#everything else was horribly executed

[tomialtooth]

I like* AdBell but only when weird and fucked up and not lovey at all. I don't like it when they're genuinely in love and have some semblance of a normal relationship. To me, what they have is barely a relationship at all and certainly not a healthy one. Adler is not a good person and I do not believe he is capable of perceiving Bell as an equal. Therefore, despite the amount I shitpost about it like 99% of AdBell content out there does not appeal to me whatsoever.

[psycherprince]

"neurodivergent traits that are neutral or positive to the person who has them are too often pathologized and treated as problems by doctors, researchers, and educators"

Yes! This is true and worth pointing out!

"In fact, half of these symptoms aren't even Real Things and we wouldn't need medication or struggle with things if people were just more nicies to us"

????? No. No, we've lost the plot now, hang on,

[bloodstainsandconfetti]

I think it’s important that we talk about Swansea and how he’s VERY MUCH SO meant to be a foil to Jimmy.

While Swansea comes off as grouchy, abrasive, and stubborn, the biggest thing about his character is that he’s HONEST. Brutally so. Meanwhile, Jimmy basically lies through his teeth to both himself, and everyone else, from the first moment we meet his character.

Swansea comes off as stubborn, as if he doesn’t take his coworkers seriously, not because he genuinely looks down on them but because he doesn’t want them to get hurt. While he does see Daisuke as just this naive young adult, we learn in the execution scene that he doesn’t necessarily see that as a bad thing. He wants Daisuke to retain that light that he lost as grew to become grizzled and exploited.

Swansea knows he’s good at his job and so he TAKES RESPONSIBILITY by making sure HES the only one doing the dangerous work. Because he doesn’t WANT to push it onto someone else and get them hurt. Meanwhile, again, Jimmy basically manipulates Daisuke into sacrificing himself all so Jimmy can make sure Curly isn’t dead in medical. (While not even caring what Anya does to herself)

Daisuke is basically Swansea’s “Curly” if that makes sense. There are multiple lines of dialogue that hint to him saving the pod for him, to give him the best chance of survival. However, when he gets horrible injured in the vent, instead of FORCING HIM TO STAY ALIVE in tons of pain (like Jimmy did w/ Curly throughout the whole game) he ends his life BECAUSE he cares about how Daisuke feels and not just how HE feels. Cause we all know Jimmy keeps Curly alive for very selfish reasons.

After everything, Swansea is extremely honest about who he is. The type of person he was and is and could’ve been. The mistakes he’s made, the things he actually cares about, even if they’re flawed or unhealthy. Meanwhile, even then, Jimmy continues to deny what he is and what is intentions are and what he really wants. He CONTINUES to refuse to take any sort of responsibility even when Swansea says to his face that he already sees past it.

Swansea is basically the narrative opposite of Jimmy, while also, funnily enough, kinda being used as a red herring at first. I mean, he’s the fat angry alcoholic old guy who carries an axe everywhere so ofc you’d expect him to be the bad guy. The story even shows you him trying to kill Jimmy/the player without context, to further sort of bait ur expectations. When in reality, he’s the one who saw Jimmy for what he really was before anyone else really did.

[zairaalbereo]

“Please don’t do this.”

So after binging the whole four seasons of Black Sails last month, I’m now on a more leisurely rewatch… or so I thought.

But god everything hits so much worse or better or harder knowing about Flint’s past and motivation now. And then this scene came up, and I’m just… fuuuuuck. Crying, screaming, throwing up. I’m not okay. This is devastating. (Did I mention I cope with art?)

On my first watch, Flint killing Gates truly shocked me. He would really kill his friend just because he wouldn’t go along with his plans? To not have to give up on the Urca? Sure, Gates is going against his command. It’s mutiny, but Gates seems to be trying, and he sounds so bloody reasonable. And more importantly, he’s been a loyal friend up until now. A fatherly friend (I want to throw up). And even now he’s… trying to protect Flint, right? (Fuck. Seriously. Feeling ill.)

But yeah, I was shocked. And as he whispered broken apologies to the friend he just murdered, I wondered… could I forgive him for this?

And now…omg now it’s like watching a completely different train wreck happening, and it all makes perfect, tragic, horrible sense. The way the whole scene mirrors James McGraw’s futile attempt to convince Hennessy of their Hail Mary plan to save Nassau. Every step. The urgency when things have already gone sideways, but James refuses to give up, because it can still work. People just have to listen. Let him explain. Have a little faith. Back then he trusted Hennessy, and now he still trusts Gates. He trusts them to understand, asking them to believe in him. He doesn’t see it coming. (How does he not see it coming this time?)

And then the moment the floor is ripped out from under him. And it’s all there, on Flint’s face, in the moment when Gates says “They know.” It’s not the mutiny. It’s the betrayal. The way Flint’s face falls, and for a moment he looks just like James McGraw in Hennessy’s office. The same devastation and disbelief when he asks “You told them?” And of course for him it is the same betrayal. It is the same fight, to prove Thomas right. To stand against those who took him and everything else away from James.

And Gates, that poor bastard, doesn’t even understand what sin he is committing. He doesn’t even see it as mutiny. He sees it as doing the right thing, containing a madman. (Omggg…) And then there is Flint, reliving the worst moments of his life. And that point it doesn’t feel like it’s about the Urca anymore. It’s an emotional massacre, to which Gates seems completely oblivious. When Flint asks if he will see him get hanged, only to be promised an opportunity to flee for him and ‘Mrs Barlow’, Gates thinks he is doing him a kindness. Like Hennessy probably thought he was doing him a kindness, saving him from the gallows. It’s all right. Flint just has to leave, vanish and never be heard of again. He should be grateful. And the way Flint’s eyes close briefly in disbelief that this is happening. Again. The way he pleads with Gates, just like he pleaded with Hennessy. So unlike Flint. But once more he is told that his actions are unforgivable. Simply too much. He’s not just rejected, but he is abandoned. He is cast out for who he is and his supposed sins. A monster that can’t be allowed to exist amongst the rest of them.

The whole scene is executed so brilliantly, the way he fluctuates between James’ almost innocent appeals to be understood and Flint’s anger at being denied. But he keeps trying until the last moment. And then, when he acts, it’s not a calculated move. It’s pure desperation, the only purpose to do something, to stop what is happening. Because James McGraw didn’t. But where James McGraw hesitated, where he maybe still hoped, still didn’t comprehend, and where he still thought he had something to lose… Flint doesn’t. And yet we can see it break him. We can see how it breaks another part of his soul. 

(And of course it will happen again. Screaming. Crying. Throwing up.)

[remlionheart]

hiii !! may seem a bit basic, but chuuya picks up reader after a stressful day at work with his motorcycle fluff and smut 👾.

thank you, u're the best !!

୨ৎ❀ hey, there’s nothing wrong with simple! i appreciate you sending me a suggestion ♡ it's been awhile since we've visited my fave ill-tempered redhead anyway and he deserves all the attention ୨ৎ❀ fluff. smut. deep throating. praise. rich-boyfriend!chuuya x fem!reader. quick lil 1.9k word drabble. lemme know whatcha think, luv u ୨ৎ❀

♡ MDNI ♡

Me 'n My Girl ｡˚☽

so proud to be in your world, just me and my girl ⋆.˚

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅

A warm mid-evening breeze swept through your hair as you stepped out of large doors of your office building and let out a sigh. The smell of petrichor bounced off of the pavement while a light rain cascaded over downtown Yokohama.

Under normal circumstances, it would’ve been your favorite weather, but the stillness of it was just another reminder of the unrelenting storm of anxiety that’d been plaguing your mind all day.

Nothing had really happened. Work went okay. Your commute there was okay. Your coworkers were okay. Your lunch was okay. Everything was seemingly okay, but that's what made it worse. You couldn't pinpoint the source of your discomfort. Couldn't place the blame on any one single thing for making you feel so off. It was a phantom annoyance. A problem that didn't seem to exist to anyone else besides you.

"Shit." you mumbled, feeling your purse slip from your shoulder as it, along everything it was holding, fumbled out of your reach and spilled out into the middle of the sidewalk.

You were halfway down the stairs, your pumps clicking against the concrete when your hand suddenly reached for the railing. The heel of your shoe breaking clean off, almost knocking you completely off balance.

It wasn't the time to cry. You'd made it so far - managed to hold it together for your entire shift and you were finally at the finish line, but your capacity to handle any more minor inconveniences was well beyond its limit. You swallowed down the lump in your throat, unable to fight back the hot, frustrated tears that streamed down your cheeks while you took both of your shoes off and you gathered up your belongings in defeat.

Chuuya rounded the corner not a second too soon, the loud vroom of his engine coming to a gradual halt as he kicked his foot out to put the motorcycle in park before stepping off.

He smoothed down his disheveled hair, his smirk quickly fading the closer he got to you.

"Baby..." he said softly, looking at broken pair of shoes in your hand and the haphazard way your bag had been slung over your shoulder. "What happened?"

"Nothing," You lied, shaking your head. "It's fine."

He knew you too well though. Knew that if he simply nodded and waited a minute, it would pour out of you without him having to pry. He put a hand on your shoulder, letting you avoid his stare until you finally caved.

"Today was just stupid," You sulked, "Everything was horrible for no reason and then my fucking heel snapped and now," You were fighting an uphill battle against your emotions. More tears pricking at your eyes as your gaze caught his. "And now I can't even ride on the back with you because I'm barefoot and everything is ruined."

Even though he hated seeing you get this worked up, he couldn't deny that there was something so fucking cute about how pouty and helpless you became when things didn't go your way. He took pride in knowing that you needed him, that he was the one you relied on to pick up the pieces when life got too stressful.

"Stay here," he said, taking his leather jacket off and draping it around your shoulders. "I'll be right back, okay?"

You nodded at him, watching him tuck his hands into his pockets as he crossed the street. It was easy to forget who he was sometimes. How merciless he could be with other people when he was so gentle and attentive with you. He was a Port Mafia executive who doubled as a golden retriever boyfriend when no one was looking. Calloused and feared by some of the scariest people in Yokohama and yet for some reason, physically incapable of saying no to you.

You wiped your tears away watching him flick his cigarette onto the sidewalk, an unexpectedly large Chanel bag hanging from his wrist.

"C'mere," he said, taking your hand as he led you to the Ducati.

You plopped down on its leather seat with both legs dangling off to one side while he knelt down and opened the bag, sliding a gorgeous pair of black open-toed suede heels onto your feet.

"Gimme the broken ones."

You pulled them out of your purse with a small smile, letting him throw them away in a nearby trashcan before returning back to you. "Better?" he asked.

"You know there's an Adidas store right around the corner?"

He smirked, placing both hands at either side of you, his mouth grazing yours with a whisper. "My girl had a terrible day at work and you expect me to make it worse by buying her cheap shit?"

Your heart fluttered, another slight grin tugging at the corners of your mouth as you breathed in the comforting smell of his cologne. "Your girl is really lucky to have you."

"Yeah, well…" he mused, "I have a feeling she'll be makin' it up to me later.”

⋆.౨ৎ˚.⟡˖ ࣪

The ride back to his house was peaceful with hardly any traffic for a Thursday night.

There was something about being on the back of his motorcycle that made you feel so indescribably close to him. From the way your body pressed against his to the way he'd tell you to hold onto him tighter. You loved the looks people would flash the two of you as you'd speed past them. The butterflies that flooded your stomach each time he'd start to go faster than he should've. Even if he had a bad habit of occasionally breaking the speed limit, you still trusted him entirely. He was well aware of the difference between having a little bit of fun and being reckless and he'd never cross that line when he was with you.

You felt infinitely better by the time you pulled into the garage, carefully letting your legs fall as he shut off the engine. Your bad day felt like a distant memory - your mind now comfortably occupied with the thousand-dollar shoes that were decorating your feet and the way his eyes lit up as he helped you down.

It was hard to process sometimes that he'd been waking up next to you almost every day for the last year and still looked at you like you had put the stars in the sky.

You grabbed his arm before he could make it inside the house, gently pushing him back onto the seat of his bike. He raised an eyebrow, but didn't stop you as you hovered above him and began undoing his belt.

"You always make me feel so good." You whispered, reaching up to let your lips catch his while your hands continued to unbutton his pants. "I wanna return the favor."

You could feel him growing hard as his tongue swirled against yours with fervor. A gloved hand resting on the back of your neck to pull you in closer while you reached for his zipper and freed him from the fabric that was separating the both of you.

He let out a low groan when your palm met the base of his cock, delicately wrapping your fingers around it as you started to move uppp and downnn at just the right pace, earning even prettier noises from him.

His grip tangled into your hair, moving your head to the side so that he could descend down your neck. Kissing and nipping away at your soft skin while you continued to stroke him. His movements were getting harder to control the faster you went, squeezing him so fucking perfectly that he nearly ripped the front of your shirt open.

You let out a small yelp as he roamed across your chest, lightly slipping your nipple between his teeth while his blue eyes travelled up to yours. "Get on your knees for me."

You nodded, keeping your stare locked with his. Your hand still going in the same motion as you repositioned yourself, kneeling in front of him so that your face was front and center with where he wanted you. You pulled his pants down further, your core aching as you obediently slid your tongue along his base.

"Fuck," he hissed, his mouth dropping open at how tantalizingly thorough you were, "God, that feels – hah – that feels… so.... good."

You took your time, coaxing more heady praises out of him as you made your way up his length, letting a generous amount of spit trail down his shaft while your hand held him in place. His pink tip was practically dripping with pre-cum by the time you reached it, begging to have your pretty little mouth wrapped around it.

You smiled against him, looking up at him with doe-eyes before giving in to his body's needs. "It's all mine, right?" You asked, causing him to twitch in your hand.

"All yours." He groaned, doing everything he could to stop himself from shoving your head down onto him. He wanted you so bad it hurt, but even in the midst of his clouded thinking, he was still more concerned about you. If you needed to hear him say it, then that's exactly what he'd do.

"It's all yours, baby." He exhaled. "I'm all yours… Every inch of me is all – fucking...your...s"

His words were quickly taken from him though, stolen by the way you’d flattened your tongue and pressed it firmly against his tip.

You watched his eyes roll back as his hand gripped your hair, the two of you working to find the perfect rhythm.

You loved the breathy noises he made for you. The way his hips thrusted forward while he buried himself into the warmth of your mouth. The feeling of him getting harder with each slurp and squelch that echoed across the garage as you struggled to take the whole thing.

"Keep going." He grunted, still fighting the overwhelmingly feral urge to slam into you. "Doin' so good f'me."

You went as deep as you could, easing him into the back of your throat while your tongue continued to glide across his shaft.

His movements became more frantic, his voice breaking the faster you went. "God – damn..."

You kept up the same unrelenting pace, drool spilling down your chin as your eyes locked with his again.

"Fuck," his moans turned into guttural whimpers, his body thrusting desperately in search of release. "Just like that," he choked out, "just like that, don't – fucking stop, please baby... don't stop, I'm –"

He looked lost, completely entranced by the hold you had over him as a lewd warmth coated the back of your throat. More carnal obscenities pouring from his lips as he slowly regained control over his breathing and pulled out of you.

"Next time –" he panted, helping you to your feet before leaning in to kiss you. "I'm buying you the whole fuckin' store."

⋆.౨ৎ˚.⟡˖ ࣪

[whlgrainmustard]

The existence of the horrible in every atom of air. You breathe it in without being able to see it, but it condenses inside you, becomes hard, assumes pointed geometrical forms among your organs; for all the torments and horrors that happened at places of execution, in torture chambers, madhouses, operating rooms, under the arches of bridges in late autumn: all this has a tenacious permanence which endures for its own self and depends, jealous of everything else that exists, on its own terrible reality.

rilke, the notebooks of malte laurids brigge trans. by william needham

[chrissturnsfav]

dunno if u fw tay swift but.. imagine chris and reader at a party and like they are bestfriends but they are both secretly in love with eachother. and in the song “Dress” by taylor one of the lyrics goes like “i dont want you like a bestfriend. only bought this dress so you could take it off” so basicallyyy true love and looking into eachothers eyes in love missionary type sex 😛

if this would be a bit too long to write, i apologize but i am jot a writer and i cannot execute the idea myself 🙏

lovers > best friends ⋆₊˚ 𝐜. 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐨

you and chris confess your love to each other through a taylor swift song, leading to a passionate exchange.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬, fluff, smut, unprotected p in v (wrap it b4 you tap it), passionate sex, friends to lovers, softdom!chris, alcohol consumption, use of pet names, finger sucking, creampie

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭, 1,756

the party is a blur of laughter, music, and neon lights that spill through the house. people are everywhere—dancing, talking, leaning into each other in dark corners—but your focus is on chris. it always is—especially with a few drinks in your system.

he’s standing next to you, holding a half-empty beer, his shoulder brushing yours every so often. each time it happens, it sends a quiet thrill through you, one you’ve gotten too good at hiding.

"so lemme get this straight," he says, grinning at you in that way that makes your heart trip over itself. "you actually thought karaoke at me, matt, and nick's birthday party was a good idea?"

you laugh, rolling your eyes, even though your face is already heating up as you talk over the loud music. “it was fun! everyone had a good time.”

"you sang lauryn hill and it was fuckin' horrible," he teases with a chuckle, his tone dripping with mock seriousness. "i don’t think anyone is over that yet."

"well, here you are, still bringing it up even though it was five months ago," you fire back, smirking. “seems like you were impressed."

his grin softens into something warmer, something that makes you struggle to breathe. "maybe i was."

you can’t tell if he’s joking or not, and it’s dangerous, this game you play. this flirting that feels too real sometimes, like it’s about to shift over into something else. something neither of you can take back.

the music shifts, and suddenly, "dress" by taylor swift is playing. the melody thrums in your chest, and the lyrics weave their way into the air between you.

i don’t want you like a best friend…

you glance at chris, and he’s already looking at you. it’s subtle, but his smile falters for a second, his eyes darker, more intense.

"this song," he says, his voice quieter now, almost drowned out by the music.

"yeah," you manage, trying to keep your tone casual, even as your pulse races.

he takes a sip of his beer, but his hand shakes just enough for you to notice. "it’s like… a lot, isn’t it?"

"depends on how you hear it," you reply, your voice steady, but barely.

his eyes flicker to yours again, holding your gaze for just a beat too long. it’s enough to make your chest ache, the unspoken words between you heavy and impossible to ignore.

"you alright?" you ask softly, leaning in so only he can hear you.

he huffs a nervous laugh, running a hand through his hair that falls over his forehead so perfectly. "yeah, just…" he hesitates, his brow furrowing like he’s fighting himself. "i need to say somethin'."

your heart lurches. this is it. you can feel it, the edge of something inevitable.

"okay," you whisper, your throat dry.

he looks at you, his expression so open, so raw, it almost hurts. it feels like his usual confidence has diminished into something softer. "the lyrics are hittin' a little too hard," he hints. "i dunno if i want you like a best friend."

your breath catches, your grip tightening on your drink. “chris…”

"i mean, i do—" he stumbles over the words, his voice rushing now, like he’s afraid to stop. "you’re my best friend, and that’s fuckin' everything to me. but it’s not… it’s not all."

you blink, trying to process, trying to breathe. "not all?"

he steps closer, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him. "i’ve been tryin' to ignore it, but it’s you. it’s always been you. like..i dunno, kid. i guess i just don't wanna pretend anymore."

his words hit you like a tidal wave, washing over every doubt and fear you’ve carried for so long.

"chris," you say again, your voice trembling now, but he’s already shaking his head.

"it’s okay if you don’t feel the same," he says quickly, his eyes dropping to the floor. "just felt like i needed you to know."

you reach for his hand, your fingers brushing his, and he looks up, startled.

"you’re not wrong," you say, barely able to get the words out.

his eyes widen, and for a moment, he just stares at you like he’s trying to make sure he heard you right.

"this dress," you continue, your voice steadier now, but still soft. "i honestly only wore it so you’d notice."

the way his gaze darkens, the way his lips part like he’s about to say something but can’t find the words—it’s intoxicating.

"i noticed, ma," he murmurs, and his voice is rough now, full of something you’ve only dreamed about, and then he smirks. that stupid, sexy smirk he always does. the pet name sends shivers down your spine, ma, it rolls off his tongue as if he's been wanting to call you that all his life.

before either of you can think, before the moment can slip away, you grab his hand, pulling him through the crowd. he follows without hesitation, your fingers intertwined like they were always meant to be.

you weave through the hall until you reach a bedroom, pushing the door open and dragging him inside. the music fades into the background as the door clicks shut behind you, leaving just the two of you in the quiet space.

you barely have time to look at him before his hands are on your waist, his lips crashing into yours like he’s been holding back for years.

and maybe he has. maybe you both have.

his kiss is everything you’ve imagined and more—urgent but tender, full of all the things he’s never said but you’ve always felt.

his hands grip your waist like he’s afraid you might disappear, and you’re not much different, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, needing him closer.

"fuck," he whispers against your lips, his breath shaky as he pulls back just enough to look at you. his eyes are wild, full of something that makes your knees weak. "i’ve wanted to do that for so long."

you laugh softly, the sound breathless and giddy. "me too. me fucking too."

he groans, resting his forehead against yours. "why didn’t we do this sooner?"

"we’re stupid," you say, grinning, your hand slipping down to rest on his chest.

you can feel the steady, frantic beat of his heart under your palm, matching your own. "clearly."

he laughs too, and it’s the best sound in the world, low and warm and full of relief.

"i was so scared," he admits, his voice quieter now. his thumb brushes your cheek, his touch featherlight but grounding. "scared that if i said anything, i’d ruin everything. that i’d lose you."

your chest tightens, and you shake your head. "nah, you could never lose me, chris. never."

"same goes for you, you know," you add, your voice soft but steady. "i was scared too. but i couldn’t stop thinking about you. couldn’t stop wanting you."

his lips curve into a small, almost shy smile, so different from the confident, teasing chris you know. "so, what now?" you ask.

chris answers your question when he has you flat on your back on the random bed, your dress hiked up to your waist, his jeans and boxers resting mid thigh. he's holding onto your thighs with a gentle yet firm grip, giving you slow, hard, passionate thrusts.

your arms are tangled around his neck, little, soft moans leaving your glossy lips, lidded eyes staring into his as he pants against your face with his forehead pressed against yours.

"you feel—fuck—feel fuckin' amazing," he groans softly, his lips ghosting yours, swallowing the little moans you breathe out.

you whine, your eyes rolling back. you knew chris would be good, all those stories about his hookups gave him a reputation, but you'd never think you'd ever be under him. you also never knew he would fuck you almost like he loves you, but not as a best friend—as a lover.

"chris," you gasp, arms moving to cup his face and cradle it in your hands, eliciting a whimper from his pretty lips. he moves one hand from your thigh to gently grip your wrist, moving his mouth to press a soft kiss to your palm that makes your body shudder.

"been wantin' this for so fuckin' long," he grunts softly, brushing his lips against yours making chills course through your body.

"m-me...too," you mumble through whines, pressing your lips to his jaw, sucking and kissing at his skin.

chris gasps softly, hissing in pleasure as he bites his bottom lip and closes his eyes, "fuck, keep doin' that and you're gonna make me cum."

you let out a giggly moan against his jaw, laying your head back flat against the bed. "m-mmph," you whine, a little more high pitched as your back arches off the bed, your gummy walls squeezing his lengthy cock. "m-m'close...chris...close..."

he grunts above you at the feeling of your tight pussy squeezing around him, tightening his grip on your thighs, his thrusts growing a little faster and sloppier, "fuuuck...gonna make me fuckin' cum, pretty girl...jesus..."

"c-chris—chris," you whine louder, your eyes rolling back as your jaw falls slack, a knot tightening deliciously in your belly, one you've felt before with other guys, but this time it's different. it's so much better.

"yeah, c'mon baby," he mutters, lidded eyes staring into your closed ones. he gently grips your jaw, brushing his thumb over your plush bottom lip. "open those pretty eyes f'me, wanna see you."

you force your eyes open, lidded and glossy with tears of pleasure, panting against his thumb as your walls squeeze around him tighter and your thighs begin to tremble.

chris smiles sweetly down at you as he gets closer, his thrusts even more uncoordinated and sloppy. "there she is, my girl," he groans softly, gently pressing his thumb into your warm, wet mouth.

his words make your body shudder, a loud gasp leaving your lips as you cum. jolts of pleasure make your thighs shake, your nails sinking into his clothed back, "oh my god," you cry out in ecstasy around his thumb, your jaw falling slack, your eyes still on him.

"i know," he coos, groaning softly at your whimpers and pants as you swirl your tongue around his thumb, "o-oh, fuck, baby, fuck...shit..." he grunts softly.

his body shakes slightly, his hips stuttering as his eyes roll back and he grunts, his fingers digging into your thigh as he cums deep inside you. you've never felt so full, your wet pussy stuffed full of his cum making you whimper in pleasure.

after cleaning up, you both step back into the party, the two of you still glowing with the electricity of what just happened, everything feels different. brighter.

𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿'𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲: i'm not a swiftie so i hope i executed this well enough! also sorry if it was a lil corny eek.

thank you for reading!! <3

tags: @sturnobsessedwh0re , @idrk2292 , @mattsbrat , @ribbonlovergirl , @sturnhyyhblog , @matthewsroses , @mattsdemi , @emely9274 , @frankoceanfanpage , @ifwdominicfike , @marrykisskilled , @strnilolover , @cayleeuhithinknott , @forgottxen , @sophand4n4 , @sturnsrecord , @purpledragon222 , @faiyaz555 , @jocelyncsblog , @freakiolos , @slut4chris888 , @chriss-slutt , @ilovedanielcaesar , @annsx03 , @snoopychris , @chrissweetheart

@chrissturnsfav ™

[eroguron0nsense]

Garp, Fascism, and Parental Failure

Garp is truly one of the most interesting One Piece characters for me because of the extent to which his dogged, relentless devotion to a fascist system–and the supposed "order" it promises to uphold in the face of anarchy or rebellion–perseveres no matter how many times it fails him and his son and his grandsons. He's fully aware of the deep-seated corruption and atrocity, and feels some kind of moral obligation to bend its rules to protect the innocent (as we can see with his attempts to protect Rouge and Ace), but when faced with widespread femicide and infanticide, genocide, slavery and endless examples of egregious cruelty, he is unable to comprehend the notion that the system is indefensible, or that the only moral choice he can possibly make when faced with that level of atrocity is to leave and resist it. His son recognizing the inherent, inexcusable failures of the World Government and its armed enforcers–literally quitting the force to start a revolution– changes nothing. The order to slaughter pregnant people and infants at Baterilla can't convince him otherwise. The countless instances of bribery, the tolerance of atrocity from state-sanctioned privateers, everything about the history of the Valley of the Gods are all things he's aware of, and takes issue with, but never comes to the conclusion that he cannot affect positive change within a system designed for oppression. The public execution of his grandson–a prime example of the marine's fundamentally irrational, arrogant, vindictive cruelty clearly bound to blow up in all of their faces even before their Pyrrhic victory at the summit war–makes him waver, but even when confronted with this obvious, indefensible injustice against a child he raised and rescued by people seeking to murder him on live TV and desecrate his corpse as a show of power, he cannot bring himself to act against it in any meaningful way no matter how much it hurts him to leave his grandson to die. If he can't veto it, he'll stay Vice Admiral and suffer through Ace being sacrificed on the altar of fascist state control, and functionally leave Luffy for dead in the process while he's at it. He fails every single person he wanted to love–Ace, Luffy, and almost certainly Dragon–and allows himself to be reluctantly complicit in countless crimes against humanity again and again and again because he's so deeply steeped in this notion of preservation of order through state control that he convinces himself that even this disgusting, atrocious, fundamentally flawed and untenable excuse for a government is better than abolition, better than revolution, or just the act of expecting accountability or literally anything better from the systems that issue false promises to protect you. Dadan beating the living shit out of him and calling him a failure as a grandfather, as a self proclaimed defender of the people, is one of the most important scenes in the Postwar Arc because a lesser series might frame Garp as a tragic, helpless figure suffering more than anyone else due to conflict of love and duty, but One Piece refuses to whitewash his actions/inaction or allow the grief and suffering caused by systems he's complicit in to take precedence over its real victims: the D brothers.

There's so much I could say about statism and anarchism and the ways people have internalized the supposed necessity of state violence to the extent they can't oppose that violence even when it ruins them or their loved ones, but that horrible indoctrination and its devastating consequences for both him and his family are what makes Garp so fascinating to watch and so thematically/politically important to One Piece as a whole.

[chock-and-bates]

it is ridiculously late (early) for me, but i promised everyone a reveal.

here's who leaked max and charles sex tape in (i love you) it's ruining my life.

Most of you knew this was coming- but which Carlos is responsible? You can read the little (unedited) ficlet or scroll down for the tl;dr summary.

enjoy :)

-----------

Carlos first noticed something was off with Max and Charles in 2022. 

There had been a mounting tension between them all year, so when that tension disappeared, replaced with a light, dreamy energy as they mooned over each other- he was going to notice.

He tries very hard not to think about what’s going on between them. It’s none of his business.

*

In 2023, it only gets worse.

He sees the private smiles they shoot at each other in the paddock, the way they naturally drift together whenever possible, how they whisper together after a shared podium with something salacious in their smiles.

Carlos wonders if anyone else suspects. Try as he might, it begins to weigh on him.

He finally decides to satisfy his curiosity one night in the mid-season, and it turns out to be almost disappointingly easy to catch Verstappen sneaking into his teammate’s hotel room. 

As he watches Max pull a keycard out his pocket and use it to slip in through Charles’ suite, Carlos can’t help but think to himself that the Dutch driver truly gets everything. 

*

In 2024, he starts the season already out of a seat.

The rumors swirl, Mercedes, Red Bull, Aston, Alpine, and he drives for his life every week.

In the end, it’s Williams.

“I’m sorry,” his cousin tells him one day, after they’ve been drinking. Carlos knows he feels guilty, as his manager and as his family, like he could have found him something better. His father watches them both silently. 

Carlos tells him it’s fine.

*

This season has not been the best for him and Charles. Things are tenser than normal, and Carlos often finds himself frustrated with him.

It’s one of these nights, after another moment on track, that he and Caco are drinking again.  They’d spent the better part of an hour venting about his teammate, and even though the subject has moved on to the rest of the grid, Carlos is still feeling agitated and more than a little drunk, his mind lingering on Charles.

“Do you think Verstappen’s feeling worried about that McLaren yet,” Caco asks, continuing on their conversation.

Carlos scoffs into his drink, his agitation making him bitter, “He’ll be fine, I’m sure Charles is still rewarding him for P5 tonight.”

“What do you mean,” Caco asks, raising a brow curiously.

Carlos pauses, realizing what he’s done. There’s a stab of guilt in his gut, he’s gone two years without telling anyone about this.

But he’s also gone two years without telling anyone about this.

Pushing away his guilt, Carlos tells his cousin everything.

*

A few weeks later, Max and Charles’ sex tape is emailed to nearly the entire paddock. When he gets the email, Carlos feels sick.

Later, as the entire team goes into crisis mode around him, Carlos watches Caco engage in an intense conversation with a Ferrari executive, both of them speaking low but sternly.

Moving closer to listen, he catches a few phrases, things like “unacceptable behavior” and “horrible association for the team”.

He watches his cousin getting more and more heated as the exec keeps shaking his head, and Carlos suddenly realizes what has happened.

*

“I did it for you, Chile,” Caco insists, “We needed to try something.” 

Carlos, his father, and his cousin are tucked away in his driver’s room, suddenly in a crisis of their own.

When Carlos confronted him, Caco had confessed startling easily- yes, he had been behind the stolen phone, yes, he leaked the sex tape, no, he was not sorry.

“You sound insane,” his father is hissing, “This is a fucking disaster.”

“No! Don’t you see?” Caco says, vehemently, “Someone in the paddock will leak it online or to the media, and Leclerc will be in ruins. This video is filthy, Ferrari won’t be able to stay associated with him once it gets out. He’ll have his contract voided, and then Carlos can take his place.”

Carlos and his father stare at him, Carlos in horror, his father consideringly.

“You deserve this seat,” Caco stands firm, “I know I let you down with the Williams contract… Please, let me try this one last thing.”

Carlos is still speechless, but his father slowly nods.

“You better hope this works,” his father says, deadly serious.

*

“It’s been hours,” Carlos Sr. notes impatiently, “Why has the video not gotten beyond the paddock?”

Caco shrugs, unable to hide how frazzled he was, “People are showing more restraint than expected. It will still leak.”

Carlos says nothing, staring down at the driver’s group chat on his phone. People keep asking him for news, but Ferrari has ordered him to stay quiet. He hasn’t been able to see Charles all day… he doesn’t really know if he could face him anyway.

“If it doesn’t leak in the next hour, then I expect you to help things along,” his father tells his cousin, no room for argument, “Ferrari won’t entertain getting rid of him unless it leaks.”

*

There is a palatable explosion of panic once the TMZ article is published. Ferrari hospitality descends into chaos, and Carlos is swept up in the mayhem as his father and cousin rush to take advantage.

Carlos listens to them speaking furiously to executives and feels sick once again.

It’s a feeling that only worsens when he catches the eyes of Max Verstappen as he’s led by, and it’s the sight of his former teammate’s dazed, shell-shocked expression that finally makes Carlos retreat to his driver’s room, hiding away from it all.

He puts his head in his hands, thinking of Charles and Max, his family’s words, of how many people are seeing the video, how Charles is being so thoroughly violated today. 

This is all his fault.

*

His father curses up a storm and his cousin looks crestfallen when Ferrari and Red Bull post the announcement about the relationship, promising full support.

Carlos immediately likes the post.

He also does nothing to hide the relieved smile on his face when he sees Charles and Max walking through the building, hand in hand.

*

The rest of the season passes in a flurry of media scrutiny, constructor fights, and goodbyes.

Carlos is asked about his teammate's newly revealed relationship more times than he could count, and he offers firm words of support with each interview, no matter what others tell him to say.

Still, Charles will barely look at him, either too caught up in a lovesick daze whenever Max is around him (a new, constant occurrence) or because he seems to be acting purposely icy and suspicious towards Carlos’ side of the garage.

Carlos doesn’t blame him, he deserves it. 

Caco is nervous now, constantly looking over his shoulder, and jumping whenever someone new comes up to speak to him. His father refuses to speak about it, already looking stubbornly forward and ignoring the sins of the past.

Despite Charles seeming to come out surprisingly unscathed (so happy he’s literally glowing with it) the guilt of everything continues to sit heavily in Carlos’ conscience.

*

When the final race comes around, and his departure is suddenly all too real, Charles pauses his hostility to give Carlos a genuinely kind and thoughtful send off. 

Carlos hugs him tight, and thinks about how sorry he is.

He is sad, so sad to say goodbye to this chapter of his career. And he is so regretful there is such a dark cloud of guilt hanging over these final days.

When Charles kindly shows up at the end of season testing for a final goodbye, Carlos finally decides he can’t stand to end it like this. Not without at least trying to make things right-

Before he leaves Ferrari for the final time, he asks Charles if they can talk.

---------

tl;dr summary: Carlos realized something was up very early, but kept Max and Charles secret for two years.

One frustrated, drunken night, he reveals that secret to Carlos Oñoro (Caco) his cousin and manager, who has been feeling guilty over not landing Carlos a better contract for 2025. His cousin steals Charles' phone and leaks the video in the hopes the scandal will get Ferrari to drop Charles and Carlos can get his Ferrari seat.

Neither Carlos or Carlos Sr. knew about the plan, but while Carlos is horrified, Carlos Sr. decides to see the plan through, hoping it will work in his son's favor. He orders Oñoro to make sure the video leaks further, implying Caco is the one who went to TMZ.

Carlos is relieved when the plan doesn't work, and happy for Max and Charles, but the guilt eats away at him. On the last day of his time at Ferrari, he decides to confess to Charles.

-------

hope this offers some of you the clarity you were looking for ❤️ thanks so much for reading.

[blackholesun321]

Shanks Doesn’t Have A Dream! And I Can Prove It!

Ok, y’all, can I talk my shit again? Because I have thoughts and feels about our good old one-armed favorite disaster of a party pirate, Akagami (Red-Haired) Shanks. I’m going to be completely honest: I may have had this rant before, but I can’t find it, and no one else has this take. I need to talk about my vision of him that I’m like 60/40 percent sure is correct canon-wise and would explain so many of his—let’s call them quirks.

I think one of Oda’s beliefs and the teachings that One Piece has so blatantly told us about, such as personal freedom, charting your own destiny, and making your own adventure along the way, are a reflection of Shanks’ character as someone who never got that chance and never would. That, to me, makes him one of the saddest characters in One Piece.

Let me cook here. I’m not going to cite anything because I don’t want to, and I do that enough already in college, so we’re running on trust me: I’ve read the manga and watched a lot of theory videos. So lock in because this is gonna be long.

Anyways, back to my thesis. Shanks is a character of contradictions. He was the youngest person to ever become a Yonko (but then Luffy came in), probably one of the strongest men of his generation. He regularly fought the world’s strongest swordsman for fun. He has a crew whose members each have over a million bounties on their own and are so physically or politically strong that they can stop a war in its tracks just by waltzing in and saying "stop." Not only that, he stopped Kaido in his tracks and made him turn around. His father was the Pirate King and claimed him as his successor; he could even be tied to the Celestial Dragons. He’s charismatic, and when things need to get done, he gets down to business.

On the other hand, he’s also a goofy guy who regularly gets blackout drunk, has a horrible sense of pant style, parties his life away, and thinks bullying kids is the height of comedy. He cares about his kid to the point that he forgets to be a responsible Yonko but also wants to fight him for the One Piece. He seems so blasé about everything but is obviously, in the background, making connections and being all sneaky about something; he has plans but also didn’t decide to go after the One Piece until after his prime. He’s been stagnant but moving and shaking around the world, all for some big ideal, some big plan, something huge.

It is my stance, idea, theory, if you will, that all this makes sense if you look at it from the viewpoint that nothing—not the planning, not stealing the fruit, not the power growth, or making his way to Yonko status, not building his crew, even the hurry-up-and-wait—he’s been doing all these years, his whole life? Is because he’s hasn’t made a single decision for himself since Gol D. Roger died.

Outrageous! You cry! Shanks, a man who supposedly spouts on about being free and charting your own course and being a pirate? Is none of those things? Impossible, you will say. I will ask you how you got into my house and to please leave. But aside from the pirate bit, yes, and I can prove this. Calm my chili-baby’s and listen.

Yes, Shanks had his life taken from his adventure, his destiny set and marked right before the Loguetown execution. It is my belief that all this can be laid at the feet of—drumroll, please—Gol D. Roger himself!

Gasp! Crying! Fainting in the audience! I know, what a twist. Let me explain. In a flashback, we see Roger talking about Ace. It was Roger’s belief that Ace (his child) would be the savior of the world, the new Joy Boy, destined to destroy the World Government with what they learned from the Poneglyphs and Laugh Tale. He believed their generation was too early and that the next would usher in the new world. Ace would be his true successor. A little narcissistic, but a man like Roger probably couldn’t help but be. Not just that but it probably felt prophetic he found Laugh Tale of course that had to mean something?He was also dying as it was and put things in place for Ace to survive. He told Garp where he was so Garp could take him away with Rouge—a safety net, that sure was useful. Once she ya know, died.

With the understanding that the next generation would usher in the new age, Roger took aside a thirteen-year-old Shanks and revealed everything. He told him about the birth of the new Joy Boy, everything about Laugh Tale, and how he believed his son would usher in this age. I believe he gave Shanks this purpose: to pass on the straw hat to his son and help him become a man strong enough to fight the World Government. I think little traumatized Shanks, who is about to lose his father and has had the weight of the world put on his shoulders, takes it to heart and buries everything he is to fulfill his captain's last wish. And that’s horrible. I’ll get into the psychological implications later, but holy shit, Roger, what the fuck? He’s thirteen! And about to watch you die!

But yeah, doesn’t this make sense? Why the hell when Buggy wanted to go after the One Piece, did Shanks hold back and say they should wait, losing his brother because he has a secret his captain entrusted him with. Why the hell did they know about the Gum Gum Fruit and were searching for it? Why did Shanks spend so long on a little island like Fousha in the East Blue? Not only was he looking for the fruit, but he was also looking for Ace! (And maybe Rouge.)

Why has he been making all these connections but doing jack shit with them? Why did he become a Yonko but claim no territory for fucking years on end and do nothing really with his status? Why does he rely on such a small crew of such powerful individuals? Why does he party his life away, seem almost aimless, and not start to go after the One Piece until Luffy reaches Gear 5?

Because he’s the one to pass on the legacy; he’s the placeholder, a cog in the proverbial machine that is fate. He made sure Joy Boy would exist. And now that the dominoes have been placed and are falling fast, he’s going to challenge Luffy and make sure he’s strong enough to fight for it—strong enough to take on the World Government, the Celestial Dragons, and Imu—and then hand him a big red button to help do it afterward. That button will be all the sneaky shit he’s been doing in the background.

He’s been the bridge between his captain and this new age. Sure, it was too early, but his influence rippled out through the people he trusted and touched in his life. The same way Rayleigh trained Luffy, knowing what he was preparing him for in the next part of his journey, waiting years for him to arrive at Sabaody.

And all that needed to happen was the dreams, adventures, and sacrifices of a young boy. It’s almost poetic—a son for a son (or sun, in this case). My therapist says I make light of dark shit so I don’t have to emotionally feel the pain.

And now we get into the sad portion of today’s episode. Prepare the tissues because this is why I think Shanks is one of the saddest characters in One Piece.

Because think about it: Shanks’s life was charted for him; his adventure and future were stolen, decided with the reveal of Laugh Tale and all the secrets around it—everything, all so the next generation could one day rise up and bring a new dawn. Shanks never got to have a dream because it was stolen from him. He’s a walking, talking empty automaton, fulfilling his captain's dying promise made by a grieving thirteen-year-old.

He is dreamless, and for a man who is, in some sense, the freest in the world—can go anywhere, can do anything, is powerful enough to stop wars—he’s still trapped, chained to a future he can only wait for.

I don’t think he knows who he is outside of this. I don’t think he thinks he’ll live beyond it. (Which like I will fucking cry because this is gonna be kinda true.) I don’t even want to call it an ambition. Duty, maybe. Damned promise, more likely. And it’s ruined every relationship outside of it he’s ever had. Aside from one—

(Don’t even get me started on him and Mihawk and miscommunication, failed expectations, and Mihawk being the epitome of everything Shanks isn’t. With his dream chasing to the ends of the world, ending up unfulfilled and alone. Finding companionship and what he thought were similar drives in each other, but once Shanks lost his arm and his hat, he realized Shanks was never fighting for something he wanted. And it broke him a little; it broke their relationship—one of the only relationships Shanks chose for himself, with nothing to do with his mission.

And Buggy—he gave up his brother, was forced to leave him alone, and couldn’t say anything, couldn’t tell him the truth, couldn’t destroy his dream. And he couldn’t even be selfish enough to make him stay. Like, oh my God, the drama.)

Doomed yaoi aside, the only thing and person I think that messed up his perfectly made plans is Luffy.

Sweet baby Luffy wasn’t so sweet before the Red Force arrived. In the manga, it is mentioned that he was an angry, bitter child, lashing out almost like Ace to a degree. But Shanks, by just being kind, by being good, and by reaching out and teasing this little ball of anger, transforms him, saves him in a way. He gives him a drive, a dream, and a morality to live by. He gives him everything he never got—everything stripped from him. Shanks turns him into the type of person a special kind of Devil Fruit might call out to and get eaten by.

Nika chose Luffy because Shanks saved him by just being good and kind, giving this kid something beyond his anger and bitterness. Shanks gave Luffy the idea of freedom, and in return, he allowed Shanks’s perfectly clear mission to shatter. I think this Shanks makes the first real decision in his life: he goes, "Fuck, well, we’re backing this horse now," and Luffy becomes his child—not his captain's, but his future to bet on and help grow.

And I fucking love that. Luffy saves him just as he saved Luffy, in a way. And that’s his kid, his successor, more than it ever was for Roger. I will die on this hill. (If you want, you can even look at it as Shanks finally choosing a dream all his own and it’s Luffy.)

Will Oda see it this way? Probably not. He has a habit of brushing off stuff like this; I think he’ll make Shanks’s character into a noble man dedicated to stopping the World Government and not even think about the implications of tying all that to him at such a young age. But I do think Shanks expects to die when Luffy comes to fight; I think he wants to, just how Mihawk wants to die from Zoro’s blades. Because what is there beyond this? (And again, parallels!)

And I believe he will live! (Not Mihawk—he's gonna die.) Shanks will live, and symbolically, Luffy will free him from this self-imposed duty, this promise made by a child. Shanks will have made, even unwittingly, the thing that would free him, allowing him to move forward in a world where all the purposes he needs to find are his own.

And holy shit, that’s a lot for him, but then Blackbeard will happen, and he’ll die only having known freedom for a short while. Luffy will cry and create a new dawn, and it won’t be for nothing—except it will be for everything to Shanks.

In conclusion, Shanks doesn’t have a dream of his own. He never had a dream; if he did, it was squashed out of him in order to fulfill a promise set by his father, Gol D. Roger.

He loses his brother, loses his control over his destiny, and as his father sets such things into motion, Ace, Roger’s child, will become the new Joy Boy.

He makes a connection with someone outside of that mission and purpose, and in doing so, creates the opportunity for his own freedom and his own choice in Luffy.

Later down the line, Nika/Luffy will eventually free him in the same way he created his own freedom back then, giving him a new choice going forward. They will free him from the mission that was placed on his shoulders as a thirteen-year-old child, and afterwards, he will consequently be killed by Blackbeard, and everything will be horrible, and we will all cry. The end.

I hope everyone enjoyed this thesis on Shanks. Feel free to use it and steal it to your hearts content. I would love to write more if anyone has any questions or things they want to ask; I will be opening up my ask box for questions. I would love to go into more detail on his relationship with Luffy, his rivalry with Blackbeard, and how that ties into all of this, as well as his relationship with Mihawk (fuck man the parallels!!) or maybe Buggy. (Which I have less on it’s just really tragic.)

[rosenclaws]

I got the mental image of Leopold as a dad in my mind and now I can't stop thinking about it. He would be such a good dad!!! Like, supportive, doting, playful, protective. Imagine him with a toddler who's just baby babbling away and he's listening with full attention and eye contact. Gahhh! I want to have his baby, he needs to be a dad.

a/n: hello you have now infected my brain with the Leopold as a dad worm and it will never leave me thank you and as my payment u now get a drabble. Also I’ve made the executive decision for him to be a girl dad and his daughter is named after his mother. Okay thank you

wc: ~650

The best moment of Leopold’s life was the day he married you. Love deep in his heart as he said his vows. Promising to love you and no one else for the rest of his life. That you would be the one and only to capture his heart.

He meant every world and when he kissed you it was like everything fell into place. This is where he was meant to be.

The second best moment of his life was every single day with his daughter.

They’re all tied for second. Being a father was always something he wanted but to truly become a father. It was amazing.

“Dada!” He looks up from the morning paper to see his little girl waddling towards him.

“Oh my don’t you look gorgeous.” He smiles from ear to ear as he holds out his arms and picks her up.

Lifting her up in the air just to hear her giggles. She had a costume dress on and a little tiara. She was his princess so it was only fit she dressed like one.

“This princess refused to put on anything else.” You huff as walk down the hall. Leopold walks over to you and kisses your cheek. Then he kisses his daughter’s cheek.

“Is that true miss Adeline?” Leopold asks in mock surprise.

“I’m a princess!” She giggles and Leopold can’t help but agree.

“Are you going to be okay today?” You had gotten called into work for an emergency leaving your family plans for another day. You felt horrible but Leo assured you everything was alright.

“Of course my love, don’t fret I’ll handle everything.” You kiss him once more before heading out for the day.

“Now, what does the princess demand for breakfast?”

He can’t remember the last time he got this much quality time with Adeline. He swears up and down that just yesterday she was still a baby. The memories flash in his mind as she munches on her apple slices.

Holding her in his arms. Feeling his heart break at the sound of her cries. Wanting nothing more than to wrap her in his arms and protect her from everything he can.

Now she’s three years old and he savors every minute he can. Being sat on the couch as he listens intently to his daughters babbling. Smiling as she talks like she understands the whole world. He nods along and indulges whatever her imagination can create.

Soon she’s tired and the sounds of Cinderella play from the television. She stands on his feet as he dances around the living room. He hums the music as she laughs.

Leopold spins her around and picks her up. He remembers his first ball, learning to dance with his mother. Now he returns the favor. It may not be the 18th century but his daughter will be treated like royalty.

“M’tired daddy.” She yawns and rests her head against his chest.

So he takes her to her room. Letting her fall asleep in his arms, just like she used to. Sitting in the big chair by her bed, the same one he used to rock her in and read her bedtime stories. The one he’d sit in after she had woken up in the night and cried out for him.

He’d hold her tight and whisper that everything was okay. That he would never let anything hurt her. No monsters and nobody would hurt her.

“Well looks like you had a busy day.” He looks up to see you standing by the door.

A warm smile on your face as you take in the sight of your husband and baby girl. Leopold is everything you could have asked for as a husband and a father.

“Do you want to put her down and eat?” He shakes his head as Adeline stirs in his arms. Clutching his finger in her little hand.

“I think I wish to stay here a little longer.” You walk over sit on the arm of the chair.

Leaning your head onto Leopold’s head and slowly rake your fingers through Adelines hair. Leopold takes it all in.

So much time has passed in the blink of an eye that he wishes he could slow everything down and just live right here. He doesn’t know what the future may bring but he does know one thing.

He’s a lucky, lucky man.

[traegorn]

Is there really any hope with all of these horrible things going on..? I’m so scared and have no idea what to do. All I keep seeing is bad news. How am i supposed to be hopeful and not think that we’re all doomed

Their whole plan is to make you feel scared. They want to overload you and think there's nothing you can do. This feeling you have? That's their whole strategy.

Don't let it work. As long as you're breathing, there's hope.

All of these are executive orders and illegal actions. While the rule of law may be flimsier than most realize, this isn't Eastern Europe in the mid 20th century. Everything they do will either not hold up in a court of law or be something in the long term we can overturn.

Very bad things will happen to people in the meanwhile, but that doesn't mean there isn't hope or that you won't make it through this.

This is what you need to do: Make real, local connections. Find community. This is how we stay safe. Call your Democratic Reps and Senators if you have any and demand they obstruct and investigate. If you have Republican reps, still reach out and demand why they're letting Trump violate our freedoms -- the latter is less likely to do anything, but there's a small chance one of them might listen.

If you're feeling overwhelmed by the news cycle, take a day off. Do not read, watch, or engage with it.

Dan Savage is a controversial figure for a lot of reasons we won't go into (especially on trans issues), but he did say something very good and important that I want you to take to heart:

During the darkest days of the AIDS crisis, we buried our friends in the morning, we protested in the afternoon, and we danced all night. The dance kept us in the fight because it was the dance we were fighting for. It didn't look like we were going to win then and we did. It doesn't feel like we re going to win now but we could. Keep fighting, keep dancing

You need to find joy or else this is going to be too much. Hope is a choice we make every day, and when your enemy wants you miserable, joy is an act of defiance.

Find your joy and rub their bigot faces in it.

[bassiascoparia]

PJO Athena didn't have to have kids-a possible alternative to this

So anyone who's read about Greek Mythology probably knows that Athena is a virgin goddess-and Ancient Greeks considered marriage and children as losing your virginity.

Ancient Greek were also taken very seriously. In fact, if you lose your virginity whether consensual or not, you were executed. Even MoA says this-you die in a horrible way if you lose your virginity, which is why the Romans ignored Annabeth so much.

So............Athena did not need to have children. Even brain children formed from her's and her lover's thoughts, because they're still children.

But! you say. But Annabeth!

Uh, let me speak, please. Some silence is required. Yes, thank you.

ANNABETH SHOULD'VE BEEN ATHENA'S CHOSEN, HER CHAMPION, NOT HER CHILD.

Let me explain about this.

So, Athena fell in love with Frederick, right?

Well, let's change it to she platonically liked Frederick and was impressed with his intelligence and wit, so she told him and his wife that as a gift, she could bless their daughter Annabeth with demigod powers, a chosen champion of Athena-

but she warns them of all the risks that'll happen, and tells them that Annabeth will be turned into a demigod directly, and she tells them how to raise Annabeth in the right environment.

And have Annabeth's parents be thrilled because both of them can fully see through the Mist. And honestly, they didn't think that it would be so hard to raise a demigod!

And once Annabeth is blessed, they keep pushing her-they think that she should be smart enough, but they don't put her in a proper environment for all of this because they're unable to get one because 1) It would be difficult to get tons of books in Ancient Greek

2) They didn't realise the actual consequences of having a child with ADHD and dyslexia because they were too excited with Annabeth becoming 'magical' as they put it, so they thought that she'd be insanely smart even though Athena warned them against this, and they keep pushing her, they're disappointed that she's not in middle school by only seven years old.

3) And by then, the monsters start coming and the spiders start coming too and they realise how difficult it is so they blame her for it.

And so she runs away and then everything else happens, and Athena feels guilty and angry about making Annabeth her champion when she was just an infant, so she guides her and helps her.

And then Annabeth could be isolated at camp without anyone in her cabin, because Athena's demigods aren't 'real' demigods-they have two mortal parents and are only blessed by Athena, so the camp doesn't treat them like demigods and kind of looks down on them.

So Annabeth feels the need to prove herself and this also makes her cling to Luke more. Also, she finally finds a real friend in Percy, which makes more sense, because how come she just makes friends with a random guy at camp, even a son of the Big 3, when she's been there for 5 years?

This makes Annabeth more relatable because there are people who's parents didn't think twice before having children and there are people whose parents pressure them academically too much.

And now you're probably wondering about Malcolm.

Yeah, what about Malcolm?

He's barely there in the original PJO series. Once in BOTL where he walks in on Percabeth hugging? Well, have another demigod walk in for another purpose.

Malcolm in TLO? Change it to another cabin. Simple.

BOO when he's attending the meeting? Have it be Clarisse.

TON when Apollo interacts with him? Have it be an Ares camper (Sherman Yang, maybe) who's gathering information, because Ares campers aren't just violent dickheads, they can gather information too. Information gathering is a part of war, and Ares campers don't just fight.

When he's mentioned coming out as gay because of Nico? Put another camper there. Whichever one you want.

Malcolm Pace lovers, I'm sorry about dissing Malcolm-I don't hate him, it's just that he's not even that important. If you took all the children of Athena (ruling out the historical ones which can be cut out) then Annabeth Chase is more important than all the other three combined. I'm not even sure if Zane is canon or not.

[nevadancitizen]

-> CH. 4: LITTLE PIECES OF HOME

synopsis: viktor finds you wandering piltover and helps you home, where you work with him on an english/piltovan cipher -- but not before you meet an odd woman.

word count: 5k

ships: Viktor/isekai!Reader, Jayce Talis & isekai!Reader

notes: i <3 foreshadowing (<- foreshadowing)

ABoAB taglist: @th3stup1dcat , @patchs-curiosity-corner (if you'd like to be added to the taglist, just ask!)

A BLAZE OF ARCANE BLUE MASTERLIST

You lied to Jayce. You lied to Jayce big time.

Not only are you lost, but you’re lost and you can’t recognize any landmarks. You can’t see the Academy, the Kiramman estate, or anything else that would help you locate where you are. The signs giving directions are all in Piltovan, so they’re not of much use to you.

You could just ask for directions, but you’re a mixture of too proud and too embarrassed to approach anyone, so you end up just wandering. At least the city is visually interesting and you have a lot to look at, like the bridge.

It reminds you of the Golden Gate bridge, except this one is probably smaller. (You wouldn’t know. You’ve never seen the Golden Gate bridge in person.) A few cops – enforcers, you learned they like to be called, but a pig is a pig all the same – line the entrance where cobblestone turns to slabs of something that looks like concrete.

A voice behind you: “What are you doing here?”

You jump a little and turn around, only to see Viktor. His eyebrows are furrowed, and he looks concerned for you.

“Just… wanderin’,” you say with a half shrug, trying to smoothly recover from the scare he gave you. “Lookin’ ‘round the city. Why? You worried?”

“I was worried for your wellbeing, yes,” Viktor says. “You were looking at the bridges like you wanted to see the other side. Do I need to overstate how dangerous Zaun is again?”

“Everything’s dangerous,” you counter. You point at an enforcer holding a rifle. “Boom. Gun, right there. Now tell me, what’s more dangerous than a gun?”

“Radical ideas and the people willing to execute them,” he says, not an ounce of hesitation in his voice.

You look over at him, your face dead and expressionless. He looks back, his face a mirror of yours.

A second later, you crack and laugh, a smile splitting your face. “Jesus, Viktor. What the hell is wrong with you, boy? Since when were we discussin’ coups?”

A small smile graces Viktor’s thin lips as he looks away. “Since I brought them up. Do you not know how a conversation works?”

“Since that’s your definition of a conversation…” You look at the other side of the bridge. It’s littered with hexdraulic descenders, which kind of look like a mix between a glass bathysphere and a regular elevator. There’s a few big ones that are for public use (the model name is ‘Rising Howl,’ named after the sound it makes), and an even fewer number of smaller, private ones that only hold a few people.

“Let’s talk Zaun,” you say. Your voice is small and hopeful. “Why can’t I go down there? I can handle myself well enough. Hey – you can come down with me if you’re so adamant about safety.”

Viktor’s smile immediately drops and his face twists, like you said something incredibly shocking. Maybe you did – there aren’t a lot of people commuting from Piltover to Zaun. But what’s wrong with wanting to see a city built in the cracks and aftermath of an earthquake? It sounds pretty cool… at least to you.

He waits a moment, like he’s collecting his thoughts properly before he speaks. “Zaun is… it is exactly what the people here would expect. There are good people, yes, but there are others who would steal every last thing off your corpse they think would turn a profit.”

“And?” You say. “I’ve lived that. What, you don’t think there ain’t horrible things happenin’ in America, too?”

“I never said that,” Viktor says. “It… it would be detrimental to have you hurt. I am simply thinking of our study of hextech – to have you out of commission would be to lose an advantage.”

You can feel a warmth bloom in your face. You’re overstepping your bounds and Viktor isn’t shy to point that out. You look to the side and rub the side of your neck. The fabric of your button-down keeps you from stretching too much.

“You’re right. You, um… you didn’t say that.” You clear your throat awkwardly. “I… guess you know Zaun better than I do.”

Before you can say anything else, someone clips your shoulder with theirs – rather harshly, you might add. You stumble a little and cuss, whipping your head around to find whoever did that.

You spot a woman, her face eclipsed by the shadow of a hood. She holds out a hand. Her voice is like gravel when she speaks. “That’s my bad, that’s my bad.”

“Naw, you’re good,” you say. “Just wasn’t expectin’ it.”

The woman tilts her head back and some light brightens her face. She’s in her late thirties, maybe early forties at the latest. She’s wearing thick, coke-bottle glasses that greatly exaggerate how big her eyes are. Her face is wrinkled, and she looks tired.

“You’re not like the other pilties,” she says.

Before you can correct her and tell her you’re not a piltie, she takes your wrist, right where your sleeve ends. Her fingers are cold, almost freezing.

It’s wintertime. You’re outside, bundled up appropriately, waiting a little ways from the front door of the liquor store. The half-full jerrycan you’re holding strains on the muscles in your upper arm. You switch it to the other hand.

Your brother comes out of the store, wrapped up just like you. He’s holding a paper bag in one hand, with the other shoved firmly in his windbreaker pocket.

“Lucas,” you say. You jerk your head to the side, gesturing for him to come over.

He hurries over, the gravel crunching beneath his sneakers. Despite being taller than you, he hides behind you to minimize the chilled wind hitting him.

You click your tongue and hit his arm. “You big baby. The wind ain’t all that bad.”

“Don’t you hit me,” Lucas says. “I’ll beat you black and blue.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” you say. “Big brothers are supposed to protect, don’t you know that?”

You gasp, and you’re back at the bridge entrance. The woman lets go of your wrist and walks away, as if nothing just happened. You’re not entirely sure if anything just happened. 

It felt… it felt like you were there. You felt the cold wind biting at the gaps in your bundled-up clothing, felt the strain in your arm, felt the ache in your feet from standing still for so long. You felt annoyed at Lucas for taking his sweet time, felt excited for the night ahead, felt a thrilling kind of swirling anxiety about this act of teenage rebellion.

That was a memory. You remember it – you and Lucas were picking up gasoline and alcohol for a big bonfire your friends had set up. Someone had gathered dry, felled logs, and when they were propped up together, they were almost as tall as you. It burned beautifully, and you fondly remember shrieking with delight when the fire roared from being splashed with kerosene. It was fun, even with Lucas keeping an (admittedly, half-drunk) eye on you.

Did that woman summon the memory? Or did her touch trigger it being dredged up? You haven’t thought about that bonfire in a while, and certainly not the purchases preceding it. So, how…?

You look over at Viktor. He’s watching the woman walk away, a slight scowl on his face.

“You don’t look too happy to see her,” you say.

He clenches his jaw. “She peddles frauds.”

“Frauds?” You repeat. If he’s talking about her little magic trick, you’re not so sure she’s a fraud – reliving that memory seemed real enough. You felt like you were actually there, living it for the first time and making those choices over again.

“Hopefully she does not linger,” Viktor says. “She will just stir up trouble.”

You hum in agreement, then watch the woman’s figure fleeting in the distance. Her nondescript, layered clothes make her hard to pick out from the crowd of eye-catching, glamorous outfits. Soon enough, you lose her.

“Did she do anything to you when she grabbed you?” Viktor asks.

“Huh?” You look over at him. His eyes – golden, shining – meet yours.

Is he asking about her forcing a flashback? It… wasn’t so bad, honestly. You didn’t feel like anything was wrong. It just felt like you were sixteen again, smug and satisfied that everything was going according to plan. To you, it doesn’t seem like she was doing anything nefarious. Maybe it was just an accident – maybe she just can’t control her magic. (If she has any magic, that is.)

What’s the harm in lying, really? Can’t you have one indulgence to yourself? This new life in Piltover has been nothing but frustrating and confusing. Your hometown wasn’t confusing – it was just your hometown. You knew everyone, and the whispered gossip kept you in the know well enough.

It’s just one memory. Maybe it’s selfish to keep the smell of a kerosene-fueled fire and the taste of cheap spirits and the sound of your brother’s half-drunken laugh to yourself. You find yourself not caring that much.

“No,” you lie. “What could she have done? Stole my cufflinks?”

You look down and turn your wrists to make sure she didn’t actually steal your cufflinks. She didn’t.

You turn your wrists so that Viktor can see them and show him. They glint in the sunlight. “See?”

Viktor leans down a little and checks that they are, in fact, still firmly attached to the fabric of your sleeves. He stands up straight and clicks his cane against the cobblestone ground.

“I suppose you’re right.” He checks over his shoulder, where the woman had disappeared into the crowd. “But… if she did do anything, it is best to forget about her. She would strip you down to your last washer, given half the chance.”

“It’s still a bit odd to me that you’ve got all these hexes and cogs and washers,” you say. You start walking just to move, and Viktor falls in step with you.

“Yes, because your system of tarnishable cotton-paper bills is much more superior,” he teases. It’s evident in his tone that he’s glad you’ve changed the topic. “Not to mention the flux in value.”

You scoff and roll your eyes. “Uh-huh, because your little toolbox currency is such a treat. Can’t walk ‘round with spare change without feelin’ like I’ve been belled like a cat.”

“Maybe you should be,” Viktor says. “It would prevent you from running off like this again.”

“Now, I didn’t run off,” you say. “You make it sound like I’m some petulant teenager. I got lost after a meeting regarding adult responsibilities and an adult contract.”

His face lights up a bit and he glances at you out of the corner of his eye. “How did that go?”

“Christ, Viktor, you know how them rich folk are.” You sigh and run a hand through your hair. “Councilor Kiramman wants me to provide a pair of earrings ‘fore she takes me on as a, uh… beneficiary. And she sure as hell sounded like she wanted ‘em quick.”

“How soon?” Viktor asks.

“Earrings are usually a quick thing, but the pair she’s askin’ me to recreate took me two weeks,” you say. “But, hey – she’s workin’ to get me a workshop so I have the tools I need for metalwork. Thing is, I don’t even know what gems she’ll have me workin’ with.”

“And that has an impact on your work?” He asks.

“Huh? Oh, no,” you say. “Well… yes? But not really. I’m more worried ‘bout the cut she’ll have me workin’ with.”

“The cut?” He asks. 

“Jesus, you’re just full’a questions, ain’t you?” You look over at him, a smile tugging at your lips. 

“Forgive me,” Viktor says with a breathless laugh. “I am just… curious.”

“No, it’s – it’s nice,” you say. “Usually, people just brush me off ‘cause of the way I sound and act.”

“Why?” He asks. There’s something like vulnerability in his voice. It’s not obviously apparent, but it’s still there, quiet and unspoken in his tone.

It makes you feel weird. You don’t really like it, but at the same time, you do, and… what are you supposed to do? Just not feel human relatability when relating to another human?

You point at him. “That’s another fuckin’ question.”

He concedes with a roll of his eyes and a dismissive hand wave.

“But, uh…” You scratch the side of your nose. “People from the South are usually regarded as dumb and backwards. Racists and misogynists that revel in making America worse. Hell, some people even think we should secede, make our own bigoted country, marry our first cousins, raise inbred children. When you go up North and out on the Frontier, those opinions are… made readily apparent.”

Viktor scoffs under his breath. “Anyone who holds such prejudices is ignorant and uneducated. Simply meeting with you should be enough to dismiss all thoughts of that kind.”

Your breath hitches in your throat and your eyes snap over to him. He’s minding his business, just looking around and walking like he said nothing out of the ordinary. You can feel your heartbeat in the back of your throat and your eyes start to water for some weird reason.

You look away and blink quickly, dissipating your weird tears. You clear your throat, trying to hide the fact that you’re hitting your sternum with the side of your fist.

“Yeah?” You turn back to Viktor, a cocky little smirk on your face. “You mean that?”

“Yes,” he says. He meets your eyes. “Why would I not?”

Your little cocksure smile falters and that weird feeling of… weirdness is back. Like horned frogs are squirming in your belly, odd little feet-hands splashing in a gross pool of half-digested food and stomach acid, their spiked keratin faces pushing up against the lining. But they’re also pleasant, like they’re eliciting those mushy feelings your granddaddy’s records sung about.

You need to get a hold of yourself. You can’t let simple compliments get the better of you. Maybe you can get training from Jayce for when you attend his fancy rich-boy parties… If you get accepted by Kiramman, that is.

“Well…” You swallow thickly, unable to look Viktor in the eye. “Thank you. That’s – that’s awful kind of you to say that.”

He nods and gracefully ignores whatever is going on with your emotions (if he picks up on them at all). You never had the face for poker, but it’s like he’s playing a completely different game altogether. He’s so calm and collected that it’s almost sending you spinning.

You keep walking alongside him, keeping in tempo with the click of his cane against the cobblestone. The semi-silence between you two is nice – not exactly comforting, but nice. You listen to passerby’s conversations, eavesdropping almost as well as the old ladies in church. You’d like to think that Viktor is doing the same.

“You were askin’ ‘bout the cut on the gems earlier,” you say, your voice a little quieter than you meant it to be. “You still curious?”

“I am,” Viktor says. “I would be grateful if you could elaborate.”

“Well, a cut is referrin’ to how a raw gem is turned, faceted, and polished,” you say. “We’ve got all these special tools to progressively abrase the gem’s surface ‘til it looks the way we want. The grit gets finer and finer ‘til we just use a polish lap to finish up and make it look pretty.”

“And how long does one gem take?” He asks. “If you had to estimate.”

“Depends on the gem, the cut, the tools,” you list off. “Could take a half hour to two and a half hours. I don’t really know the intricacies.”

“How do you not know?” He asks.

“I’m not really trained in cuttin’ gems,” you say. “I handle more of the… the assembly.”

Viktor hums in response, like he’s digesting the information and sorting through his brain to find another question to ask. You’d give a hefty sum to see what goes through his mind on a daily basis – he always seems so ready to learn, the cogs in his head always turning, regardless of whether he’s actually engaged in what’s around him or not. Maybe he gets stuck in a little bubble, like all those aloof scientist characters you’ve seen in movies? That’d be a little funny, honestly.

“I’ve been starin’ at that blackboard in my dorm for a while now,” you blurt out, “like it’ll just give me a cipher. We need to work on that sometime.”

“I am free now,” Viktor offers.

“You sure you’re good to walk back all that way?” You jab your thumb over your shoulder. “I can just walk you to your apartment.”

He clicks his tongue in a dismissing way. “It is not that far. I practically live at the lab anyway, and it is close by.”

You concede and follow him. He knows his limits better than you do, and you trust him when he says that his leg’s not bothering him. (Besides, you don’t even know your way back to the Academy. You’re grateful that it’s not a day where Viktor has to go easy on movement.)

You continue looking around, just observing as he leads the way. Despite your obvious reservations, Piltover really is beautiful. It’s rich, both in city funds and culture. An air of elegance is enmeshed with every building, every person, even the air you breathe.

And… there’s a surprising lack of wires: telephone, telegraph, even electricity. The electricity ones are underground, and the telephone and telegraph ones don’t exist at all. It was a surprise to you, honestly – you thought a society as advanced as this would’ve figured out long-distance communication by now, but you suppose they had different priorities in the past, and have different priorities now.

The sky seems clearer without the tangle of lines perpetually obscuring it. Fluffy, cotton-ball clouds dot the cerulean. They drift by slowly, carried by a gentle wind.

“Does the sky look the same?” Viktor’s voice rouses you from your thoughts.

You glance over at him, then back up at the sky. “Mostly. Though, there’re a lot more birds where I’m from. Not sure if it’s their natural inclination that keeps them out or the amount of industry here.”

“I see,” he says. “Do your birds stay away from industry as well?”

“No,” you say. “They’re still livin’ there, despite it.”

A thought pops into your mind – you just described your situation. You’re living in Piltover despite its wealth, despite its tendency to starve already-starving artists, and despite its voracious appetite for those living below the poverty line. Are you just living an extended metaphor? (Do you represent a pigeon? Or would you be represented by one?)

Viktor hums in response and keeps walking, letting the conversation naturally fizzle out. You match his pace, still observing and still watching.

Soon enough, you both step onto campus grounds. Classes are in progress, so there aren’t many students out and about, rushing from lecture hall to lecture hall. It’s an easy walk to the hexdraulic conveyors that lead to the dormitories.

Viktor inputs the floor number into the button panel and you flip the lever with a hearty ca-chunk. The conveyor jolts, then rises steadily. The ride is silent aside from the hum of the cables.

When the doors open, you step out and lead him to your dorm. It’s a bit more lively and lived-in from when Viktor saw it last – dirty dishes in the sink, a mug half-full of cold, stale coffee, a jacket thrown over the back of one of the bar stools. You don’t really feel ashamed or embarrassed by the mess. There’s evidence of life, and it’s nice.

“Help yourself to whatever you like.” You start to pull off your vest. “I’m gonna get changed outta this stuffy-ass uniform.”

“I was going to say – it looked like Jayce dressed you,” Viktor says.

You throw your bag on your bed, then you lay the vest and the ascot-tie-thing on the counter. As you walk to your closet, you focus on popping the top few buttons on your dress shirt.

“Oh, so I can’t dress fancy now?” You have to raise your voice a little, as he’s still in the kitchen and the door to the closet is half-closed (it’s not like he could take a peek, anyway). “I gotta be forced to?”

“You are very adept at putting words in my mouth,” Viktor calls from around the corner. You can hear the smile in his voice.

You grumble noncommittally and undress, making sure to re-hang the clothes Jayce gave you so they wouldn’t develop wrinkles. You throw on more comfortable clothes and fetch the vest and ascot-tie-thing, making sure to re-hang them, too.

“Okay, I’m here,” you say as you enter the kitchen again. “Let’s get workin’ on this thing.”

Viktor smiles a little and nods. He picks up a piece of white chalk, turns to the board, and starts to write. “I was thinking of starting with the alphabet. It would be wise to start with the simplest, yes?”

“That’s right.” You pick up a piece of chalk and go to the other side of the blackboard, then start to write out the alphabet.

Viktor comes around and looks at what you’ve written. After a moment, he points to ‘A.’ “What sound does this make?”

“Ay,” you say. He writes a letter underneath it.

He then points to ‘B,’ asking the same question, then ‘C,’ ‘D,’ ‘E,’ all the way until the alphabet has a complete phonetic cipher. You round the blackboard with him and do the same thing to the Piltovan alphabet.

“Now we just gotta test if this thing works,” you say. You think for a moment, looking around the dorm, then write the first thing your eyes land on. In big, capital letters, you write ‘KNIFE.’ “Translate that.”

You step back as Viktor steps forward, referencing the cipher and writing as he quickly figures it out. When he’s done, he leans on his cane and cocks his head to the side.

“Kuh…neef-ay?” He tries.

“What?” You let out a shocked exhale. “Viktor, that says knife.”

“Then what are these here for?” Viktor circles the ‘K’ and the ‘E,’ then underlines ‘NIF.’ “This is what is being pronounced.”

“The ‘K’ and the ‘E’ are silent letters,” you say. “You don’t say ‘em. Maybe it wasn’t the best example to start with, but doesn’t Piltovan work the same?”

“No – here.” He rounds the blackboard and writes down a few letters. “Translate.”

“Uh…” You squint at the letters, trying to locate them in the cipher. They’re all fairly complex and some even resemble planetary symbols. One looks like a sun rising over the horizon, while another looks like a snake on a skewer. They’re all very, very confusing.

Eventually, you translate the word: SAWMB’R.

“Saw…mb’r,” you say out loud. “Somber?”

You turn to Viktor. “Motherfucker, do you not know how to spell somber?”

“That’s how it is spelled,” he says. “S-A-W-M-B-apostrophe-R. Somber.”

“Huh.” You turn back to the blackboard. “Maybe English and Piltovan are more different than we thought.”

“Perhaps.” He starts jotting a note beside the cipher in smaller, messier Piltovan writing (most likely for himself), then glances over at you from the corner of his eye. “How are you finding that book I gave you, by the way?”

“Book?” You echo. “What book?”

“The one I pulled from your bookcase.” Viktor points to the book he left on your kitchen countertop, which has sat untouched for close to a full week.

“You didn’t say nothin’ ‘bout it…” you mumble.

You move over to the kitchen peninsula and pick up the book. The cover is in Piltovan, the author’s name is in Piltovan, and the blurb and reviews on the back are all in Piltovan.

You look over at Viktor and hold the book up. “You want me to hit you with this? ‘Cause it’s fairly obvious I can’t read it.”

“Open it,” he says. “The passage I wanted you to see was somewhere on the pages in the late 100s.”

You heave a sigh and lean your hip against the edge of the counter as you open the book. You flip through the pages like Viktor instructed, starting from page 144. It’s all in typed Piltovan except for one word – ‘London.’

“London!” You exclaim. “It – huh? London?”

“It says London?” He asks.

You turn and place the book on the counter, frantically flipping through the pages so fast you’re scared you’ll rip them. Then:

‘IN FEBRUARY 1862 WITH NO WARNING AT ALL LONDON FELL THROUGH THE SURFACE OF THE EARTH…’

“What?” You can feel tears welling up in your eyes. You’re not even sad – you’re just confused and you’re pretty sure you’re distraught. A harsh wringing sensation in your chest further confirms the distressing emotions.

You can feel Viktor’s presence beside you, hear the click of his cane against the wooden floor. “What does it say?”

“In February 1862, with no warning at all…” You take a breath, trying to stop your voice from warbling. “London fell through the surface of the Earth.”

“Did this happen in your world?” Viktor asks.

“No, no,” you say. “I think – I’m pretty sure London’s doin’ fine.”

Your head snaps up and you meet Viktor’s eyes. You’re sure your gaze is harsh and unkind, but your eyes are still watering. “Why the hell didn’t you t-tell me about this? There’s – something’s here, Viktor. In this book.”

“I thought your natural curiosity would make you look,” he says. He doesn’t exactly shrink away, but he does take a step back. “I did not know if it was English. I did not know if you would be able to read it at all – I would not want to get your hopes up just to dash them.”

“I…” You groan in the back of your throat and look at the pages, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. “I guess. But still, man. That was an asshole move.”

“I… apologize,” Viktor says. His voice is a little softer and not nearly as snappy as yours. “Next time I come across something in English, I will come to you right away. Is that a fair arrangement?”

“You fuckin’ better.” You clear your throat to get rid of the drool and mucus stuck there. “Y’know what? I’m givin’ you a sample.”

“A sample of English writing?” He asks.

“Yeah.” You move over to your bed and pull your sketchbook and pencil out of your bag. “For you to keep.”

You write a few sentences: ‘This is a sample of English handwriting. Excuse the fact that it looks a bit shit.’

You think for another few moments, trying to come up with something to write when it hits you. This could be a calling card. Viktor doesn’t seem like the type to lose or drop something, but what about pickpockets? If he keeps his promise, he should be carrying this piece of paper damn near everywhere. This could be a way to reach Zaun without ever leaving Piltover. Hell, maybe there’s people that know English in Piltover. You’ll never know unless you try.

You continue writing: ‘And Viktor, if you’re translating this on your off time, really? Get back to work! Or back to resting. Whatever you’re meant to be doing. 

‘Hey, if you’re still reading – this is a blind reach, but… if you can read this, come to Piltover Academy and ask for Jayce Talis and Viktor’s “American friend.” Whoever you ask should know who you’re talking about. If they don’t, ask them to direct you to either Jayce Talis, Viktor, or Sky Young, then ask again for their “American friend.” Miss Young don’t know me too well, so she’ll probably direct you to one of the men.’

You start to pull your pencil away from the paper, but then remember something. There should be a secret code, right? Because it’s not exactly a secret that you’re from America – you’ve been telling everyone you meet, so…

You tack on: ‘P.S. – if you’re serious about looking for me, here’s a code so I know you’re legit: tell them you’re Auntie Belle or Uncle Beau (depending, of course) from Sugar Hill, Georgia. Say you heard about me and that you’re an old family friend. I don’t think they’d like it if a stranger was about asking for me. If you have any connection to my world – I don’t care if you’re from the most remote weather station in Antarctica – please, put serious thought into seeking me out. I’d be very delighted to happen upon a connection from the my old world.’

You sign your name, then rip the paper from the metal spiral binding and tear off the excess white space, helping it look neater. You fold it once, twice, then hand it over to Viktor.

He unfolds it, glancing over the words. “It is rather long. What does it say?”

“It’s a passage from the Bible,” you lie. “Been raised with that good book since ‘fore I could read. Figures that some things would stick.”

“Thank you,” Viktor says. “You were right, it was an… asshole move to not show you the passage directly. Again, I apologize.”

“Just don’t do it again,” you say. You look to the side, away from him. “And the writing ain’t no problem. It’s part of Genesis, by the way. It tells the story of how God created the Earth, the day, the night, the oceans, the sky… all that.”

“I would like to hear about the mythologies of your world.” Viktor folds up the paper and slides it into one of the front pockets of his slacks. “If you would indulge my curiosity?”

You stand and look at the open book on the counter. You flip a few pages and spot more words in English.

“Can we do that another time?” Your eyes don’t leave the text. “I wanna read this. Forgive me for sounding harsh, but you’d just be another distraction.”

“I understand,” he says. “May I come by later to copy the cipher we created?”

“Mhm,” you hum. 

A few moments later, you glance up from the English embedded in the Piltovan lettering. Viktor’s already halfway out the door.

[the-indigo-symphony]

Btw the fakeclaimers and exclusionists won't tell you this but it can be a very important step of healing to just. Not care all that much when you get new system members. You don't have to be all gung-ho about it – I myself get a little bothered because I stress about getting newcomers profiles before they switch out to who knows where – but also don't, like, beat yourself up for it. Yeah, your system got someone new. Maybe a lot of someones. It's fine. This isn't a moral failure. You haven't started any apocalypses. And on that note, you don't have to avoid that cool thing you think you might be into because you're worried about getting introjects from it, or whatever. Shit happens, systems grow, and we all march on anyway.

I suspect this sort of attitude comes from the idea (whether subconscious or not) that having sysmates is bad, and thus having more sysmates = even worse. This is not true. You are not a bad person or system just because you got some new members. You are not necessarily "unhealthy" or "sick" just for getting someone new, or because you're a large system (and even if it did mean that, "unhealthy" does not mean "immoral" or "should hate themselves"). Sometimes there can be problems involved with gaining new sysmates! This is true! But what isn't true is the underlying sentiment that being "very" plural is bad, or that a system growing in member count is this horrible, awful thing. Throw out your internalized pluralphobia. I repeat: throw out your internalized pluralphobia. It's completely and totally fine to gain new system members, and it's completely and totally fine to be a large system. This attitude does nothing but reinforce the idea that being plural – or at the very least, having perfectly natural and normal plural experiences – are inherently wrong and must be avoided at all costs (and when they can't be, they must be complained about so everyone knows they're bad; that it's bad to be plural and have plural experiences).

Also, on a related note – these kinds of sentiments can very easily cause those new system members to feel like they're the problem. Please, if you're the type to get frustrated or annoyed when you get new members for whatever reason, let them know it's not their fault. Don't make them feel like a chore or a mistake or anything else negative. Don't leave those thoughts to fester. Don't cause a rift in your system just because you wanted to join in with the common system joke of hating to get new sysmates. Again, you don't have to suddenly stop being frustrated with the problems that increasing in member count may cause, but do not take that frustration out on your new members, and do not make them feel like a problem. Give them some room to figure themselves out, and show them support as they learn and grow into themselves. Have a talk with them, if you can. It's not their fault that their entrance into your system interrupted your tempo. You can find a new balance together.

(And, btw, that bit about causing others to feel like they're a problem also goes for the implications of your words towards large systems. It feels very estranging and uncomfortable to see so many folks complaining about getting new headmates and implying that it would be wrong of them to not do everything in their power to make sure they don't get any new introjects when we're a polyfragmented system who grows at the drop of a hat. I'm sure We're not the only large system who feels this way, either. Your jokes aren't made in a vacuum; other systems can see them.)

I am making an executive decision here to welcome each and every one of my new selves. I am annoyed to all hell and back with our amnesia and executive function problems keeping us from getting caught up on member profiles, but that's not the fault of anyone who moves in, and I'm not going to wallow in anguish over how our system operates and its tendency to throw new selves at us at the drop of a hat. I'm not going to beat myselves up when there's no good reason to. That's just doing my DID's work for it.

Gaining new system members isn't a crime. You can be neutral or even positive about it. Please don't make your new system members feel unwelcome, and please don't let internalized pluralphobia snowball into a pattern of self-hate. It's fine to be a system, it's fine to gain new system members, and it's fine to find these things not just "fine", but an enjoyable and positive part of life.

[acracana]

//twst book 7 ch.12 spoilers

My Word Vomit on Ch. 12

I had a feeling with how they kept bringing up how much Silver has been using his um (over 20 times now) in the last chapter that there would be some type of repercussion for him. After this chapter, I’m 99.9% sure that they’re building up to it.

Idk what the repercussions would be, though. Maybe he just won’t be able to use his um for a while and his magic is depleted (though Ace’s um might solve the dream hopping part if that’s 's the case). There’s a chance he overblots ig but I doubt that’s the route the game takes. Silver reawakens his curse and falls into a deep sleep again? Weird turn but sure, I could see it happening under the right writing.

we also still don’t have Silver ssr card for book 7 (malleus and silver better be getting cards). I feel like we’ll be wrapping up book 7 soon. Hopefully, it’ll be less than like 50 more chapters. It’ll be interesting to see how they incorporate “knight of dreams” and “king of the abyss” for them. I sorta want to see them clash as a parallel to their parents, but I also think they should also just hug it out and talk about their feelings about Lilia leaving them. In the end, I feel like Silver understands Malleus’s feelings the most because they are losing the same person.

Ace’s discovery of his UM was so well executed. He’s having his character development guys 🥹. I didn’t think it would happen this quickly after his dream though—I thought we’d get a couple of more chapters without it. It’s very op, but I wonder if he needs to have a similar magic pool for him to completely use the other person’s UM. If not, then there’s the trump card for defeating Malleus but I really hope it’s not that easy.

I have a feeling that now that Ace has his um, it’ll play a big part in the fight against Malleus—whether he uses it for Malleus’s magic, Silver’s magic, or even someone else’s, but I hope that, in the end, the main conflict is between and resolved with the diasomnia members. For a book whose main themes revolves around them, family, and their lack of communication, the message has kinda been pushed to the back burner as they hopped between other characters’ dreams.

ALTHOUGH, I think Riddle’s Dream is good to tie back the book’s theme of family (maybe even its theme of forgiveness, but idk). Riddle obviously cares for his parents, and I don’t doubt that he still loves his mother despite everything. I feel like the fandom treats Mrs. Rosehearts as a one-dimensional villain (she’s a horrible mother, don’t get me wrong), but she acts as she does because she genuinely thinks that is what is good for her son and his future. But she ignores/dismisses her son’s attempts to communicate his wants/needs to her, which I feel is the main issue. I could draw some parallels between her and Lilia’s parenting methods, but I’ll open that can of worms on another day.

Ok, rant done. This chapter was so good, and the cliff-hanger is also *chef’s kiss*. I’m so excited for the book to be coming to and end soon. I still hope they go to crowley’s dream just because it would be funny (lore drop pls).