’s Secret Valentine presents? Because I got her name in the draw.”

“That’s interesting,” Elijah said, joining the three of them in front of Sienna’s locker. “I got her name too.”

The four friends stared at each other perplexed, and then Cassie burst into laughter as she put two and two together.

“You all know I don’t believe in V-Day,” she said, swallowing back giggles. “So when Nurse Sarah cornered me, I put Sienna’s name in the draw instead of mine.”

Bryce chuckled. “I did the same but for different reasons. Sienna really gets into all the holiday stuff. I didn’t want to take the chance she’d get a dud.”

Cassie threw Jackie a challenging look. “How much of a coincidence is it you entered Sienna’s name too?”

Jackie rolled her eyes, but her grin gave her away. “I felt bad riding her about Wayne last week. Figured if she got two presents, it might make up for him canceling on her tonight.”

She twisted her lips in derision. “Let’s face it. The jerk has a track record of canceling on her at the last minute. At least now she can drown her sorrows in Belgian chocolate.” She lightly shook the bag.

Elijah slowly raised his hand. “So, I might have entered Sienna’s name too. She does so much to cheer everyone up. Like Bryce, I didn’t want to chance it she’d get dissed by someone with crappy tastes. By the way, I asked Landry to write her name too. I calculated the odds based on the number of entries and figured one of us had a strong shot of drawing her name.”

Elijah finished confessing and lifted the gift bag off his lap. “I got her candy hearts and a funny card.”

Bryce whistled softly. “Sienna definitely hit the Valentine’s Day jackpot today.”

And then they all laughed as they gathered around her locker, trying to stuff their presents inside. Their friend was about to get the surprise of her life.

They were arguing about how to organize everything when Sienna rushed into the locker room, muttering under her breath.

She stopped abruptly at seeing her friends assembled around her open locker. Her eyes widened in surprise at the gift bags and flowers, their distinct floral scent filling the air.

Before she could ask what was going on, Cassie, Bryce, Elijah and Jackie descended upon her and dumped their presents in her hands.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Si!”

It was the end of shift, and the hospital was buzzing as it often did during the changeover. Nurse Sarah rubbed the back of her neck and rolled her shoulders to get the kinks out. She absently wondered what the residents had gotten each other for the Secret Valentine Exchange.

She’d meant to follow up, but her day had been busier than usual. Now she was tired and looking forward to celebratory drinks with her friends. It was too bad she didn’t have a man this Valentine’s Day to shower her with presents.

She was almost at the exit when she spied Dr. Trinh walking ahead, laughing with her usual group of friends. Sarah took in the brightly wrapped presents and bouquet of roses in the young doctor’s arms and thought, Lucky Lady.

-------------------

All Fics & Edits: @a-crepusculo @annfg8 @bluebelle08 @coffeeheartaddict2 @crazy-loca-blog @doriopenheart @genevievemd @headoverheelsforramsey @lucy-268 @jamespotterthefirst @jerzwriter @lady-calypso @mainstreetreader @takemyopenheart @potionsprefect @queencarb @quixoticdreamer16 @rookiemartin @socalwriterbee @tessa-liam @trappedinfanfiction

[frumfrumfroo]

(Sorry if I am belabouring the point, so feel free to ignore this ask) no yeah I'm definitely the same way and you're never wrong for having personal reasons not getting into something immediately - I think some of the fandom anxiety comes from the fact that things get cancelled so quickly without sufficient viewership (or even with sufficient viewership, which is a whole other nut). It puts a weird amount of onus of a show's success on the fandom, which is even stranger in the time of broken trust and active resentment of audiences/audience engagement with a text/trying to 'outsmart' us. But ultimately there is something severely rotting at the root that I don't think we have any control over.

And yeah the popular perception of TD season 1 is that it's grimdark because its protagonist is deeply wounded and many a fanboy is butthurt about its celebration of redemption. It's an incredibly, incredibly dark show, and so that tragic beginning is hard for a lot of people to get past, I think, when it's not the final conclusive thematic remark*. I would say that Dark is similar to this if you want an idea of the tone. Somehow we have ended up where the children's modern day fairytale is grimdark and nihilistic and shows inured in tragedy are idealistic and redemptive.

Anyway, very thankful for your blog in keeping me sane in the time of psychedelic narrative rules, and being Principled, because sometimes I feel like a stick in the mud lol.

And the asterisk is there up above because I have heard this exact description of a popular book series (A Song of Ice and Fire) and I disagree with this conclusion, partly because the series is unfinished, partly because I think the fanbase on Tumblr is overly optimistic, and also because TD has an absolute conclusion which is idealistic. So I just want to note this so it doesn't seem like I'm misrepresenting or overstating the show lololol.

It's also extremely unsavoury the way big name fans and the former twitter cabal, wherever that hangs out now, will take advantage of this anxiety and use it as a bludgeon to make a captive audience feel like they have some 'duty' to support the financial success of giant evil corporations. Giving Disney more money and bullying people for not giving Disney more money is not a moral victory, I think we should all be able to agree. Abusing calls to support artists by co-opting them into the service of mindless consumption of branded refuse is fairly repugnant. Saying 'vote with your dollars' between a choice of Disney Extruded Movie Product A, B, or C is both hilarious and sad.

eg: that tie-in comic, I think it was the TLJ one? The one with the terrible art. It's a commissioned product, the artist was paid once and as little as possible to create it for solely marketing purposes. Applying fandom etiquette to it or saying it should not be criticised because of high turnover times is frankly fucking ridiculous. It's a professional commissioned product they were selling for profit. They had all the time and all the money in the world, there's no excuse for it to be awful and absolutely no one should have felt obligated to buy it or keep quiet about how bad it was. Maybe the artist could have done better under better working conditions, but that doesn't make the actual product we're being asked to purchase acceptable. Giving Disney your money is not going to improve those conditions and it's not going to help that artist.

The same with the tros defenders saying they tried therefore you can't criticise them. A) they did not try B) this was not a sincere piece of art and pretending otherwise is just insulting and C) it's a corporate product made by a near-monopoly who employed alleged professionals. Nothing could possibly be more fair game for harsh criticism.

Ultimately putting this onus on fandom of you must throw your money away on this thing or be a free shill for this brand or maybe they'll stop throwing us any crumbs... like it's debasement. Given all the many recent examples of how public support doesn't matter unless it's that first weekend a show drops on a streaming platform or the opening box office, how being the 'wrong' audience makes you irrelevant no matter how many of you there are, how even very successful shows are dropped after two seasons because producers don't want to pay actors, etc. etc. it's even more silly. We should be demanding better, not propping up this nonsense. Creative people are being profoundly fucked over by this system and are often still fucked even if they make something successful.

If people want to support artists, buy independent and small label media. Go see original, mid-budget movies at the cinema (if you live in a city where you have any chance of one playing, that is).

And see, I have no problem with darkness, angst, and tragedy if I know it's going somewhere positive. Having to really go through it can make the journey and the ultimate conclusion feel even more rewarding. As long as it's not angst for angst's sake, but is doing something meaningful and necessary, it only enriches the hope at the foundation of redemption or recovery stories.

Idealism is brave, challenging, and requires sincerity. When the modern fairy tales are being produced in cynicism and by committee to meet a quota for the shareholders...

Thank-you ❤️

[yolowritter]

In Offense to Wang Fu and Su-Han Part 1: Whinny chicken leg!

Hello there everyone, and welcome to another post where we bash Miraculous characters over the head with a steel chair! Well, their writing in most cases, but Fu is different! If there is one adult in this show that has genuinely almost drove me insane, it's this man! Even Su-Han, I can sort of understand! I hate him just as much, but I kinda get where he's coming from. So today, I've got a rant to explain what role they are supposed to be fulfilling in the show, why both of these "wise mentors" fundamentally fail to do so, and why I personally dislike their characters to the point of seething hatred, comparable only by the kind I feel for Tomoe Tsurugi! I'll get to her and a few other adults I have a bone to pick with in future posts, but nobody, and I mean nobody is safe from me! Today we focus on the analysis of "mentor characters", their intended role in a story, and why Wang Fu and Su-Han make the top-10 list for the worst mentors in fictional history! Anyway, before I start losing my marbles again, let's all make sure we're on the same page when it comes to Fu and his "character" in Miraculous Ladybug.

First off, it's important to give context as to the man's backstory and how exactly he ended up Guardian of the Miraculous! I'll be taking most of this information from Seasons 2 and 3 of the show without naming individual episodes, since everything pretty much blends together for his story. So, in his early life, Fu was born and grew up in a rural village presumably near Tibet, considering he was at some point selected to become a Guardian of the Miraculous by Su-Han and the Order. Now, I will elaborate on this later, but for the record, I will be first when it comes to bashing him and his organization for their short-sighted practices and arbitrary rules. Believe me, I will! But none of what they do absolves Fu of his own failures as a mentor to Ladybug and Chat Noir. Anyway, Fu was selected as a child by the Guardians, a supposed great honor that forced him to abandon his family and home. I don't remember if an exact age was stated in the relevant episodes, but he must have been a very young child at that time. His training was harsh, and Fu was practically considered an outsider, scorned by his fellow trainees and delegated to the duties of a modern-day unpaid intern. Sweeping the floors, general chores, etc.

We have little information on the Order's structure, but it's easy to see how Wang Fu was on the lowest possible rung of the proverbial ladder, even amidst his fellow Guardians-in-training. He was apparently considered a failure yet stayed nonetheless, fulfilling his duties and pushing forward with his training. Even the Grand Master of the Order calls him "whinny chicken leg" and a "failed disciple". As an aside, if Reverse!Fu is the Supreme like people theorize, that's an awesome villain backstory! Point is, Wang Fu very much did not like being a Guardian. Still, it's important to mention that he did his best! there are a lot of reasons as to why the Temple and the Order both Fell, but it's obvious to us that Fu blames himself for that catastrophe even almost two centuries after the fact! He's clearly dedicated to his assigned purpose as a Guardian, and wracked by guilt for his part in the Order's destruction. All in all, Fu is an honorable man who was pushed into a role he never wanted, burdened with responsibility and scorned by all those around him. He is undoubtebly a victim of abuse and the last bastion protecting the entire human race from whomever may decide to use the Miraculous and their godly powers to become an absolute, unstoppable power. Wang Fu is a survivor, striving to keep everyone safe even in the face of fundamental loneliness, and tending to the Kwami as his Masters once did. I honestly very much like his backstory, and admire him for sticking to his own principles instead of misusing the Miraculous for personal gain.

Now let's see why none of this fixes any of his fundamental faults as a mentor to Ladybug and Chat Noir. Notice I said faults, not flaws. Those are different, and present in every character within a story. Flaws are necessary for complexity, building a multi-dimensional and deep character that doesn't end up as a cardboard cutout or a Mary Sue. Even the shows titular protagonists have flaws, a whole mountain of them! And that's very good in my opinion! In fact, Fu's backstory perfectly explains his cautious attitude, borderline paranoia and constant insistences on secrecy. Believe it or not, I actually like that about his character! Unfortunately...Wang fails to actually learn from his experiences, despite how badly they torment him. Guilt wracks every fiber of his being, yet he repeats the exact same mistakes of his own teachers. The result? A young, untrained Guardian left alone in the world, as the last bastion of humanity and desperately fighting to keep the Miraculous away from a madman who wishes to misuse them for his own personal gain! A young girl burdened by a power she never asked for, forced to give up her once-normal life in the service of the Greater Good. Marinette Dupain-Cheng, striving to protect everyone under the guise of Ladybug, and close to being crushed under the weight of responsibility! Sound familiar? I sure hope it does!

In a harrowing twist of irony, every decision and action that Wang Fu makes ultimately dooms his own apprentice to the very same fate that he was once subjected to! Admittedly, some of these choices serve to keep the status quo from a meta perspective, since "the show must go on" and all that. But Fu had both the experience and the years of self-reflection necessary to at least know what not to do when taking two young heroes under his care. And if we take Fu at his own word, he's already "gotten it wrong once before". It irks me that we still don't know what this line means, and I do hope we find out because it could make for an amazing flashback story, but anyway. From this, we know that Fu has had the opportunity to learn from his mistakes. And...to his credit, that isn't entirely false. After all, he does test both Adrien and Marinette, who perform an act of kindness at their own expense without a second thought, and correctly judges them worthy of the responsibility that comes with bearing a Miraculous. But he also makes mistake after mistake, even when red flags should have been raised specifically because Fu himself was on the other side of these very problems once!

Let's go through the basics, shall we? Fu is extremely hands-off when it comes to Ladybug and Chat Noir's fight with Hawkmoth. I obviously understand the need for secrecy, and I'm not expecting a 186 year old man to suit up and fight. Once again, Fu does try, and only picks others because he recognizes his own lack of ability to act as he once did. But after giving the kids time to adjust in Season 1, Fu should have revealed himself to both Ladybug and Chat Noir. The only reason Marinette ever learns he exists in the first place, is because Tikki finds the missing Grimoire and instructs her Holder on how to return it. If the Volpina mess hadn't happened, Fu would have presumably continued to hide away, until eventually deciding that he should step in. But...knowing what we know and seeing how cautious he is, Fu's entire M.O. can be accurately described as too little, too late. This deals mainly with his treatment of Adrien in S3, but also is a general truth. Nothing Fu does to help the kids comes at the right time, despite the fact that he does his best. Sometimes his best just isn't enough, because he never acts in time.

Several points can be made as to how this was necessary, and to act rashly would be a security risk...but to not act and allow problems and uncertainty to fester is the very reason why the Order fell in the first place! Fu had a first-hand experience with being on the receiving end of this treatment from Su-Han and the other Masters. So why does he make the exact same mistake? Why not allow Marinette to inform her partner that they have a safety net, and there exists someone who they can go to for help and advice? Mind you, Ladybug feels that she can't tell Chat Noir, and not from a place of safety concerns. Fu has secrets, and it simply isn't her place to tell without his permission. Marinette doesn't do anything wrong here, it's Fu who places the kids in a bad situation that breeds mistrust. Look what this evolves into! An entire Season-long arc with Adrien feeling like he isn't wanted anymore, to the point where he willingly gives up his position as Ladybug's partner after being kept out of the loop for months by that point! Fu could and should have nipped this problem in the bud immediately, by at the very least sitting down with the two and offering to listen.

Wang Fu is meant to be a mentor. There are many examples in fiction I could use, such as Uncle Iroh or Obi-Wan Kenobi. I won't get into it here, but you know what every proper mentor does? They are there for the student. It is a mentor's sole obligation to nurture and teach their desciple to the best of their ability, to listen to their troubles and guide them through hardships. Sometimes a hands-off approach is necessary to avoid coddling and sheltering a student, therefore making them dependent and turning the mentor into a crutch. But Fu...just doesn't try to teach. There's many ways to wave this away or excuse it with "trauma" and "bad experiences", yet his own hardships at the Temple of the Guardians should be the reason why Fu adamantly refuses to stay out of it! If anything, Wang should be in the thick of it, offering tea and a listening ear to help Adrien deal with the stress Gabriel puts on him! He should be there to guide Marinette through her feelings of insecurity and anxiety, to gently remind her that she's been chosen for a reason, and he has faith in both of them! Fu already has the means to get into close proximity with both Ladybug and Chat Noir, yet never utilizes them to perform even the most basic duties a mentor worth their salt should be! His crippling loneliness and burden of responsibility ought to push him to alleviate those negative emotions from the children under his care, but he never does this! Not once!

Fu only acts when it's absolutely necessary, and by then the damage has arguably been done! It's only a matter of time until Adrien starts feeling like he isn't needed, or until the cracks of the kids' partnership begin to show! As their teacher and instructor, it's Wang's job to help deal with these problems! But evidently, he keeps all the cards close to his chest. He's overly secretive, never provides even the most flimsy excuse of a support system, and fundamentally fails to keep them safe! He is the one who put Marinette and Adrien in mortal danger! It's because of his choice to give them their Miraculous that Adrien has died dozens of times by this point! it's because of him that Marinette is overworked and burdened by the weight of responsibility, and Fu doesn't do the bare minimum to help! He isn't there, only tells Marinette about his secrets when they are absolutely needed, and doesn't allow for Ladybug and Chat Noir to properly co-operate, because Fu's own decisions keep their partnership from being equal in the first place! There is an entire separate rant I could go into here just for how he's been treating Adrien during the show's runtime, but suffice it to say, I am pissed!

Fu is an adult! He is the one responsible for all of Marinette and Adrien's double-life problems, because he's the one who selected them for the role! Despite trying to help, Fu doesn't ever manage to offer even meager guidance, on the account that he doesn't want to! It isn't hard to just tell Ladybug that she or Chat Noir should show up at a certain day and time for a conversation. It isn't hard to ask how the kids are holding up, or how he can help take off some pressure! It isn't hard to be there, but he never is! The only times where Fu actually helps instead of being a glorified "select your powerup" videogame cutscene are when he wants to appease Adrien or needs Marinette's help to translate the Grimoire! Wang never even acknowledges any of the myriad of problems that our protagonists are battling with, even though a five minute conversation with them or even their Kwami could inform him about this! So yes, Wang Fu tries! But in the end, Su-Han is -and I never thought I would say this- partially right in his assessment of Fu! The man is a coward, because he's scared of admitting his own faults, never mind confronting his guilt and fear! As an adult, and especially a Guardian, he has a responsibility to at the very least prevent the demons that plague him from being passed on to the next generation! Fu could have let the Guardians' faults die with him, yet he passed on every last bit of self-doubt, confusion and weight on the shoulders of the apprentice that he also failed to prepare for her role! Marinette was arguably the one doing more work than Fu, and a far more responsible, respectable, and dedicated Guardian than her pathetic excuse of a Master! And as a truly wise man once said, Do or Do Not! There is no Try!

There's even a really easy way to fix this! In fact, Thomas would have to change nothing about this man's backstory and actions to make him ten times better, and I'm baffled as to why it never crossed his mind! Just...make Fu bitter. He was heckled and borderline abused by Su-Han and the other Masters at the Temple, burdened with a duty he clearly didn't want. And yet...he's the last member of the Order. Every single one of those old mentors are dead, and it's all his fault! Or that's what Wang believes anyway. He blames himself, so he keeps the last relic of the Guardians safe out of guilt, holds onto the great weight that is his duty because there is no one else. Maybe his mistake, the one time he got it wrong, was when Fu had made a friend. A person he trusted, who wormed their way into his good graces by listening to his troubles, by letting the old man slowly begin to open up again. Think a character like Lila for example. This person is a Miraculous Holder, for one reason or the other. There's plenty of historical events to warrant one in the last hundred seventy years. Fu tentatively gives out a Miraculous to an adult, as Su-Han had insisted was good and proper, tries to stick to his teachings and do things by the book. Slowly but surely, he feels less alone, instructs this person in the Old Ways...perhaps considers it's time to retire. But then it's revealed that they've been after the Box all along! They only craved the power of the Miraculous, and Fu was forced to fix his mistake once again! Mind you, this could be done through a vague allusion and a two-minute flashback sequence. Not like Thomas bothered to give us anything else for the Guardians...

Irrespectively of this plotline, Fu is bitter at the time of Origins. He's done his job for almost two centuries, and been repeatedly hunted down for it. The only real reason why he protects the Miraculous anymore are the Kwami themselves, who are his only friends. Then in Origins, he still tests Marinette and Adrien. At the end with Wayzz, he says that he hopes again, for the first time in a while. As for his tendency to never act in time? He purposefuly holds out till the last moment, because he doesn't want to be doing any of this. Maybe he eventually feels guilty for dragging children into this fight, maybe he doesn't share the Guardians' secrets because he hates what their supposed training did to him. Fu is in essence trapped and duty-bound, battered and broken by the many years that have passed by...until Ladybug comes along. A bright girl that reminds him so much of his old self, who Fu hesitantly decides to take on as an apprentice. But he's never taught anyone before. He was widely known as the Temple's failure. How can he, a talentless old man who those great Masters of the Order never once praised...possibly become an instructor? Fu lacks self-confidence, he hates asking Marinette's help because he should be able to translate the Grimoire's metaphors on his own...and he has very little to offer in terms of knowledge. It instantly becomes a story that gives him incredible depth as a man who believes himself unable to help, yet still trying! Fu doesn't hesitate to help because the plot says so, he just doesn't think that he can! Take this in whichever direction you want, it's much better than canon I promise you.

In conclusion, Fu...greatly annoys me. But then again, I suppose there is a reason why he ended up this way. A cowardly, secretive old codger with no ability to look past his own failures Fu may be...but he isn't at fault for what happened to the Guardians themselves. Oh, no no no! That mountain of responsibility goes directly on the shoulders of Su-Han, and his utterly repulsive excuse of an institution! But...this post is getting long, so we'll look at him in part 2! It's coming in the next couple days, but feel free to drop your thoughts below or shoot an ask my way! These posts are meant to open up discussions after all! Anyhow, I'll see you all next time, but until then, Stay Miraculous everyone!

< next post >

[scorpiongrassfield]

The Bouquet is Pretty 

Start | Prev

“Um. Yeah. That looks great,” you agree, feeling a little bit like you’re falling. 

“It’s beautiful. Thanks, Robin,” Pat agrees. They step over to the register to pay for the bouquet, which Robin hands to you. 

“Oh,” Pat says, surprised. “That’s less than I was expecting.” 

Robin smiles. “Queer discount. Non-negotiable,” xi says. 

Pat’s eyebrows raise, but they don’t decline. “Thank you,” they say seriously. 

“Of course,” Robin says. 

Pat pays, and slides Robin some cash. “Trans tip,” Pat says. “Non-negotiable.” 

Robin huffs, but smiles and accepts the money. “Thanks.” 

Robin doesn’t tell you to have a good day as you leave. But since xi’s under the impression you’re headed to a funeral, maybe that’s to be expected. 

Pat holds the bouquet in their lap as the two of you get back in the car. 

“Forget-me-nots,” you say, as you buckle into the driver’s seat. 

“Yeah. Ironic that I forgot their name, huh?” Pat says. They don’t seem to be experiencing the same weird feeling you are. 

“Do they have any other meanings?” you ask. 

Pat thinks about it. “I think they’re usually a romance thing. Like lovers give them as a promise to stay true to each other sort of a deal.” 

Interesting. 

“Anyway, lets get back on the road, we want to get to Theo while it’s still light out, don’t we?” 

You nod and push your thoughts aside in favor of exiting the parking lot. 

You follow Pat’s directions to get back on the main road, but they must be taking you a different way than before, since the streets don’t seem familiar even though you were just on them. 

That thought reminds you that the sun is absent, even though the trees are sparser here. 

You bring this up to Pat. 

“That’s tied in to my other theory, so I can’t tell you what I’m thinking, sorry,” Pat says. 

You frown, frustrated. 

“Which theory?” 

“The one about why I’m not getting any calls or texts,” Pat says. “That’s as much of a hint as you get,” they say. 

“You suck sometimes,” you complain. 

“How are you supposed to learn if I give you all the answers,” they defend. 

“You just don’t want to feel dumb if you get it wrong,” you retort. 

Pat huffs. “Don’t call me out like that,” they say. 

“Don’t give me something to call you out about, then.” 

“Hm, fair enough. I’m still not going to give in though. I’ve gotta stick to my principles,” they double down. 

“Whatever,” you say. 

Pat remembers to put the music back on and it fills the silence between the two of you. 

It’s not too much longer before you get into the town of your destination. Pat once again navigates for you, explaining the way to the cemetery. 

“Hold this,” Pat says, handing you the flowers. 

They go into the trunk and get out the chisel set, a cloth, and a water bottle, all of which they trade out for other items in their purse. 

“What…?” you start to ask. 

“If you haven’t figured it out, you’ll see pretty soon,” they say. They’re a little more serious this time. 

“Alright,” you say, not wanting to argue about it this time. 

The two of you set out into the cemetery, looking for Theo’s grave. While Pat was able to find out what cemetery he had been buried in, they couldn’t find exactly which plot he was put in, so it takes a while to find it. 

Looking at it makes tears prick at your eyes. 

The headstone is marble, and engraved with the words: “ In memory of: Dorothy Ellis, loving daughter and sister.” 

You clench your fists. This isn’t fair. 

“Thought so,” Pat says, sounding displeased. 

“How could they do that to him? After kicking him out, after fucking killing him, they take his body back just to do this?” you spit. You kind of want to punch something. 

“Some people are just shitty people, kid. But we’re going to fix this for him, as best we can,” Pat says soothingly. 

“How?” you snap. 

Pat takes the chisel set out of their purse and holds it up. “We’re lucky it’s marble. If it was granite I don’t think these would be good enough.” 

“You’re going to-” 

“Carve the right name in. It’s the least we can do,” Pat says, like they didn’t just take an eight hour trip to do this for a ghost they’ve known for a week. 

“You keep watch while I work, okay?” they say, kneeling down to get started. 

You do as you’re told, scanning the empty cemetery for signs of movement. 

It’s quiet except for the sound of chisel striking stone. 

It gives  you time to think, which is not something you want or need right now. 

Theo really deserved better than the end he got. He’s such a sweet guy. And even if he wasn’t, you aren’t sure you’d wish this end on a shitty person either. No one deserves to be buried under the wrong name and a false memory. 

That thought makes you start to feel sick, your stomach churning. 

Because that could have been you. 

If Pat hadn’t found you in time, or found you at all, what would your headstone have said? Would you even have had one? You’re not sure your family would have claimed you, at all. What happens to unclaimed bodies? Would you have been forgotten completely? 

As your thoughts race, the lighter in your pocket gets warm. 

“Woah, hey,” Pat says, their hands on either side of your face. You can feel marble dust on your skin, but it doesn’t matter. 

“Stay with me, kid. Deep breaths,” they say, demonstrating for you. 

You follow their directions, gasping into deep breaths into slowing back down to a safe pace. 

“There we go. That’s better,” Pat soothes. 

“Sorry.” 

Pat shakes their head. “You’re fine. This is an emotionally charged thing we’re doing,” they say. 

You nod. That’s an understatement. 

“Try to keep your thoughts on how we’re going to help him. It might help you not feel so overwhelmed by it all,” they suggest. 

You do your best to comply. Pat is fixing Theo’s headstone for him. And the two of you are going to help Theo move on, hopefully to a better place. You wonder if Pat knows what happens to ghosts after they move on, but you feel like now is not the right time to ask. 

It takes Pat a decent amount of time to do their work, but they do get it done eventually. The cemetery was empty and still the entire time, aside from your panic. 

Pat pours water onto the cloth and cleans the dust from the stone. Theo’s dead name has been chipped off entirely, with “Theodore” carved above it. “Daughter” and “sister” have also been removed, with “friend” and “artist” put on to replace them. 

“It’s not as pretty as if a professional did it, but I don’t think Theo will mind too much,” Pat says, dusting themself off. 

You think they should have worn something to keep themself from breathing in that dust, but you aren’t entirely sure. 

“Yeah. This has got to be better than it was before,” you agree. 

You finally place the flowers in front of the headstone. 

“I’ll see you soon,” you whisper, promising Theo. 

You stand back up and turn to Pat. “Now what?”  

“Well, with any luck his family won’t notice our modifications for a while,” Pat says. “Until they change it back, nothing to do but go back to what we were doing before. Helping his ghost move on.” 

“So we’re heading back?” 

Pat nods. “We’ll get in kind of late, but we can always sleep in a bit tomorrow.” 

You just stare at them. Pat can be a frustrating and secretive person sometime, to a point bordering on immaturity. But. They’re also the sort of person that takes in a stray like you, and drives 16 hours round trip just to fix an injustice like this. They’re pretty good, where it counts, you think. 

“What?” Pat says, hands on their hips. 

“You’ve got marble dust in your hair,” you say, instead of admitting your thoughts. 

Pat wrinkles their nose. “Ugh. That sucks. I’ll have to shower again when we get back to the motel,” they complain. 

They get into the driver’s seat when you get back to the car. 

“I’ll drive the first leg, you drive after dinner?” they offer. 

“Sure,” you agree. 

It’s your turn to pick the music. You put on the playlist labeled “Sad”, because it seems appropriate for having just visited a grave. 

Pat doesn’t comment, but you suspect they give you a side eye beneath their sunglasses. 

You end up falling asleep.

Next

[liloinkoink]

lamplight time! did i write continuation to the last bit i posted the other day? no i did not! i’ve hopped earlier in the timeline: martyn’s first attempt at traveling with a sentient fire, from outsider pov

Nights at the Drowsy Dragon Inn are never particularly exciting, except for those when the inn sees an adventuring party. Most of them set out from the little town to make the hard trek up to the ruins of the city of Dogwarts, and very few of them come back. Sadie likes to entertain the thought that they simply traveled elsewhere instead, finding another town to spend the night after a successful adventure. Then another party will breeze through, talking of the incomplete quest’s impressive reward money, and she knows.

She usually feels bad for them, hearing them talking about that place, and give them a secret little discount for their stay. Her husband thinks that it’s stupid.

“They’re going to die anyway,” he says. “They’re not gonna need the money.”

It’s the principle of the thing, she tells him. She’s being nice. How could she not? On a mission like that, it’s possible it’ll be the last nice thing anyone will ever do for these people.

It’s not like they never come back. Sometimes they do. Whole parties return, empty-handed but alive, and she charges them a perfectly normal amount fee.

But sometimes…

Tonight, a man comes in alone. Sadie recognizes him, but only sort of—He’d come in with a party of four a few months back. She remembers them because they’d been noisy, chattering and shouting constantly. The whole time they’d been here, they’d been riling each other up and laughing long and loud. They’d been difficult to miss for the nights they stayed here, making it even harder to miss now the way quiet follows the lone traveler as the door shuts behind him.

Sadie remembers him especially because he’d been friendly, having been the one to pay for the rooms here when the four had stayed. He’d been lively then, chuckling under his breath as he’d walked up to the counter and cracking jokes as he’d handed over their fate.

There’s no laughter now. No little party of friends. Just one man, passing through the front room of the Drowsy Dragon Inn at half past midnight. His hair’s a mess, tufts of blond hair sticking out in clumps, sweaty bangs dried to his forehead. There’s stains on his clothes—mud on his pants, sweat on his chest, soot on his sleeves. He’s not bloody, at least, but he’s dirty, and there’s tears in the fabric that look like must’ve been attacked. He’s wearing, she notes, the same faded green shirt he’d been wearing when he’d been here months ago, the cleanliness of which she decides not to think anything more of.

He’s also carrying a torch. That’s not super unusual—travelers carry them at night to keep monsters at bay. Most travelers extinguish them when they get to a well-lit town, though she supposes with the way the rest of him looks, she can excuse him forgetting.

His name had been—… uh. His name had started with… it’d started with… J, she’s pretty sure. John, maybe. James?

Regardless of what his name might be, the man walks up to her counter. She sets aside the book she’d been reading and smiles at him. He tries to return it, but he’s out of breath, and he takes a moment to catch it, resting his free hand on the counter. Did he run all the way here? Dogwarts isn’t close. He must have been running for days.

“Hello,” she says, smiling anyway, “Need a room?”

“You have no idea,” says… oh, was his name Jack? No, not Jack… “I don’t have any money on me, but if there’s anything you need help with around here, I’d be more than happy to do it tomorrow morning.”

He’s not the only person to make Sadie a deal like this—it’s not uncommon for adventurers to leave all their money in the care of the most careful member of their party. That’s all well and good till that member runs off and leaves, or worse, is eaten by beasts in the forest outside of Dogwarts (or whatever it is that happens to the people who go).

“It’s starting to get cold,” she says, “If you can bring in enough firewood tomorrow to last me the rest of the month, the room’s all yours.”

“Great. Thank you so much, really,” he sighs, tension draining out of his shoulders. Exhaustion bleeds from every inch of him, and the promise of rest does little to stem it. He reaches down, patting an axe at his belt. It’s damaged, but it shines brightly by the light of his torch. “I’ll get on it first thing after I wake tomorrow.”

“Of course,” she smiles, taking a key from the rack behind her. She holds it out, but before she hands it to him, she points to the torch in his hand. “I’m going to have to ask you to put that out, though. Fire hazard and all.”

It is at this moment when her weary, polite guest becomes unreasonable.

When Sadie points to it, the torch in his hand crackles loudly, and he stares at her a long moment after she speaks, uncomprehending.

“Nnno,” says the man, slowly, as if he’s uncertain. Then, with more conviction, “No. I can’t do that.”

“No,” she repeats. He nods, once.

“I can’t,” he says, “Sorry, it’s really important this doesn’t go out.”

“It’s really important that my inn doesn’t burn down,” Sadie replies.

“It’s not going to catch, I promise,” He insists. The fire in his hand almost seems to dim, as if to prove it. “I’ll be really careful.”

“You’re right, because I’m not letting you stay unless you do the properly careful thing and put it out.”

“I will cut down double the firewood if you don’t make me put this out,” he sounds like he’s pleading. Sadie cannot imagine what could possibly be so taxing about snuffing out a single torch.

“I won’t need any firewood ever again if you burn down my building. Pass,” Sadie says. She knows it’s a low blow for the already deeply frazzled man, but she shoots for it anyway, certain it’ll be the end: “You already can’t pay. Either put it out or sleep outside.”

The man’s face falls. The torch flares up once, but dies back down immediately. Nothing about this makes Sadie feel better about the situation.

“I’m… a paladin now,” he says, half a non-sequitur, by way of explanation, “I can’t let this go out. It’s a holy flame. Part of my oath.”

“I’ve never heard of an oath like that,” she says. She doesn’t think he has either, if the uncertainty in his voice is anything to go by, but she can’t imagine what he actually needs the torch for if he’s lying.

“It’s more like a pilgrimage, then,” he doubles down, “Please.”

“I’m not letting you bring an open flame into the room,” Sadie says, folding her arms, “This is the last time I’m going to say it. Put it out or leave.”

The man looks around, a bit frantic, and all at once she feels bad for him again. Curse Sadie and her bleeding heart for all these poor, doomed adventurers. She can only imagine what he’s just been through… And his whole party is gone… It must be very hard for him. Grief does strange things to people, doesn’t it? No wonder he’s imprinted on his little torch.

“That’s it!” The man shouts. He drops the sizzling torch onto the counter and runs off to a sitting area in the corner. Sadie jumps back out of her chair, startled, before the sight of an open flame on her wooden countertop catches up with her.

She snaps the torch up off the countertop and, as it sizzles in her hands, most of her pity for the man goes up in smoke. Running her hand over the wood where the torch had been, Sadie finds there are no scorch marks. It’s a pleasant sort of warm, but certainly not hot enough for having just been in contact with a live fire.

Said man, for his part, doesn’t even seem to notice her distress. When she looks up, he’s too busy scrambling onto one of the tables, planting his dirty boots onto the clean wood as he reaches for one of the lanterns dangling from the ceiling.

“Hey!” Sadie yells, “Get down from there!”

“I just need to borrow this real quick!” he says, which doesn’t actually address what she said at all, but then he has the lantern free.

There’s a slam as the man jumps off of the table and onto her floor, carting the large lantern with him. He drops it on the counter, grinning all the while.

“You said you can’t have an open flame,” he says, “So if I stick the fire in here, I’m good, right?”

Sadie opens her mouth to respond. She feels like there’s a dozen reasons she should say no to that, but it dawns on her that if she does, she’s going to have to keep arguing with him.

“Fine.” She holds the key out to him, sighing, “But when you leave tomorrow, I want my lantern back.”

“I can do that,” He takes the key, stuffing it into his pocket, and then takes the torch back. He unlatches the lantern with one hand, then dips the torch inside, touching it against the candle within.

Sadie watches him, if only because he’s doing it on her counter. The wick catches, and then the whole wax stick explodes into flame. The man doesn’t flinch, though Sadie does, jumping back at the audible fwoomp of the fire taking it over all at once.

Strangely enough, the torch goes out. He hums, then sets the scorched wood aside without any further inspection, like this doesn’t surprise him.

“Alright. We’re all good, then?” he says, patting the lantern with one hand. It sizzles, though he doesn’t acknowledge it.

“All good,” Sadie confirms, because she isn’t sure what else to do. The man grins, exhausted but relieved, and the lantern in his hands seems to glow brighter with it.

“Awesome. Thank you, dude, I really needed to sleep in an actual bed,” he says, picking up the lantern with both hands. The metal will probably be too hot to touch directly soon, but he doesn’t seem phased by it yet.

“Sadie,” Sadie says.

“Martyn,” he replies, and with that, he’s gone, taking his lantern to the room down the hall.

Sadie watches him go a moment, then sits back down, taking up her book. Where did she get the J from…?

[feral-possum-posting]

Playing through Talos Principle for the first time. Very good so far. I like that it has some opinions, it's laying them out a foundation, and it's letting me walk there or not if I so choose.

I also like that it's getting in it's humor without getting in the way of its own message. It doesn't seem self-conscious, using humor as a crutch like it's worried I'll get bored with the philosophy.

Minor spoilers below the cut. I'm not sure I'd say any of this is going to be the kind of thing you Must Experience For Yourself though, IMO.

So far, it clearly wants to ask questions about what life is, or sentience. I'm a software dev, and our field is currently having some of these conversations right now. Kind of, anyways. I get the impression a lot of devs want to stick their head in the sand about the idea of sapience. But I'm not an AI guy, so take that with a helping of salt.

Anyways, I think the humor is actually really important here. Consider the parts where it captures online conversations. Letters to parents. Musings about the divine and our relationship with it.

Then look at the conversation between the robots. I like the part where DOG is publicly musing about the purpose of the world, and Samsara says something like "that's not for us to know." DOG says, "Certainly we can't know it some. *Ahem*"

There's a joke. An implication that Samsara isn't helping, but they very much could. It replicates "online talk" where they annotate physical actions. Actions a robot *can't even take*, mind, as there's no throat to clear. The robot took on a affectation mirroring human behavior, in text, to imply a message, express frustration, and offer partnership.

There's a lot of game left to consider the messages it's trying to say. But consider. If you can make a robot that responds like you would in every conversation, is there anything that makes it different from you? Or fundamentally different from any "human" mind?

I can see why they're making a Talos Principle 2.