#my opinion is correct :owe:
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kulupu-ko · 2 years ago
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hi guys this is my first post on tumblr
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eff-plays · 1 year ago
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Actually, no, I disagree. Astarion has his reasons for many things he thinks and disapproves of, but some of them are just ... He doesn't like it when people are nice. He actively likes cruelty. Those are both true.
And yeah, you get why. He's well-written and his motivations are understandable! You can have a lot of very long and sad meta posts about how he thinks cruelty is natural and kindness is fake, but that doesn't remove his joy at cruelty and his distaste for kindness. Those things are still true. He can get better, yes. He does get better if you encourage him to. But he starts out as an absolute jackass.
Stop woobifying him fr. He's a piece of shit, even if he's a well-written one. Just because you understand him doesn't mean he's right or somehow the only sane person in the group. Cruelty is not intelligence, kindness is not a weakness. xoxo <3
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prokopetz · 3 months ago
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On the origin of oozes:
When googling it seems that ooze type enemies came about with dnd.
Are you aware of earlier origins? It does not seem farfetched to assume that some fantasy book had them before that.
(also, best ooze in your opinion?)
It's broadly correct that the ooze monster in its modern form comes to us via Dungeons & Dragons (with considerable influence from D&D-inspired Japanese console RPGs like Dragon Quest). However, like many other classic D&D tropes, its antecedents were present in the sword and sorcery literature of the 20th Century – ooze monsters just seem like they sprung into existence fully formed in D&D's monster manuals because nobody reads sword and sorcery lit anymore.
While there are no doubt earlier precedents, I'd be inclined to point to early 20th Century cosmic horror fiction as the point where the modern giant-amoeba-like notion of the ooze monster really became a standard trope. We can see a clear prototype of the modern ooze monster in Lovecraft's shoggoths, first described in detail in At the Mountains of Madness (1931), for example; from there, the line to the sword and sorcery literature that would go on to form the basis of Dungeons & Dragons is a short one. This certainly isn't the first example of the type – I just don't have an earlier one at my fingertips.
As for my favourite ooze monster, I've gotta give it to the gelatinous cube, one of the few examples of the type which truly is original to Dungeons & Dragons – in fact, it could only have come from D&D, owing to the peculiarities of its creation. It started out as a sort of dungeon hazard, an "invisible" ooze which concealed itself by being completely transparent and conforming perfectly to the shape of any passage that it occupied; however, since old-school D&D expected players to produce their own dungeon maps as they went, and made their job easier by abstracting dungeon floorplans onto a grid of ten-foot squares, the idea of the gelatinous cube quickly shifted from "ooze which perfectly fills any passage it occupies" to "ooze which evolved to be a perfect ten-foot cube in order to block a standard ten-foot-by-ten-foot dungeon hallway". It's incredibly dumb, and I love it.
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innuendostudios · 2 months ago
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New Alt-Right Playbook! This one's on spurious claims and how they don't even need to be ARTICULATED to follow you around.
If you wanna keep this series coming out (and maybe help it come out a little faster) do please consider backing me on Patreon or subscribing to me on Nebula.
Transcript below the cut.
Say, for the sake of argument, you are the kind of progressive leftist with a platform who gets a share of harassment - seasonal or perennial - from reactionaries. In this situation, you will, inevitably, hear one who positions themself as a reasonable moderate ask, “Why Don’t You Respond To Criticism?”
There’s a lot going on in that question, more than is obvious, and it’s worth understanding.
First is that the question is not only directed at you. It exists as a marker, showing up in your Q&A’s, comment sections, or Twitter threads, to imply to anyone paying attention to you that there is some wealth of legitimate criticism you have long ignored. There may well be a specific point this person is referring to, but it’s often left unspecified or generalized, so that the content - and the quantity - of the criticism is left to audience imagination. It is meant to publicly undermine your legitimacy.
Second, it’s meant to make you question whether there is some legitimate criticism out there in the din of people screaming at you. You’re not perfect, and a knock-on effect of being harassed is you get numbed out, unable to discern good faith from bad, often removing yourself from the streams through which your peers used to correct you because of the endless flow of garbage coming through those channels now. But the only way to verify the ambiguous claim that there is criticism worth responding to is to once again strap on waders and climb in, which is often what your critic really wants.
Third, the question isn’t really “why don’t you respond to criticism?” Odds are, you do respond to some criticism. People in your position are often addressing or pre-empting criticism all the time, arguably too much. No, what this nonspecific question is really asking is, “Why don’t you respond to my criticism?” They’ll let it sound like you’ve been ignoring everyone, but they mean “why are you ignoring me?” They are going to insist you owe them a response, that their critique, regardless of your opinion of it, is valid, and demands immediate attention. Odds are there are dozens of people saying the same, all at once.
Fourth, odds are good that you have, in fact, addressed their specific complaint, but not in a manner they will accept. This one person’s criticism is likely not unique, you may have covered it somewhere in your output purely because you know what kind of arguments are getting thrown at you and you want to cover your bases. There’s a decent chance your critic doesn’t actually consume enough of your work to have seen it. But it’s maybe even more likely that they are aware of your counter-argument - possibly one of your fans directed them to it - but don’t consider a response legitimate unless it is directed at the critic. Covering it in a different context or on a different platform doesn’t count. They are owed a statement they can respond to directly, because they want the argument to continue. Really, the question is, “Why don’t you respond to my criticism on my terms?”
Finally, even if you did respond to them by name, it’s likely your response would still be disqualified. If you were to summarize their argument in any way, they would claim you are building a straw man. If you isolated any specific critique, or pointed to the cruelty that accompanied it, they would claim you’re cherry-picking. You must, it seems, first present the criticism, full and unabridged, before you may respond to it. Which is to say: the only “correct” way to respond to criticism is to platform the critic.
And there are dozens who expect this of you. Who will tear into you for not addressing, in meticulous detail, every single critique they’ve ever tossed your way, and, in the same breath, make fun of you for talking too much. Because they don’t want to move on from “Why Don’t You Respond to Criticism?” As a rhetorical tactic, it’s pretty ace. To announce, before the argument is even stated, that it is thus far undefeated? ::chef’s kiss:: Because any response you make will keep the focus on you and not their argument. “It’s not worth responding to.” “Well why should The Accused get to decide what is and isn’t worth responding to?” “I have responded, repeatedly.” “Well why didn’t you respond in this particular way?” None of this looks at whether the argument had any credibility to begin with, only at whether your rebuttal is following procedure.
Take, for example, the hypothetical criticism that you should not listen to me because I am just four eels in a trenchcoat. How would I respond to that? What can I say that isn’t exactly what four eels in a trenchcoat would say? “I’m not even wearing a trenchcoat”? Well, the first thing four eels would do when people start to catch on is wear hoodies. Show my birth certificate, saying I was born a single entity to a human mother at a weight four newborn eels wouldn’t add up to? Well, did that work for Obama? Or did the guy saying the birth certificate was fake get elected President? And, of course, anything I have to say about how fascism has evolved on the social internet is suspect if I can’t even prove I’m human. What do fish know?? We stayed at war with Iraq for seven years after the government announced the Weapons of Mass Destruction we were looking for never existed, and some people, to this day, still think we found them. What hope would I - a warm-blooded mammal who would make very mediocre sushi - stand in the face of that? [bell chime]
So, if you ever see this claim out in the wild, “why haven’t you responded to _____,” ask: do you know what _____ is, do you yourself agree it’s a valid question, and are you sure it hasn’t already been answered? And don’t repeat the question unless you’ve got three yesses.
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factsinallcaps · 4 months ago
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I have to know-- what's ur opinion on this
LOOK, I'M JUST GOING TO, RIGHT HERE, ANSWER THE MANY, MANY "BUT COULD YOU PRONOUNCE THIS A CERTAIN WAY IF YOU PRONOUNCED ALL THE LETTERS DIFFERENT THAN THEY SHOULD BE PRONOUNCED" MESSAGES I'VE BEEN GETTING
THE ANSWER IS NO, YOU CANNOT TAKE LETTERS-AS-USED-IN-ONE-WORD AND TRANSPLANT THEM TO PLACES IN OTHER WORDS AND EXPECT THEM TO BEHAVE THE SAME. THE W IN "ANSWER" IS THE SAME W THAT'S IN "WALL." THE "H" IN "GHOST" IS THE SAME ONE THAT'S IN "HELP." "T" IN "LISTEN" IS THE SAME ONE THAT'S IN "TANK," AND THE EXTRA "A" IN "AARDVARK" IS NO MORE SILENT THAN THE SECOND "O" IN "DOOR." TWO A'S IN A ROW MAKES A DIFFERENT SOUND THAN ONE A IN A ROW.
THE REALITY IS, IF YOU TOOK THOSE LETTERS OUT OF THOSE WORDS, AND PUT THEM TOGETHER AGAIN TO SPELL "WHAT," THEY WOULDN'T BE SILENT ANYMORE, BECAUSE THEIR PRONUNCIATION, OR LACK THEREOF, IS BASED ON THE CONTEXT OF WHERE THEY FALL IN THE WORD, AND WHAT THEIR ETYMOLOGY IS. IF YOU TOOK ALL THOSE LETTERS AND REASSEMBLED THEM INTO "WHAT," IT WOULD BE PRONOUNCED LIKE "WHAT."
A LOT OF PEOPLE KEEP ASKING THESE QUESTIONS BASED ON THE CONCEPT OF WHETHER IT'S "VALID" TO PRONOUNCE CERTAIN LETTERS SPECIFIC WAYS, BASED ON THE FACT THAT THEY'RE PRONOUNCED THAT WAY IN CERTAIN WORDS. UNFORTUNATELY FOR THEM, LETTERS HAVE NO INHERENT PRONUNCIATION WHATSOEVER. THEY'RE PRONOUNCED THE WAY WE PRONOUNCE THEM BECAUSE OF A COLLECTIVE AGREEMENT BY SPEAKERS OF ANY GIVEN LANGUAGE TO PRONOUNCE THE LETTERS USED IN THAT LANGUAGE'S ALPHABET IN MUTUALLY AGREED-UPON WAYS.
SOMETIMES THERE'S SPECIAL-USE CASES THAT COME FROM A WORD'S ROOT LANGUAGE-- FOR INSTANCE, "J" IS PRONOUNCED DIFFERENTLY IN SPANISH AND ENGLISH. THE WORD "FAJITA" EXISTS IN ENGLISH, AS IN ITS ORIGINAL SPANISH, AND THE J IS STILL PRONOUNCED THE SAME WAY AS IT WAS IN SPANISH
AND, CRUCIALLY, THERE IS ALREADY A MARGIN-OF-ERROR IN WHAT WE ALLOW RE: PRONUNCIATION. THIS IS HOW DIFFERENT DIALECTS AND ACCENTS FORM. MY APPALACHIAN COUSINS AND I UNDERSTAND THAT EVEN THOUGH I'M SAYING "WIN-DOH" AND THEY'RE SAYING "WIN-DER," WE'RE BOTH SAYING THE SAME WORD: "WINDOW," BECAUSE -OW AT THE END OF A WORD IS PRONOUNCED DIFFERENTLY IN MY ACCENT AND THEIRS. WHEN SOMEBODY WALKS UP TO ME AND SAYS "LET ME ASK YOU A QUESTION" BUT THEY PRONOUNCE IT LIKE "AXE," I KNOW WHAT WORD THEY'RE USING.
I'VE MET PEOPLE NAMED, FOR INSTANCE, ROXHINA AND UXHINE, PRONOUNCED IDENTICALLY TO THE ENGLISH NAMES "REGINA" AND "EUGENE," BECAUSE IN THEIR FAMILY'S LANGUAGE, THOSE LETTERS WERE PRONOUNCED DIFFERENTLY.
I HAVE ALSO SEEN PEOPLE SPELL THINGS INCORRECTLY, IF SERVICEABLY, IN WAYS THAT IT'S EASY TO LET SLIDE BECAUSE IT'S CLEAR THEY WERE GOOD-FAITH EFFORTS TO COMMUNICATE THE MEANING OF THE WORD-- FOR INSTANCE, IN A BAR I SOMETIMES WORK AT, THERE IS A BOX LABELED "CHAMPAIGN GLASSES." THAT'S NOT THE CORRECT SPELLING, BUT ANYBODY WHO KNOWS HOW TO PRONOUNCE THE WORD "CHAMPAGNE" IS GOING TO UNDERSTAND WHAT THE LABEL MEANS. THAT'S ALL LANGUAGE IS-- A GOOD-FAITH EFFORT TO CONVEY MEANING BASED ON A SHARED UNDERSTANDING OF WHAT WORDS MEAN AND HOW THEY ARE CONSTRUCTED.
ALL OF THIS WAS VERY EASY FOR ME TO ACCEPT! BUT IF SOMEONE FROM APPALACHIA, WHO SPEAKS THE SAME LANGUAGE AS ME, WROTE THE WORD "XHOWL" ON A PIECE OF PAPER AND EXPECTED ME TO UNDERSTAND THAT IT MEANT "GIRL," BECAUSE IN ALBANIAN "XH" IS PRONOUNCED "G" AND IN APPALACHIA "OW" IS SOMETIMES PRONOUNCED "ER," I WOULD NOT FEEL LIKE THEY HAD MADE A GOOD-FAITH EFFORT TO EFFECTIVELY COMMUNICATE THE WORD "GIRL."
SO MY ULTIMATE ANSWER HERE IS THAT I DISAPPROVE OF ATTEMPTS TO FIND ESOTERIC WAYS TO PRONOUNCE LETTERS OR SPELL WORDS THAT MAKES IT IMPOSSIBLE FOR SOMEONE TO MAKE THAT GOOD-FAITH EFFORT. WHETHER IT'S "YOU CAN SPELL FISH AS GHOTI, AS LONG AS YOU SAY ALL THE LETTERS WRONG," OR "YOU CAN PRONOUNCE 'WHAT' SILENTLY IF YOU DON'T SAY ANY OF THE LETTERS" I AM GENERALLY NOT IN FAVOR OF THESE FAKE-DEEP, DESPERATE-TO-BE-CLEVER ATTEMPTS AT SAYING "YOU KNOW, IF YOU DISRESPECT THE LISTENER AND/OR READER'S GOOD-FAITH EFFORT TO UNDERSTAND YOU BY MAKING AN INTENTIONAL EFFORT TO BE DIFFICULT TO UNDERSTAND, THEN ENGLISH HAS NO RULES!"
IF ANYONE IS INTENDING TO SEND ME A "WHAT ABOUT--" SORT OF MESSAGE TO THIS, REFER BACK TO THE BEGINNING OF THIS POST AND THEN KEEP READING UNTIL YOU DON'T SEND THAT MESSAGE.
TL;DR - ANYONE WHO SAYS SHIT LIKE THIS WAS ALREADY MOCKED IN THIS COMEDY SKETCH AND I ROUGHLY AGREE WITH MESSRS. FRY AND LAURIE
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qiu-yan · 3 months ago
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one topic i've been interested in lately is the idea of moral luck.
let's start somewhere else. i was surprised to learn that the question of "do moral dilemmas exist" is actually debated upon in moral philosophy. broadly speaking, a "moral dilemma" is a situation in which the agent can only choose one of several mutually exclusive options, and yet the agent has moral reasons compelling them towards each option. some philosophers have argued that, given a sufficiently robust moral philosophy, a "genuine" moral dilemma cannot exist: the moral philosophy will organize the differing moral reasons for each course of action into a hierarchy, in which more important moral reasons override the others; thus, the moral philosophy will always be able to identify one or more correct courses of action.
based on my own analysis - if one takes a more moral-pluralistic point of view, though, this is no longer true. moral pluralism indicates the view that multiple different values can all be equally valuable and morally significant, even when they are contradictory. in this case, a moral reason may not be able to override another moral reason. in my opinion (which i am not sure if lines up with official ideas of moral pluralism), this entails the return of the moral dilemma. after all, if the agent can only choose one of several mutually-exclusive courses of action, and the agent has genuine moral reasons for each course of action, and these moral reasons also cannot override each other - then it seems the agent is doomed. no matter what the agent chooses to do, they will be violating some moral reason. they will be committing some moral wrongdoing.
the idea that someone is doomed to commit some moral wrongdoing is referred to as moral tragedy.
this is all kind of abstract, so let us consider a more concrete example. first, let's consider the trolley problem. from a deontological perspective, the perfect duty of not violating the categorical imperative by killing the 1 person comes before the imperfect duty of taking action to save 5 people from death; hence, the correct choice is to not pull the lever. from a utilitarian perspective, the outcome in which 5 people live and 1 person dies involves less harm than the outcome in which 1 person lives and 5 people die, so pulling the lever is the correct choice. however, from a more morally pluralistic point of view, both the choice of pulling the lever and not pulling the lever involve violating some moral duty. people have a moral duty to not kill people, and people also have a moral duty to not allow people to die through inaction. you can only either kill the 1 person to save the 5 people or allow the 5 people to die through inaction. no other choice exists. thus, no matter what choice you make, you will be violating one of those two moral duties; you are trapped in a moral tragedy.
now let's consider another example. suppose you are jiang cheng, and wei wuxian has just busted wen ning's wen remnants out of the jin labor camp at qiongqi pass. from a more morally pluralistic point of view, you are also caught in a moral tragedy: no matter what choice you make, you will be violating some moral duty.
if you choose not to stand by wei wuxian, then you are violating some of your moral duties. wei wuxian is your martial brother; you have a duty towards him. wen ning and wen qing helped you greatly in the past; by the virtue of reciprocity, you owe it to them to help them too. furthermore, as a human being, you have a moral duty to stand against the mistreatment of innocent people. choosing not to stand by wei wuxian entails violating all three of these moral duties.
however, if you choose to stand by wei wuxian, then you are also violating some of your moral duties. you are the leader of the yunmeng jiang sect, which is currently recovering from near-absolute annihilation and thus lacks the resources the other great sects have. as the leader of yunmeng jiang, you are its representative: thus, you standing by wei wuxian when he has alienated lanling jin means that you are making yunmeng jiang stand against lanling jin. and since the jin sect is tied to the other two great sects via the venerated triad, if yunmeng jiang stands against lanling jin, then the situation will become all three of the other great sects against your one weak recovering sect.
you are the leader of the people in yunmeng jiang. those people just fought a war for you. as their leader - or even simply as someone for whom these people bled and suffered - you owe it to them to put them first. as a leader you exist for your people. if you act in violation of what is best for your people's safety and happiness, if you actively choose to put them in danger, then you have broken the social contract by which they gave you authority. then you have failed your duty. and since choosing to stand by wei wuxian puts everyone under your protection in danger, choosing to stand by wei wuxian entails violating your moral duty as a leader.
so. no matter what choice you as jiang cheng make, you will be violating some moral duty. you will be committing some moral transgression. you are caught in a moral tragedy.
from a morally pluralistic point of view, any choice in a moral tragedy entails some moral wrongdoing. so what determines whether you end up in a moral tragedy or not?
luck.
it's commonly said that a person's moral character can be determined from the choices they've made in their life - judge a man by his actions and all that. in other words, we look at what moral violations he has committed, as well as what morally upstanding acts. and yet! if he's ended up in a moral tragedy before - then he had no choice but to commit a moral violation, because all of the available choices were moral violations! does that mean that a person's moral character is subject not just to his own choices, but to luck as well? whether or not you can be called a good person or a bad person is affected also by merely how lucky or unlucky you were?
i do not personally use the framework of "good person" vs "bad person" very often; the utilitarianism i favor cannot be used to judge entire moral characters. however, it certainly is the case that other people will judge an individual's entire moral character by the choices they've made. and yet, it seems that - again and again - the concept of moral luck is not considered.
who did not have moral luck? who ended up in a moral tragedy?
wei wuxian. jiang cheng. lan xichen. jin guangyao. nie mingjue. and many others.
who did have moral luck? who avoided all the moral tragedies?
lan wangji.
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thebadboyfanclub · 2 years ago
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You Bled For Them, You Decide Pt.2 (Daemon x Reader)
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So a lot of people requested a part two of this and had some requests on what should it be about, the stakes were high so I hope I did not disappoint you. Enjoy!
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Part one
(Y/n) was not a fool, she was sure that the second she steps foot in Targaryen ground all eyes would be on her, the mystery woman that managed to tame the rogue prince. She despised that nickname, (y/n)s opinion was that her dear husband had simply leaned towards violence to make up for the pain he had felt, Daemon was a passionate man which meant he loved as deeply as he hated, she knew Daemon would burn the seven kingdoms to ensure that their family is safe, he was a man of honour.
“Do you truly believe a character like prince Daemon has settled?”
“It certainly looks like it, he hasn’t stepped away from her and the children for longer than a minute”
“The children… well at least with this union no one can question their true parentage”
Otto whispered the last part only for his daughter queen Alicent to hear. Everyone was at awe how none of the kids had inherited their mothers features except small details,(y/n) adored the fact that they looked like the father, she was unaware what a big role on their safety that played.
“I believe we must introduce ourselves, would be interesting”
Alicent suggested while her father hummed in agreement, in almost complete unison they began to walk towards the couple that was pre occupied with the king.
“Alicent and Otto, to what do we owe the pleasure?”
Daemon questioned ironically, (y/n)s eyebrow was raised in confusion as she looked up at him for clues about the sudden change on his demeanour.
“Prince Daemon, it’s been so long since we last saw you, you were newly widowed at the time”
“Widowed?”
(Y/n) never pressured Daemon to speak of his past, he revealed what he wished while he laid on her chest and let her to brush his silver hair with her fingers. Daemons eyes squinted at the smart remark Lord Otto had thrown at him, he was looking for a way to cause a problems in his marriage.
“Your lady wife seems oblivious to the fact that you were wed prior”
Alicent noticed, (y/n) tried to keep her composure and patiently wait until they are alone to question her husband. Daemon was ready for war, they were pushing the boundaries in order to get what they want, to destroy what he worked so hard for and he wasn’t going to stand for it.
“I was forced into a marriage for alliance that is correct, (y/n) is my first true match, I thank the Gods for sending her to me every morrow”
Daemon was being genuine, his lady wife had been a miracle, the Gods took pity on him and showed him what it is like to have a reason to come back from battle alive. Daemon took his (y/n)s hand in his to place a kiss on her knuckles, (y/n) smiled even though her mind had stored the new information for another time, it wouldn’t be wise to pick a fight while attending a funeral.
“Such tender words, I am glad you have left your infatuation with princess Rhaenyra behind you”
The sentence that was spoken from the Queens lips made (y/n)s blood ran cold, the woman that she had just been introduced to had an affair with Daemon? It could not be, she was a married woman, the daughter of his own brother, “no that wouldn’t stop him, he is a Targaryen” she thought as her hands started to shake from anger. Thankfully her eldest daughter cut the conversation short before push came to shove and (y/n) showed her temper, the girl was panting while her cheeks were severely blushed from running around, she hadn’t been this blissful in weeks.
“Mother, can me and Aemond go play in the shore?”
“Aemond?!”
Daemon exclaimed, earning a side eye from everyone, if he had it his way his children would never play along side Alicents children, maybe little Heleana would be an exception but that would be it, especially when it came to his precious daughters he hated when they would be boys around them, even worst if they were hightowers.
(Y/n) did not spare a look at her lord husband, she simply tucked away a few strands of hair that seemed to stick on the young girls sweaty forehead and smiled lovingly, Alyssa was in much need of a companion, she loved her siblings but she would always have to take care of them.
“Of course my little deer, better yet I’ll come with you. I would love to meet your new friend Aemond”
-
(Y/n) had managed to discreetly slip away from everyone, she found joy at watching her daughter play carelessly with her new friend, the timid Aemond that barely raised his gaze to (y/n) when introduced, still he ran with Alyssa around the shore as they had both taken their shoes off and splashed in the water.
(y/n) could stay like this together, away from everyone with her family while they enjoyed the simple things life had to offer, it’s what her and Daemon had in common, although she could identify that Daemon had missed his brother, perhaps he missed princess Rhaenyra as well.
“Come along sweetlings, it’s getting dark”
“Mother please just a few more minutes”
“Fine, I will make sure your siblings are sleeping and then I will come back to escort you”
“Thank you lady (y/n)”
Aemond replied with the utmost respect. (Y/n) simply smiled as she turned her back on the children, with the assistance of a kind knight she was guided to the room (y/n), Daemon and little Johanna would occupy for the night, she had already peeked inside the other rooms for her children to find the sleeping peacefully.
To her misfortune she never had great memory when it came to directions, getting lost by turning left instead of right or was it right instead of left? She cursed under her breath for not looking around for clues when she had the chance.
“I need you uncle, I cannot fight them alone”
“You know I would support you if war occurred Rhaenyra”
The voices that reached her ears made her come to a halt, her back found the cold wall to rest so she can listen to her husbands conversation with the princess, she had put on such a brave fight to forget what was said about their affair before (y/n) came to his life, excusing it as a spur of a moment and feelings long forgotten, now there she was hiding in the dark to catch them whispering.
“I do not need you as a soldier Daemon, i want us to bind our blood”
“Rhaenyra”
“Do you love her?”
Tears welled up in (y/n)s eyes, this could not be. He brought to his homeland just to embarrass her? To parade his children and leave (y/n) in the dust? Did she marry such a cruel man? She felt like her heart was going to come out her throat at the sound of those words.
“More than life itself”
“So my love for you meant nothing?”
“You were a child Rhaenyra, we both made mistakes”
“You did not love me?”
“Of course I did”
“My love?”
(Y/n) came out of her hiding spot, she wasn’t going to let the princess sway her husbands words, Daemon had declared his love and the princess did not want to give up, she was toying with (y/n)s wedlock like the life of her and her children including the pain this will cause meant nothing.
Daemon focused on his wife, smiling at the sight of her, Rhaenyra turned to face her as well, Daemon could see that (y/n) heard everything, he identified the fire of fury in her eyes, she appeared with reason.
“Where are the children my dear?”
“Alyssa is playing with Aemond, I will go to collect them now but I have seem to get lost within the castle”
“I shall escort you then, excuse me princess Rhaenyra”
Daemon took (y/n)s hand in his as they left Rhaenyra in shambles, he left her for (y/n), his morals did not buckle at the slightest, not even for Rhaenyra.
As they turned the corner (y/n) took off her polite mask, her hand gripped on to his as she held him back from walking even further, Daemon felt his heart skip a beat at the fact that (y/n) was clearly upset. He did not prepare her correctly for this visit, he should have known that the greens would try to tear them apart.
“A wife? An affair? With your own niece at that”
“All before I met you my love”
“That’s not my point, I looked like a fool in front of everyone. Here I am, your wife that did knew nothing of these acts of yours, we are a union and we appeared weak against the hawks eye”
Daemon had guessed she would be frustrated about the acts, he couldn’t be more wrong. (Y/n) had heard of tales about her husband, his thirst over women, she only cared about how she appeared like their union was fickle, that they were secrets between them.
Daemon let out a breath before he took (y/n) for a hug, she did not respond immediately but gave in to wrapping her arms around him after a moment.
“I apologise my love, I will fix it”
“You better or you will have to start looking for a third wife”
Haste heavy steps pulled them apart from one another, curiosity taking over them as they waited for the person to appear. A knight stood before them, clearly stressed, (y/n)s heart clenched tight.
“The kids”
“Your children are alright however you must follow me”
The couple ran to wherever the knight guided them, (y/n) was the first to burst in the room, Alyssa stood next to her friend Aemond who was getting stitched up in the eye. (Y/n) skipped over to her and instantly started looking for wounds, Daemon took in the room as everyone gathered, Baela and Rhaena crying in their grandmothers arms and Lucerys had a nose bleed as he was also crying.
“I am unharmed mother”
“What happened? I told you to be careful with Aemond”
“It wasn’t my fault, Aemond claimed a dragon so we went for a flight when we got ambushed by the others that claimed Vhagar was meant for Rhaena and I… mother I swear I tried to defend Aemond, it was four against two”
“It’s alright my dear, you did your best”
Alyssa spoke honestly, Jacaerys had restrained her when the others attacked Aemond, everything happened so fast she did not have time to process what to do, she did everything she could to defend Aemond, now he had lost his eye.
(Y/n) hugged her daughter tightly, thanking the Gods for sparing her daughter from harm. Everyone was occupied with blaming one another to notice (y/n) wince from pain, her labour had started, she had been through this multiple times she had knowledge of the pains starting early, it was not the time to focus on that as of yet.
“It was my sons that were attacked and forced to defend themselves, vile accusations were spoke from prince Aemond”
“No he did not”
“Alyssa”
“No mother they attacked him”
“He held a rock”
“After you started beating him and then you took a knife out you meant to kill him”
Alyssa was furious, she had seen everything and was appalled by such hostile behaviour especially within family members. Alyssa had grown into an environment that love and respect was shown to everyone, to be met with such hatred was a new found grown for the young girl, Daemon smirked at her daughter fighting against princess Rhaenyra and cutting her off before she could finish, Alyssa had a backbone stronger than any child her age.
“My king this is the highest of treachery and since the girl wants to take prince Aemonds side I ask both of them to be questioned for their treason”
“my child nor any will be questioned like they are criminals, I would have hoped for a woman of such high rank to have some respect for a child that has been permanently scarred from your own kin”
“Are you accusing me of something lady (y/n)?”
“I am defending what’s right which is what my daughter did as well, you are protecting your own and so will I”
“Enough!”
The king intervened. Daemon tried to bring (y/n) back from her anger by placing a hand on her shoulder, truly he did not want to do it still he worried over how heavily pregnant wife, she should not feel any type of uneasiness at such delicate state.
He was certain (y/n) could stand her ground and defend their family better than anyone, a side of him relished it when (y/n) pushed back at others and protected their children, her fire and quick tongue was his favourite things about her.
“Lady (y/n) is right, princess Alyssa has done nothing wrong”
“She stood against the heir”
“She defended her friend, titles don’t mean shit to our family pri- ow”
She could not hold back any longer, she felt liquid ran against her leg as the pain similar to knife cutting her belly made her lose her cool. Daemon was quick on his feet as (y/n) put her hands on her knees to hold herself up against the pain, daemon wrapped his hands around his wife to help her up, worry written all over his face.
“What is it my love?”
“My labours started”
“Maester-“
“No maesters, take me to my room now”
She interrupted the queen, everyone stood still not knowing what to do next. Alyssa stood next to her mother so she can rub her belly to soothe the pain, she had been present at the birth of her siblings for as long as she remembered, it was almost muscle memory now.
“Lady (y/n) I promise you i am very experienced with delivering babes for the royal-”
“Oh Fuck off will you? I said no fucking maesters, Daemon please hurry or I will push this babe out for your entire family to see”
“As you wish my love”
In one swift motion Daemon swooped (y/n) from her feet to rush her to the privacy of their own room, Alyssa followed quickly with queen Alicent, the Maester and princess Rhaenyra hot on their trail, as they were all amazed by (y/n)s resilience they wanted to witness the woman giving birth on her own, as (y/n) breathed heavy she leaned her head on her husbands shoulder.
“This is going to be a quick one”
(Y/n) could time her pains growing stronger at such short period of time, her babe was rushing to come out to the point (y/n) did not think she would make it to her room.
Fortunately she was wrong, as Daemon kicked the door open to quickly lay (y/n) in the bed Alyssa sat behind her mother to help her sit up while the mothers back laid against her daughters chest. Alyssa admired her mothers strength more than anything, she viewed (y/n) as the strongest person alive and loved that she was allowed to be included to the birth of her siblings, secretly scheming to follow the tradition of a private birth.
“Everyone out”
“The maester should stay in case of any assistance-“
“Daemon I can feel the head”
(Y/n) screamed from the pain, roaring her babe out that did not wait for anyone or anything. The family quickly forgot the presence of outsiders as they supported (y/n) for her birth, (y/n) held her daughter with one hand as Daemon lifted his wives dress to help her with any way he can.
“Almost there (y/n), give it one strong push and you will hold our babe in your arms”
He encouraged her while Alyssa stroked her mothers hair with her free hand. The trio that stood a few meters away were like statues, the queen was deeply moved by the love that lingered in the room and Alicent clenched the charm of the seven that hang from her neck, her children’s birth so strongly connected with the people in the room, the family had a bond that was rare in this world.
Soon enough cries of the babe echoed in the room as everyone in unison let out a breath of relief, (y/n)s lips curved to a triumph smiled as she saw her babe for the first time, Alyssa kissed her mothers forehead as encouragement for a job well done, amazed at the view of another sibling brought to life.
“Praise the mother”
Alicent spoke as she was the first to approach (y/n) who stretched her arms to hold the baby, tears appeared on everyone’s cheeks except the maesters and the only thing you could hear was the cries of a newborn babe, what a magical sound that was to a mothers ears.
“A princess is born to driftmark, Maester let everyone know (y/n) delivered her babe”
Rhaenyra instructed, she internally admitted defeat since there was nothing she could do anymore, watching Daemon so involved in the birth and cry tears of joy as he held the bloody babe in his arms was enough proof of there romance having no chance of reconciliation. Daemon sat next to (y/n)s bed as he observed his wife holding their babe in her arms and their eldest holding her mother in her arms with her eyes full of love.
“Well done my moon, what a gift you blessed me with, another beautiful and heathy daughter”
“Welcome to our family Maegora”
(Y/n) whispered as she held her baby, Alyssa gasped at the choice of the name, Alyssa had suggested it a while back and her father had laughed at the choice and the fear it would install to everyone’s hearts.
Daemon was actually fond of the name, still he had a habit of teasing his children so he just leaned to kiss (y/n)s lips, she was so beautiful after she delivered their children, a glow unlike any other as the light of candles was the only source of light, his devotion to her was as deep as any religious person, his heart only beat because hers did.
“You are radiating my love”
Requests are open!
@slutmeoutsworld @ayamenimthiriel @the-phantom-of-arda @babystudentroadthing @pearlstiare @bxdbxtxh15 @lazypinkpig
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vanilleandclove · 5 months ago
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the meadow in which you lay | 3
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ser erryk cargyll x arryn!reader | chapter three: one for glory, another for honor
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When Prince Lucerys's claim to Driftmark is question, your cousin seeks your support as a pillar of strength. It has now been a near six years since you've seen your lover, you are near strangers, but no different.
word count: 2.4k | warnings: criston cole is a bitch, alicent got ate up twice, sexual references, give the reader a damn s** t**, clear description of wounds and stitches | a/n: did i accidentally age down jeyne? yes. rip jeyne arryn you would have loved pride month. (i still believe jeyne would have been great friends with luke and jace in my always correct opinion). also, three posts back-to-back??
previous - next
taglist: @wolvestitches @holb32 @callsignwidow
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"They mean to call Lucerys's claim to the Driftmark throne? What business do I have there?" you questioned your brother deeply, as Jeyne returned back from her walk with Jessamyn and greeted you both with kisses on your cheeks. "The Vale has Jeyne for it to be protected, I owe no business to defend the piss poor Hightowers" you continued.
"Rhaenyra, our cousin. If you can help her defend Luke's claim, they would not question defending her either" your brother reasoned, only leading your sinuses to burn and head to pound.
"Brother I know you mean well, but you know exactly what they think of our cousin and nephews" you responded, "And what treacheries Criston Cole rallies into Alicent's ear about me".
"And your paramour, Ser Erryk Cargyll" your brother quirked, only leading you to glare at him. "I believe it would strengthen your reputation and our cousin's".
"I or he would have to be married to be a paramour brother, watch your tongue".
"He is married to law Y/n, I only mean to protect you" your brother defended himself, "A Kingsguard is no-".
"No match for a husband, yes, I know and made acutely aware of said fact" you interrupted, "I do not need protection brother, I never needed protection" you continued, "I will go to court only if our cousin requests me to" getting up from your seat at the table and merely walking off until your brother spoke up.
"If you plan to avoid the knight, surely you can tell him by raven that you do not mean to continue your affections had you be in King's Landing" and with that suggestion came the fall of your heart, how deeply it shattered.
You simply nodded, not looking your brother in the eye after his suggestion, you could not. If you return to court, they will twist your words, they will make a spectacle about you just as they've done to your cousin. By proxy, they'll call into question the honor of your lover. He may have loved you, tasted you, and garnered your affections, by textbook, he broke no oath. By the conservative opinion of the Hightower's, he was a sinner, he had committed blasphemy.
That night you sat pondering on your vanity chair, cursing the gods for making you in love with a man you cannot have. As you toyed with the rings that laid on your fingers, you wondered if the world be different, if a wedding ring would be donned on them. A Kingsguard is no match for a husband, luckily you did not want to be matched to another. Who is to say you were a match to a wife, as the high lords sat like puppies to Otto Hightower, with the exception of the Vale, Riverlands, and the North. You once told Ser Erryk you loved him, you told a knight you loved him, words only a fool would utter.
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You ended up returning to court as Rhaenyra summoned you, the journey more exhausting than last. Six years have passed, Rhaenyra's boys have grown into young men, Laena's daughters as beautiful as always. You had greeted them upon their arrival as they trailed just behind you.
"Forgive us for always meeting in the worst of circumstances cousin" Rhaenyra sighed, her stomach had homed another child, you hoped it'd be a girl, knowing Rhaenyra always wanted a daughter or sister, "You've seemed to be glowing".
"I believe it is the thick air cousin" you laughed, "Daemon" you nodded at the Prince.
"Have you seen him yet?" Daemon asked, only earning a confused look from you. "The King".
"They would not let me visit, though I am sure they would let the Heir and his brother see to his bedside" you answered Daemon, "You two visit, I will see to it that the children will be settled down". Both Rhaenyra and Daemon nodded to your kindness.
You signaled the children to follow you, it had been years since they step foot into the Castle. Lucerys and Jacaerys found their way to the Red Keep to evaluate the guards practice, you'd join them after showing Joffery to his quarters and Rhaena to her twin sister.
At the Red Keep you quickly saw Erryk and Arryk sparring one another, as well as the spectators flooding the floor to oversee Criston and Aemond sparring. The Prince disarmed the cocky bastard, you snickered only to be caught by the cocky bastard himself.
"Lady Arryn you seem to be fond of the Red Keep, would you like to spar with us men? We have heard of your fierceness in the fields, granted, we hope you are just as fierce in bed" Criston smiled smugly.
You smiled back before looking at your nephews "Fetch me a Morningstar boys, and a shield, for Ser Criston" you instigated, all eyes now landed on you, including the Cargyll twins.
"Morningstar? To a sword fight? Scared to be disarmed?".
"Oh no you wound me Ser" you laughed as Lucerys handed you the Morningstar and Criston the shield, "Only to prevent another bloody fight like you started at my cousin's wedding".
As you waved the Morningstar around, you blocked several hits from Criston, hitting his shield twice which resulted into breaking it in half. After which you disarmed yourself, handing the Morningstar back to Lucerys, you quickly tripped the knight with your legs and climbed on top of him, his hands situated at your waist before you violently dislocated his shoulder before putting it back into place. His screams shocked the spectators, but it was not until he pulled out a blade and stabbed into your thigh did they react.
"Enough!" Erryk quickly intervened, seeing the bloody mess that leaked from your thigh, the rage that coursed through your veins immediately translated to you removing the blade and stabbing into Criston's hand to pin him to the ground once and for all. Though Erryk must admit, your sheer violence to the knight was, well sexy, it did not discount your own injury and how that worried him.
"See to that the Lady Arryn is handled by the Maesters, Ser Criston as well" Arryk told several guards, you looked at your nephews with pride before speaking.
"Now that is how you get bloody revenge" they both laughed and beamed as Erryk carried you bridal style in order to maintain pressure to your wound, you caught a glimpse of Aemond as he had a look of shock. "Ser Arryk, please do not make a fuss of this to my cousin, granted Alicent might have my head for damaging her beloved whore".
Arryk only laughed at your words before Erryk swiftly walked through the halls, quick to enter your chambers and assess your wound that was bleeding profusely.
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"You are mad at me" you spoke up as Erryk cleaned your wound, long minutes have passed since he undressed your bottom half of clothing, his hands were gentle but his gaze not, "Talk to me Erryk".
"Ser" he spoke up before cauterizing the wound in order to stitch, leading you to yelp out in pain and grip his free hand, "You could've gotten yourself killed Lady Arryn, you know well of Ser Criston's temper just as much as I".
"Well Ser, it was only a demonstration".
"You are a woman, a Lady no less, if one peeped to your brother, they would have his head on a spike in the Vale, granted the loves you gained in the North and the Riverlands would surely support his beheading" Erryk critiqued, before grabbing the needles and stitches, giving your legs another look.
"I know I am a woman, I know I am a Lady as well Ser Erryk" you fought back, "You want his head on a spike and hide behind the idea of my brother wanting to kill him, knowing fully my brother would not cause such hysterics unless he'd be backed by Rhaenyra and the bitch Hightowers were gone from court" you scoffed, only earning a small smile from the knight due to your obscenities. "Do not take your anger out on me Erryk, I know you better than anyone" you pleaded, the knight's quip to hurt you by not allowing you to refrain from politics and formalities.
He started the stitches before saying "Six years, I am near twice the man you left Lady Arryn" he started, one stitch fully weaved as you bit your lip to distract yourself from the pain, "Granted, I have never bedded a woman, nor have I sought the company of one seeing that I am bound to the King. I do not own lands and I know plenty of Prince Aegon's depravities. I know more of the histories of Westeros, better yet I know how to make the unmarried, fierce, who most claim to be barren, Lady Y/n Arryn, cum. I am a man, still the man you once loved" Erryk teased, weaving the second to last stitch.
"You take pride in the fact that you know how to get me off?" you chuckled, feeling the heat pool in between your legs.
"I take pride in the fact that you loved me" Erryk sighed, finishing the stitches before aiding you into dressing up and standing on your feet, "Though, I must say no food or sweet in the land can match the sweetness of you, Lady Arryn".
These past six years taught you more about restraint than you bargained for truly, if it were not for your wound and the oath being a vow of chastity, you'd wager that Ser Erryk would have already been spilling his seed in your womb, but, restraint.
"I still hold the same amount of love for you just as I did when we were younger" you told him, he shook his head once more as your confession rolled off your tongue, "I do not jest, I just know the repercussions that you can face. I can handle the great and smaller houses calling me a whore, I cannot handle you being exiled, perhaps beheaded for betraying an oath to the King".
Erryk stood there for a moment, afraid of his words betraying him and hurting you, "I'd give the King my neck if it meant you'd love me" he told you, his hand lightly grazing your knee, your pupils dilated as your eyes only focused on your lover. Emotions of love and pain in unison synchronized between the two of you, as if your energies converged with one another. Warmth and frost rushed through your blood.
"I love you, but that does not mean I am able to lose you like every wife who marries knows…" you started, when you marry one, the implication of death separating you when the gods take your lover is evident and prepared, "A life without you is not a life I want to live Erryk, you have taken my heart when I was barely a lady, now I am a woman and my loyalty to you never wavered- neither my pride".
A knock interrupted your conversation, causing you to jolt and Erryk to discard his hands from your body. "You may enter!" you cleared your throat, being met with Alicent.
Her eyes bore into your soul, she took notice to the knight in your chambers, "Back to your post Ser Erryk" she commanded, you took a glance at him, nodding for him to be eased into his dismissal. As he left, Alicent's lips pursed, you did not fear her no matter how much she wanted you to.
"You are excused from court Lady Y/n Arryn, may you begin your journ-".
"I did not come for you, Alicent" you interrupted, "I came to court for the likes and commitment to my dear cousin, not the Hightowers".
"Just your 'dear' cousin?" Alicent quirked a brow, "Or the lover you parade around who is clearly breaking an oath he made on his own, which should be punished as such".
"As such? What your father, the usurper, would have his head for simply being a trusted friend of mine?" you scoffed, staring back at her wildly, "Lay a finger on Ser Erryk or Arryk, you will be waging a war you and your father cannot fund or survive. You forget, we were never once sisters as you propagate everyone to believe, your victimization may work in the throne, but when it comes to one of the greatest houses, it falters".
Alicent smiled in fear as you were now face to face, "One day I hope we can be friends".
"I hope you find solace in the fact that we never will be. Your grace".
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As you all gathered in the throne room to contest the ascension of Lucerys to the Driftmark seat, as Lord Corlys health was questionable, the tension was thick. You still wondered what Rhaenyra needed you for in the means of defending your nephew's claim. Vaemond's vile insults that led to Daemon slicing his head in half, bringing the arguments to a close as there was no one else to contest Lucerys parentage and claim.
"Will you join us all for supper cousin?" Rhaenyra asked as you walked towards the Godswood tree, "Please I would not be able to tolerate Otto and Alicent alone".
"Only for you cousin" you giggled, "I take she informed you of the incident in the Red Keep this morning?".
"How is your leg?" Rhaenyra implored, observing how your leg had a faint limp to it, "She also insinuated you and Ser Erryk were engaged in- rather sexual activities".
"I'd need more than a half hour with him Rhaenyra" you quipped, "Criston is a cunt, if you asked me, I would not let him take my maidenhead" you looked to her, she rolled her eyes at the remark.
"We all have our regrets; you chose the better knight".
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yourheart-inmyhands · 7 months ago
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Just remembered the fallen god reader thingy- what if reader just one day regains their power ;)) and then just leaves them, I'm like super offended ;(( I dont wanna be mistreated by them
ahaha this ask made me chuckle a little! unfortunately my version of yandere archons aren't sweet in every scenario, i do still hope you enjoy though! :D
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Warning: this post contains yandere-themes, including mentions of being held against ones will, mentions of manipulation, mentions of violence, and other potential topics. Please read at your own risk!
Venti:
Well, he certainly can’t just let you leave, not after all that hard work he put into nursing you back to health. No no, don’t you see, you owe him. You could try and claim he was doing it out of the goodness of his heart, I mean he’s an Archon, a god just like you, doesn’t he see how unjust it is to demand payment?
You could beg and plead all you want, but unless your powers are enough to break the elemental barriers he’s set up, then I’m afraid you’re trapped. He won’t mistreat you, he’ll be nice and sweet to you so long as you behave, but your freedom will forever be removed.
“It’s not fair you say? A lot of things in this world aren’t fair, it’s just how it is.” His bright smile and humorous laugh do little to settle your unrest. No matter how hard you begged, how fast the tears poured from your eyes, or how strained your voice became from constant pleading, nothing worked. Perhaps if you learned to behave he’d let you see the sun again, until then, think long and well about all he had done for you. Remember exactly just how much you owe him for the things he’s done for you.
Zhongli:
He finds it curious that your powers have suddenly returned, but it does little to change his authority over you. Regardless of the strength you show or possess, Zhongli has ingrained into your mind just how weak and pathetic you are. You are nothing without him, your silly little powers mean nothing if you aren’t here with him. Can’t you see that? Can’t you see that you need him?
There’s little that would change about the dynamic between the two of you, if anything it just gives Zhongli an excuse to be around you more. His eyes seem to always be observing you now, watching keenly to ensure you don’t dare step out of line. There will be consequences if you should try.
“Dinner is done, come eat.” His tone is warm, but there’s a familiar sense of sternness in the undertone. Since the resurgence of your powers, Zhongli had made sure to remind you of your place below him. It didn’t matter how hard you fought, the elder god showed little remorse when overpowering you. It was astounding to think that even after the loss of his gnosis he could still hold such power over you, but then again, Morax wasn’t known as the War God for nothing.
Raiden:
She doesn’t believe you at first, those who lose their divinity are not simply granted it back. It would take a long while and many displays of your capabilities to convince her. It doesn’t much change her opinion of you though. Raiden still thinks you are foolish and weak to have lost your powers to begin with. And for that, you should suffer the consequences.
Every escape attempt or effort put in to fight back is quickly shut down. She doesn’t even let you build up the hope that you’ll be able to land a hit before she’s got you disarmed, pinned, and once more shown your place beneath her. It gets a bit frustrating, having to always correct your silly outburst.
“When will you learn that you are nothing compared to me? You should be grateful I have enough decency to put up with this behavior, if you were anyone else I’d have tossed you to the streets like the pathetic waste you seem keen on acting like.” Her words are as rough and painful as her hold on you is. She has you under her, pinned to the floor in the living room of her home. It’s an embarrassing sight, your face held down to the hardwood as she scolds you like a child. This wasn’t the first time it had happened, but Raiden had hoped that by now you’d have learned your lesson. She is getting incredibly fed up with you.
Furina:
Your return of power puts her in a tough position because before when you were powerless, she had something to hold over your head. Now, you hold the power and she’s left to flounder.
There isn’t much she can do to keep you from leaving, sobbing on her knees as you walk towards the front door. It wasn’t fair, it wasn't fair that you got to get back what you lost, it wasn’t fair that you got to still be connected to divinity when she was cut entirely from it. 
“Please, please don’t leave me…” Furina kneels on the ground, hands balled into fists as she begs and sobs. She can just barely see the sides of your shoes as you walk past, disregarding her as you head for the front door. When she’s sure you’re not looking she ceases her crying, the tears were fake from the start. Reaching for the pipe she hid under the couch, she silently grabs it before standing. It was easier to hit you, having stopped in the doorway to admire your freedom, you had been too caught up to hear the soft patter of her footsteps behind you.
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valar-did-me-wrong · 2 months ago
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The Orc family hate has finally broke me guys, so here's me ranting..
Someone I read on reddit today said correctly that (paraphrased here with tons of my own opinion added) these ROP Haters™ were initially all happy & excited with the show announcement pre character introductions. It was all well & good for them till the day ROP announced Ismael as an elf & Galadriel, a woman as the lead. Then these people got furious!
But most didn't want to bring forth or face their internalised misogyny & racism fueling this sentiment, so it became their life goal to dig into the legendarium to find points & tiny side notes to use to drag the show & justify the hate they were feeling.
From actively overlooking the meaning of 'Adaptation', to painting Newline Cinema & Warner Brothers as charity organizations unlike Amazon, to making PJ's story canon OVER Tolkien's, to digging up dirt on the producers being religious hence implying (pre premiere btw) that the show is pure christian propaganda... no stones were left unturned by varying varieties of ROP Haters™ who were all united at the pale white European elves & delicate feminine background character Galadriel front. All of which the rage bait youtubers utilise against ROP to this date!
Well this succeeded in affecting public sentiment during season 1 because the show was a little Tolkienian in pacing with characters & world building, along with the humongous Rights Problem & people being generally wary of prequels.
But by mid-end of Season 1 to now; despite the review bombing & all efforts for the past 2 years, neutral people started to watch the show themselves & realised one by one that it wasn't actually a disappointment as they were promised. It grew on some people without Hate in their heart & biases filling their minds! Hence the views & the positive comments grew, infuriating the Haters™ & fueling their mindless bullying.
Yet still these people were pretty sucessfully hiding behind their canon excuse untill The Orc Baby.
The Orc Family Hate & it's unhinged justification via convoluting the basic essence of LOTR; it shattered the illusion hiding what these ROP Haters™ are at their core.. just people desperate to destroy a thing that isn't in line with Their worldview. Because in their head the story is Theirs, the only valid interpretation is what They grew up watching & hence it owes Them to be made exactly how They deem correct!
Willing to distort a dead guy's life work to absolve themselves of their unjust hate & get a free pass to feel morally superior doing so!
Unhinged comments claiming the essence of Tolkien's writings is the existence of purely black & white differentiation of good & evil in his world!! Each one of them sounding like regurgitations from some youtuber's video who watched PJ's trilogy at 1.5× solely to farm hate veiws.
Frothing at the mouth over a 5 sec clip! Demanding a world where a whole race can be hated without using critical thinking; these are the same people who used to scream before last week that the reason they can't give ROP a chance is because ` They cannot watch a show without critical thinking `
Embarrassing hills these Haters™ keep dying on tbh
Haters™ does not equate honest critiques btw.. Haters™ are the delulu, moral superiority complex driven, hate stalkers of ROP. The show has faults & you can obviously point then out without being these people :)
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whityoungplushie · 2 months ago
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hello fellow aliens. I AM HERE TO DISCUSS SOMETHING ONCE AGAIN!! this time, instead of discussing xandvid. IM GOING TO TALK ABOUT CHARWHIT!!
(once again this could be spoilers for the new drdt episode, aka chapter 2 episode 12)
in the newest episode, i noticed something, that every single time charles would talk, whit would finish his sentence, this goes both ways. (whit saying something and charles finishes the sentence.) its also kind of weird that whit knows charles doesnt have a alibi, but this could just be a coincidence, we will never really know. BUT WHAT WE DO KNOW IS THAT CHARLES AND WHIT HAVE GOTTEN WAYYYY MORE CLOSER THAN AT THE BEGINNING OF THE GAME. WE CAN ALSO TELL THAT CHARLES IS TRYING TO BE MORE KIND TOWARDS WHIT. like for example, in chapter 2 episode 2, whit says "Oh, right. I did say he was my "friend" during that trial, didn't I. To be honest... That was a total lie! I only said that to make everyone believe my case! But I guess he took it to heart, or thinks he owes me, or something, because he's been weirdly nice as of late." blah blah blah whit goes on to say hes changed his mind, and that they are friends.
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and yes, i know. THIS COULD ALL MEAN NOTHING. but JUST THE FACT THAT CHARLES BECOME KINDER TOWARDS WHIT EVER SINCE THE TRIAL IS JUST. JUST SO SWEET I GUESS YOUD SAY??
so technically, what im trying to say is charwhit, no matter if you ship them romantically or platonically. THEY WERE MADE FOR EACH OTHER!!! in my opinion that is, and it's okay if you dont ship then at all, because at the end of the day everones opinions should be respected!
once again, thank you for reading all this. whats your opinion on the new episode?? id like to know! any theorys you guys want me to address?(if any of this information is wrong or something spelt wrong, please tell me so i can correct it! THANK YOU!!!)
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mayearies · 1 year ago
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✰ RECORD BOY
miles morales loves music but he loves you more. genre: fluff
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warnings: rio and me are married (correction: every person with the last name 'morales' is married to me) a/n: dont come at me yes i know his birthday was a week ago but i had this idea and i just 😭 i had to write it plus i didnt give him a proper happy birthday so 😢 pretend i posted this on his actual birthday ALSO RIO CONTENT YAYAAYAYAY
one of maye's personal favorites :D
e1610 miles had been your boyfriend for a while, and today was his special day. you contemplated for a while what your gift would be for him. he was the best you've ever had. of course he deserved the best gift ever. sooner or later, the answer was given to you.
—you politely knocked on the door of the morales household with a box wrapped in wrapping paper and tied with a bow. specifically black and red, cause y'know. rio opened the door and a smile lit up on her face. not like the sarcastic one she had when she first met you.
"hi, hun. you here for miles?"
as you stepped in, the room smelled of vanilla and ink? weird combo, yeah? "mhm, just wanted to swing by and say a quick 'happy birthday' to him."
"oh, that's sweet. he's in his room. ¿quieres un cupcake?" "oh! n-no, gracias."
considering how often you visited miles, you tended to pick up some spanish from his mom, which she gladly taught you. rio treated you like you were a close friend, which made miles happy to say the least. "i see your spanish has improved."
"yeah, thanks ms. morales." "of course! you're special person in my son's life, i owe it to you."
♡ well, you thought that was a little too high of a praise. it felt like the morales' were givers. like if someone were to do something for them which they said was small or no big deal, they would take it to an extent. it's something you would think about time to time. nonetheless, they were grateful of how trusting you were.
you pushed the cracked door of miles' room and found him where he always was—at his desk drawing in his sketchbook with his headphones on, humming along. you wonder how hard you fell for him when you first met.
you tapped his shoulder lightly, disturbing his quote on quote singing, he smiled brightly when he saw you. "hey, love."
he engulfed you into a big hug. his shirt was cozy and he smelled sweet. "baby! you came!"
"of course i did! how could i miss your birthday?" "you missed valentines day-" "hush."
miles clearly eyed the box as you asked him how he was doing. he gave short answers and sometimes ask you to repeat what you said. you sighed with a playful smile, "you wanna know what's in the present, don't you?"
"yes pleaseee."
you two sat on his bed and miles gently untied the bow and ripped the wrapping paper. the look on his face once he saw what was inside was nothing short of surprise. you smiled as he looked over to you with a shocked face. "you're serious?"
"uh huh. happy birthday, spidey."
♡ you went down to the record store and bought roughly around half a hundred worth of albums. of course knowing miles loves music basically to death, you knew all of his favorite artists. tyler the creator, brent faiyaz, pinkpantheress, bryson tiller, sza, to name a few. you had to get him albums for his record player.
miles sighed and changed his tone into somewhat more whiney as he put his head on you lap. "noo, don't do this to me, amor. i can't accept these."
"too bad, accept them." "but i don't even use my record player anymore! i know you are not out here buying me $20 albums on vinyl, ma." "it's fine, i'll make back the money. and let's put that record player to good use, yeah?" "... god, i love you and your persistence. makes you hotter in my opinion." "that's cause i know what you like."
♡ you took him to the rooftop and danced with him until sunset where you just sang songs together. it was the best birthday miles had so far, spending it with his favorite person. that person used to be a stranger.
"happy birthday, my record boy♡"
© mayeluvsu
597 notes · View notes
bunny-lily · 8 months ago
Text
Lift a Pen and Rewrite the Ending
Fluff for our broken fluffed-out hearts Dedicated to @bunny584 because ow. I promised fluff, so I’m delivering fluff
Pairing: Satoru x piano teacher!fem!reader
CW: just some fluff, man. We all need some happy, sappy moments in our lives with our beloved dumbass boy. 
You taught piano. Plain, simple, easy. At least, you thought so, before meeting an enigmatic man as your newest student. He played a little too well for a beginner, and seemed a little too familiar.
AN: I chose to post this on my side acc since this one was technically made for the exact purpose of writing JJK fics (same with the Ao3 acc (milk_bunny/chimeric-dreams for that one)). So, cheers to the first fic on this blog!
This was honestly scribbled down in a single sitting between 1-5 am. Please don’t judge any mistakes too harshly, I wanted to post it ASAP and not subject it to my endless course of corrections and re-writing.
This is also very short (lmao 6.7k words) for how my work is normally. Again, I just wanted to get it out as fast as I could ;w;
smol update: this has been (minorly) edited! nothing big, I mostly just went in and fixed up a couple mistakes + summoned my dearly beloved thesaurus. Otherwise, it's basically 98% the same as before!
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Music sheets laid scattered around you, annotated in messy scribbles in various colors, fonts, and sizes. A scratched out row of bars here, corrected or adjusted notes there, mindless rambles stuffed into the margins as you tried desperately to figure out which key to put your song into so that it matched the exact tone you were going for.
Not like you were some well renowned artist whose career rode on their sole ability to create magical orchestrations. No, you had barely any presence at all. The videos of your songs you posted on YouTube hardly scratched a couple hundred viewers at most, with the occasional comment from a bot or scammer getting your hopes up, only for them to go crashing back down. 
You weren’t some notable figure in the music industry, you were just a white-collar worker that taught piano from your tiny home part-time.
It suited you, you supposed, as bitter as you could feel at times. You were just a normie, a casual passerby who liked having your fingers spring and jump across the keys of your instrument. It was one you inherited from your grandmother. She was the one that taught you how to play when you were little, while your parents were busy working and couldn’t sit and entertain you all day like she could.
She taught you some essentials, too, like how to tune the spinet – ‘It’ll save you big bucks, bunny,’ she insisted – and how to detect even the slightest issue it might have. She was correct about it saving you big bucks.
As shabby as the thing looked, with peeling white paint and floral designs chipping off the sides, the cover scraped to hell and back, and the brassy pedals having long lost their glossy sheen, it was in perfect shape.
In your expert opinion, anyway. You were biased, so what? You had every right to be.
Granny had left the world a while ago, her ashes situated on the short mantel of your tiny fireplace. You lit the candles every day, rested two softly smoking incense sticks on the shallow bowl to catch their cinders, and gave her a swift good-morning before you raced out your door, inevitably arriving at work with only minutes to spare.
In the evenings, you’d teach, then ramble to her about your day, wish her a loving goodnight, and go pass the fuck out. Rinse and repeat, except weekends, where you were teaching all day.
It was tiring, working two jobs like this, especially when some of the kids you taught were insufferable, but music was your passion. At the end of the day, you viewed it as worth every minute spent doing something you loved.
You liked to think she would have been proud of you.
A light tapping sound, a knuckle rapping against the wood of your open front door, caught your attention. It was a warm day, one that was too good to spend with the doors and windows closed. Natural light flooded in, casting the figure standing at the entrance in a brilliant glow that hid their features from you.
You glanced at the clock on the wall to your left, then leapt up from the floor in front of your coffee table, hurriedly and messily stuffing your music sheets into a folder. “Oh, shoot, sorry! I didn’t see the time, I’m so sorry about that. Are you the two o’clock?”
Today was a surprisingly free day for you. You only had one appointment, with a new student, if you remembered correctly. You must have gotten so ingrained in your rapid-fire notations that you lost track of time.
While you weren’t expecting an adult, since the email sounded like it was from a teenager, it wasn’t uncommon. You had students of all varying ages, anyways. It was a nice change, too; you found that adults tended to listen better than children.
A smooth laugh greeted your ears, the sound impossibly pleasant to your ears. “It’s fine,” the man said as he stepped into your home, breaking from the prison of light holding him. His stark-white hair caught you off guard first, followed by his height, and then the round shades resting low on the bridge of his nose. “That’s me.”
Eyes as blue as the most vivid summer sky peered straight through yours and into your soul, his hues almost appearing to shine in the tranquil environment of your living room, without the help of the overhead lamp you had turned off. His lips curled into a sparkling grin, giving him this sort of youthful luminance that had your heart skipping beats.
You swallowed and looked away before his gleaming smile blinded you, striding over to your upright eighty-eight, using it as an excuse to busy yourself and avoid eye contact with him before he made you stop breathing just by fluttering his lashes.
“Come on in,” you responded stiffly, clearing your throat to ease off the tenseness in your muscles. Why were you getting so worked up over him? Sure, he was pretty, but you’d barely spoken two sentences to him. How had he managed to get you in such a tizzy so easily, where your tongue felt tied and your pulse raced in your wrists? “How much do you know about piano?”
“Uhh,” he set down his briefcase against the wall beside your door, slipped off his shoes, and met you next to the instrument. “I know a bit.”
“Alright,” you nodded and patted the bench, then paused to think if it would be too low for him. What intensely long legs. “Do you need me to get a different stool?”
He shook his head, sliding into the seat like it was second nature to him. “Nope, this is just fine.”
“Great,” you smiled at him and tucked your skirt under your hands as you sat down on the other end. “Let’s get started, then! Are you familiar with the different notes?”
His hands took place over the ivories and he slowly pressed each one down as he labeled them. “C, D, E, F, G, A, B, C.”
“Excellent, that’s awesome! You’re already a few steps ahead of other beginners,” you nodded approvingly and retrieved the thin booklet you had laid on top of the upper panel. You opened it and sifted through a few of the jingle options, picking out something a bit more intermediate for him.
It was still simple, but definitely more advanced than nursery rhymes. You found teens and adults had a more enjoyable time learning when they didn’t feel like they were being patronized. Teens especially, fickle little creatures, those ones.
“Let’s start with this one, then,” you said as you set it against the music rack in front of him. “It’s pretty easy, I think you’ll pick it up quickly.”
The piece consisted of quarter-note half steps that ignored the sharp and flat keys for now. You had placed a piece of tape over the tempo indicator, finding that it put your students under too much pressure and made them stumble in their rush to follow the pacing they thought was right when they didn’t know what tempo was to begin with.
The man took a few seconds to study the sheet, then placed his fingers on the corresponding keys and began playing. 
He was a bit slow, holding some notes too long and others not long enough, but you were correct in thinking he’d get the hang of it fast. After a few runs, he was playing it decently well, and confidently, too.
“Perfect! I knew you’d get it like that,” you snapped your fingers, then picked up the booklet again, flipping the pages in search of something a little more challenging. You probably wouldn’t find it in a kiddie book like this one, so you placed it down and got up, grabbing a more advanced one from the side table nearby. “What got you wanting to learn how to play?”
“Ah,” he scratched the back of his head. “My dad always wanted me to learn as a kid. I finally caved in, if only to make him stop yapping in my ear during family dinners. I’m just twenty years late to the party.”
You burst into giggles as you returned to your place on the bench, placing the new song you had chosen out for him where the previous one had been. “Not the first time I’ve heard that. You’d be surprised how many later bloomers there are.”
He chuckled along with you. “Well, that’s a relief. Had me fearing I was the only fully grown student you’d see in your life.”
“Far from it,” you shook your head. “I teach a grandfather that wants to play for his grandson at his graduation next year. It’s never too late to learn.”
When you looked up at him, you found him already peering at you with those intensely cerulean irises, his sunglasses folded neatly into the collar of his shirt. You twitched, startled by his stare. He had you locked in his gaze, captivated as he observed you and you observed him.
You noticed with wonder and fascination that his lashes were as milky white as the tresses on his head.
He really was beautiful. Those same lashes were long and soft, brushing his high cheeks whenever he blinked. His lips were plush and pink, seemingly always curled up into a permanent smile regardless of size. Life and boyish playfulness darted in those mesmerizing oases that refused to shake their hold on you, and you wouldn’t wish them to.
They were the breath of fresh air you never knew you were deprived of, the nectar of life that was water to your parched throat, the flickering mirage that came to life before your very being.
You felt drawn to him, inexplicably. There was something so… familiar about him, though you couldn’t pinpoint exactly what. Like you’d seen him before, across the metro platform, or walking into the store you were just leaving, or someone walking the opposite direction as you on the crosswalk.
Where have I seen you before?
You blinked yourself out of the illusion, your lips parting, closing, then parting again before you finally managed to find your voice. “I-I’m sorry. I forgot your name, could…could you remind me?”
“Ah,” he shook his head, forgiving your forgetfulness. “Just call me Satoru.”
Just Satoru? Is that really okay?
It doesn’t sound like a name I’ve heard before.
“Alright,” you agreed regardless. “Satoru it is. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” you murmured your own name in return, dipping your head down in a mini bow. You returned your attention to the music sheet, lightly tapping the back of his hand with your pointer finger. “Let’s continue, shall we?”
You noted how much bigger his hands were compared to yours. It was hard not to see it, your index finger would likely barely reach the topmost joint of his if you pressed your palms together.
Your hands tingled at the thought. You quickly shoved it aside, focusing on being a good instructor. 
Satoru continued to surprise and impress you as he mastered the tunes you chose for him after trying them out a few times. Each time he made a mistake, he listened attentively as you corrected it, laying your hands over his as you adjusted the positioning of his fingers.
“Your hands are so much bigger than mine,” you snickered. “I’m a bit jealous. It’s hard for me to reach those far keys sometimes.”
“Oh, yeah,” he grinned cockily, flashing you a sultry glance between chords. “They can reach a lot of things very easily.”
Heat rose to your cheeks and you stuttered, whipping your head away and acting as if he hadn’t completely flustered you.
Truthfully, the session was only supposed to last an hour and a half, but when you looked up at the clock, you were shocked to see you were nearing an hour longer than expected. It didn’t feel like much time had passed at all, maybe thirty minutes at maximum. Had it really been that long?
You pushed yourself up, stretching your legs as you felt pins and needles spark up in them. “Seems I got distracted twice today. I’ve kept you for an hour longer than I intended, I’m sorry,” you laughed meekly. “Don’t worry, I won’t charge extra for that, that’s on me.”
“It’s no worry,” Satoru reassured you as he got to his feet as well, delicately closing the fallboard with a careful hand. “Are you sure, though? I don’t mind paying for it, I did take up your time.”
He made something warm form in your chest.
“It’s fine, I love teaching. It’s not my main job, anyway, don’t stress,” you brushed away his concern. “You’re a prodigy, y’know,” you told him as you walked him to the still open door. “It’s no wonder your dad wanted you to learn how to play. I’m sure he’s proud.”
He let out a chuckle that sounded maybe a little forced. “Yeah, hope so,” he responded as he eased his shoes back on and bent down to grab his briefcase. “You’re a great teacher.”
“Thank you,” you brushed your hair behind your ear, blushing. “Ah– when would you want to see me again? I-If you do, I mean.”
The odd firmness he had a moment ago melted away, once more replaced by that handsome smirk of his. “Same time next week? Ah, hang on, why don’t I get your number, just in case? I have a bit of an unpredictable schedule.”
“Oh, sure, no problem,” you assented, taking his phone after he unlocked it and passed it to you. “You don’t like using email?”
He shook his head, watching you punch in your number into a new contact, add your name, then hand it back. “Nah, texting is easier for me. I’ll message you later tonight, yeah?”
“Alright,” you acquiesced.
“Oh, right, how much do I owe you?”
You blinked a few times before recalling that it was technically a paid session, though it didn’t feel like that to you. You murmured out the cost, and he gave you an odd look for a brief second. He pulled out his wallet, counted out a few bills, and folded them in half neatly before passing them off to you.
“Thanks for the lesson,” he grinned and waved goodbye, promising to text you later as he headed down your walkway, turned the corner, and vanished from sight.
You closed the door with a quiet poompf, staring blankly at your piano as you tried to remember how to function again. You glanced down at the bundle of money in your hand when you thought it felt a little too thick, brow furrowing as you unfolded it and counted and holy shit that’s way too fucking much–
You rushed out of your house, down the pathway to the sidewalk, and looked for him, though you knew it was futile. He was already gone.
You tried to think of how you were going to slip the excess money back into his pocket next time you saw him, but as soon as you were inside, you raced to the folder you left on your coffee table, practically ripping it apart as you pulled out all the papers, aggressively uncapped a pen, and got to writing at light speed.
That man, whoever he was, infected you with a painful shot of inspiration that you needed to get off your chest right then and there. Your hand flew across the pages, revising entire sections you had been stuck on for weeks in the blink of an eye. Messy verses were refined, the missing notes floated into place, and by the time the moon had risen high and the timid breeze had turned cold, you had finished your song.
You looked it over one last time, a disbelieving giggle escaping you. You finished it. You finished it. This damned piece had been giving you restless nights, a broken loop in your brain that kept skipping over the unwritten parts, but one session with Satoru had seemingly given you the one push you were missing all along.
Your phone buzzed.
You opened it and tapped on the messages icon to find a text from an unknown number.
Unknown, 9:17 PM Hey! Sorry for texting so late. It’s Satoru. Does next week still work for you, same time?
What divine timing on his end. Right as he entered your thoughts, he slid into your DMs. 
Your fingers practically trembled with giddy excitement as you texted back instantly to confirm the time, uncaring of what kind of impression that was making on him. You were elated, feeling like you could exhale in peace at last. You gave a little victory cheer as you went about closing and locking all the windows and doors, pulling the curtains shut with so much energy, you questioned if you’d be able to sleep.
The answer was yes. After you had gotten all ready, having pampered yourself as a small reward for yourself, you fell onto your bed and passed out mere minutes later. For once, everything seemed to be going right.
─────•(-•ʚɞ•-)•─────
“How’d you learn how to play?” He asked one day as he sipped at the tea you prepared for him. He was right about his schedule being hectic at times, but he somehow managed to fit himself into having lessons with you a few times a week, rather than just the standard one.
It surprised you, but pleasantly so. He was eager to learn and improve, and you were more than happy to teach him. He made for fantastic company, too, and you found you enjoyed spending time chatting lazily with him just as much as you did instructing him.
“My grandma taught me,” you told him with a smile. “She passed away a while ago, but I like to think I’m keeping her legacy alive like this, by teaching others, and keeping that old lil’ thing alive.”
Satoru nodded in understanding. “You’re amazing at playing,” he complimented sweetly. “She did a great job.”
“Thank you,” you answered bashfully, hiding your blush behind your own mug of tea.
“What was she like, if you don’t mind me asking?”
His smile felt like the sun kissing the apples of your cheeks on a perfect spring day. Him wanting to know more about you had your heartbeat picking up in speed, chirping a new, happy melody like a canary.
You deliberated before replying. “She was a very shrewd woman, stern in her teaching, but very gentle at the same time. She was the kind of granny that snuck me pieces of candy when my parents weren’t looking. She let me stay up late playing music whenever I was staying at her place. I probably bugged my parents to let me stay there every weekend, just so I could play it and learn from her.”
“So you got into music young?”
You bobbed your head. “I fell in love the first time I heard her playing when I was a toddler. I had woken up from a nap one day, somehow escaped my crib, and crawled to the living room to watch her play for…man, I don’t even know how long. I was just…hypnotized.”
“She sounds like she was a maestro,” he snickered airily, though you knew he meant it.
You grinned widely, resting your chin on the curved cup of your palm. “She really was. I can show you some videos of her playing sometime, if you’d like to see,” you offered.
“I’d love to.”
─────•(-•ʚɞ•-)•─────
Satoru had been your student for a while now. 
He zoomed through the intermediate pieces into the advanced-amateur category easily, though seemed to plateau around there. Despite this, he was a wonderful student, always trying to improve himself and his skill. You knew he had it in him, he was only missing a little something he needed to tip him to the next level.
At one point, you had joked that he must have been purposefully holding himself back just so he could keep studying under you.
He laughed, and said nothing more.
By now, he reached a point where he would come in with a pep in his step, claiming he had perfected a lullaby he wanted to play for you before you started the session. You’d find yourself (politely) seated on your couch nearby, and would watch with a fond expression you didn’t know was there as he treated your piano with a touch more tender than even your own.
And you’d listen. He’d choose some of the prettiest, albeit not complicated, arrangements to play for you, and you’d find yourself slipping into a state of blissful peace. All your thoughts would drift away, and you’d absorb yourself in the music he played. 
A few sessions had been spent just like that, with him as your personal musician, and you couldn’t figure out why you felt so…happy.
You liked the emotion a lot, though, and found yourself looking forward to his every visit, anticipating the full body chills you’d get whenever he lulled you into that state of delighted serenity. You didn’t remember when you stopped charging him, and when you let him come in without knocking anymore. 
You also didn’t remember when having tea after each session became tradition, but you were grateful for the joy he brought you with his presence alone.
In fact, you decided to get him a small gift as thanks. For what exactly? His company? Patience? Entertainment? Whatever it was didn’t matter. It wasn’t anything big, either. It was a record you stumbled across while visiting a thrift shop recently.
You picked it up for two reasons. First, he divulged he had a hobby of collecting old vinyls. Second, he mentioned he had been searching for that specific record for a few years with no luck, saying it was the last one he needed to complete his collection from that particular brand. The moment you spotted it, you grabbed it and practically bolted to the cashier, uncaring of the price.
There was no way you were leaving it there for someone else to nab it before he could. It was the most reasonable option.
Which was why you were extra giddy to see him again.
You opened the door in the middle of him reaching for the handle, stunning him for a second. That bewilderment was quickly wiped away by an excited grin that surely matched your own.
“If I knew you’d be this enthusiastic to see me, I would have worn something better,” he quipped.
You snorted and waved your hand, stepping back so he could come in. “Am I not allowed to be happy to see my favorite student? You look good no matter what you’re wearing, anyway.”
“Favorite, eh?” He teased as he closed the door behind him, leaning down to give you a quick hug. “Now I really feel like I should have worn something fancy.”
“Oh, come on, it’s not that big of a deal,” you giggled, leading him to the usual spot.
“I dunno,” he hummed, a sly expression crossing his face. “Pretty big deal to hear that from my favorite teacher,” You rolled your eyes, smacking his chest weakly, to which he laughed openly. “Ready to get started, teach?”
What a gorgeous sound his laughter was.
“Actually,” you said, “I got something for you. Wait here a moment, lemme go grab it.”
He raised a brow but didn’t raise any objections as he sat down and tugged his tie to loosen it a few inches, saying that he’d be right there.
You had to resist the urge to skip to your room to locate the record and retrieve it from the drawer you had safely stored it in. It was your sock drawer, actually. You wanted to keep it somewhere protected while it tarried for its new owner. You sang the melody of your newest single quietly as you picked it up, inspecting the album cover for any indication that it had been touched since you last put it in there.
Pristine. Obviously aged, but in flawless condition otherwise.
Sounds from your living room brought pause to your actions right as you closed the drawer after dumping all your socks back into it.
…Was that music?
Frowning, you picked up the record and crept towards the source of the noise. You recognized it instantly – it was the most notable piece written by the notorious Gojo Saichi. It was considered the most difficult composition created within the last century or so. You’d listened to it on repeat occasionally, attempted it dozens of times, though you always fell short before the second movement started, which came early on.
Was Satoru watching a video? No, the melody was too clear and full to sound like it was coming out of a phone speaker.
Then…
You froze in the entrance to the hallway, stuck in place as you watched Satoru play the oeuvre flawlessly. From where you were standing, at an angle, you could see his precise actions and motions. Every note came to him as naturally as air, each shift in tempo as easy as blinking, down to the fragile, silk-like contrast that made the instrument sound as if it was a weeping widow, sitting on a window sill as she descanted to the moon, alone. 
His digits knew exactly where to go, when, how deeply to press, how to shift between fierce and floaty as if he was born to do exactly this.
As your eyes flickered from his hands to his face, you saw that his eyes were closed. He was doing what some musicians could only ever dream of achieving in their careers; he was uniting with the music, playing as one, letting it fill his heart, then pour out with every throb like the very blood in his veins.
The most complicated, difficult, astronomical concerto known to man in the modern age, and he was playing it like it was nothing.
Satoru must have sensed your burning gaping as his hues flickered open and his hands stilled over the claviature. He looked over towards you, his mien morphing into something resembling embarrassment.
You staggered closer. “That…that’s…that piece was…written by Gojo Saichi…” You mumbled, barely able to get the words out. You set down the record onto the coffee table, already having forgotten about it.
You were flabbergasted, rattled as you came to a stop at the side of the piano. He…how could he have played that so well? Wasn’t he barely in the advanced category? That was…that was professional, grade A, genius level music he played.
“Yeah,” he grinned, and you would have believed his show of being sheepish if the gleam in his eyes didn’t give him away. “He’s my dad.”
You sluggishly dropped onto your spot on the bench, peering at the keys but seeing nothing as you unpacked the bombardment of information you witnessed.
“That’s…the– that’s the hardest piece…even I can’t…”
“I know,” he rubbed his nape. “He basically forced me to stay up day and night playing it until I got it right.”
“But…how?” You tilted your head, peering up at him from the corner of your eye.
Satoru shrugged like he hadn’t just dropped a fucking bombshell on you. “I asked him to teach me when I was a teen,” You heard him say. “I’m sorry for deceiving you,” he apologized, not sounding very sorry at all.
“I…” You labored to find the right words. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Honestly?” He asked. You nodded, and he let out a heavy sigh. 
Instead of answering immediately, he stood up and pulled you to your feet as well, pulling you into the kitchen, where he filled your kettle with water and put it to heat up.
You desperately wanted to know what exactly was going on, but couldn’t find it in yourself to rush him. He went about methodically picking out both your mugs from your cupboard, tossing a bag of tea into both, grabbing the bowl of sugar on the counter, and setting it all down on the table while he waited for the kettle to whistle. He seemed lost in thought, while you had many and none at all at the same time.
You could only observe him as he picked his words carefully.
He finally began when the shrill noise of boiling water filled the room. “I don’t know if you remember – probably not, since you didn’t recognize me – but we actually did meet a while ago. I was a lot different back then,” he said as he poured the water into both mugs, afterwards placing it back on the stove and holding his hand sideways at roughly chest level. “Maybe this high, scrawny, kind of a douchebag,” he admitted with a chuckle.
You were still in shock over the whole situation. All you could do was silently urge him to continue by leaning closer, accepting the cup when he passed it to you. Heat spread through your fingertips, easing away the frosty feeling you didn’t notice set in.
“You were playing the piano in the music room at the school we went to together. It was…honestly, beautiful. I grew up with a famous pianist for a dad, but even he can’t make music sound as alluring and gentle as you can,” he continued, awkwardly holding his own mug. “So, when I saw you again a few months ago, I couldn’t believe it was you. I always wanted to ask you to play something for me when we were younger, but could never get the nerve to.”
As he spoke, the memories were beginning to filter in through the thick haze in your brain. 
You were so focused on writing music and learning to be a great musician like your grandmother that you never really paid attention to your surroundings or the people around you if they weren’t your granny, parents, direct friends, or music teacher.
From what you did remember, Satoru was always a confident, cocky boy, shameless and loud. To hear he was…shy about asking you to play for him was hard to believe.
“So, I finally let my dad start teaching me,” he rambled on when you didn’t respond. “I’ve tried so many times to replicate the song you played, but I could never get it right. I know it’s probably a long shot, but you don’t happen to remember what song that was, do you?”
You thought back, scraping the dust off your highschool recollections. There was one piece you had hyperfocused on perfecting during the last year there, determined to play it exactly as your grandmother had.
You never did manage to master it.
You set down the tea you had only sipped at twice and walked past him into the living room, heading to your piano in a sort of trance. You slid onto the bench, and set your fingers on the keys. Muscle memory took over, the gentle tune coming to life in…how long had it been since you last played this?
You let the music flow through you, gave it access to your heart, allowed it to peer into the deepest parts of your soul, and simply followed the path it created.
“Was it this one?” You asked quietly.
When you looked up at him, his eyes were wide, lips parted as he stared at you with nothing less than amazement. “That– that’s the one. Which– what’s it called?”
“It’s a piece my grandma wrote for my parent’s wedding,” you answered. “She didn’t tell me what it’s called. I’m not sure if it has a name to begin with. She played it for me once, and I,” you huffed out a short, choked chuckle, “I became obsessed. I spent every day as a senior trying to get it right, to play it like she did, but…”
Your fingers slowed into a stop as you looked at them blankly, recalling your attempts, and the disappointment that followed each failure. You memorized it after playing it just twice, but it didn’t help you reach your goal in the end.
You startled when his hand rested lightly atop of yours, his body partially leaned over your shoulder so he could look you directly in the eye. This close, you felt his light breaths as they brushed your cheek. You could see the exact shade and hue of the teal composing his striking irises, match the exact pace of his heartbeat to a sonata, hear him swallow nervously.
“Keep playing,” he rasped, sounding almost desperate. “Please.”
You obliged. How could you say no to him when he looked at you like that? When he requested it so feebly in a trembling voice that was close to cracking? How could you say no when you saw and felt firsthand how his body relaxed when you filled the room with the lilting melody once again?
The music hopped and glided, playful in some parts, somber and tranquil in others. He stayed right where he was, the heat of his stomach resting against your upper back, thawing the tension in your shoulders as his hands held them gently, thumbs rubbing circles into your tight trapezius.
In every way, the ballad reminded you of your grandma, of your parents, of your childhood spent trying to reach a point where you were truly happy with how you played each note.
But, if that was the case…
How come you saw Satoru’s eyes when you closed yours and listened to your own hands dance across the keys? 
Why did his smile, his laugh, his touch, his voice, his everything, come to mind when you picked apart every stanza and bar? If you put together all the notes a specific way and decoded them, you swore they’d spell his name.
Your hands drifted and halted as you reached the end of the lilt.
Or, rather, the end as you knew it.
There was a brief pause, then he mumbled, barely above a hum, “is that it?”
“Grandma never showed me how it ended,” you told him morosely. “She said she’d tell me ‘when the time is right’, but…she died before she could.”
He sat beside you and took your right hand into his. His fingers massaged meaningless shapes into the creases of your palm and the smooth plane of the dorsum. Neither of you dared break the silence, mulling in your own worlds.
Satoru was the one to cautiously cross the line of quiet, doing his best to not disturb it. He wrapped his left arm around your back, pulling you into his side while continuing to toy with your dainty digits.
“We’ll find it together,” he whispered.
─────•(-•ʚɞ•-)•─────
Truth be told, you never imagined you’d find yourself in this kind of place before – especially not in this position. 
Your hand hovered over your brow, shading your eyes from the brilliant sun as it shined low in the sky, kissing the horizon. Though it was setting, the approaching night was warm as ever. A pleasant breeze ruffled the fabric of your dress and caught the strands of your hair that managed to slip loose from the style your mother put them in. 
Stars were already beginning to dot the expanse above, glittering and so, so crystalline when you were this far outside the city. You never thought you’d get to see them so clearly, enough to point out individual constellations, and even identify Jupiter and Venus. 
You never had a reason to leave the bounds of the city before, so all this was a distant dream you might have had once when you were a teenager. 
But here you were, outside a lovely villa, surrounded by friends, family, and loved ones, miles away from where light pollution would dare to touch. The buzzing, lively chatter of dozens of guests filled the air; the clinks of glasses, the clacks of forks and knives on plates, all of it was so animated. You felt like you were in a sort of daze, overwhelmed with happiness to the point that it almost didn’t feel real.
A pair of soft lips pressed against your temple, drawing your attention to radiant, minty-ocean hues.
Satoru gazed at you with nothing short of pure, raw, true adoration. Like every fiber in his body, each and every singular cell, was dedicated to loving you.
“I have one more present left for you,” he murmured against your lips, giving you a chaste kiss right after before he stood up and raised his glass. He tapped the back of his knife gently on the side, creating a chiming noise that settled the ongoing conversations with ease.
Once all the attention was on him, he set both objects down and began speaking.
“I know we’ve already said it a lot, but I wanted to thank you all again for coming here to celebrate this day with us,” he said, turning his gaze to you. “This is truly the happiest day of my life – so far,” he added cheekily, earning him a laugh from the crowd. “So, before all the festivities end tonight, I wanted to do one last thing, if you’d all be so kind as to grant me this moment.”
Of course they would. Satoru was just that type of person. Charisma poured off him in waterfalls, charming anyone he spoke to without effort – you included.
He pushed back his chair, moving to leave. Confused, you grasped his arm and called his name.
There was a glint of something in his eyes, something you couldn’t identify, not with the light tingle of wine sitting in the back of your mind and the overstimulation of the grand day.
“Just listen, baby,” he whispered to you, then he was weaving through the guests, snaking his way to the grand piano situated off to the side of where everyone was situated. “This is a little song I heard many, many years ago, and fell in love with from the first few notes. I’d like to dedicate it to my mother-in-law, father-in-law, their late mother, and I would like to especially dedicate it to my lovely wife.”
Your mother gasped, grabbing your arm as soon as Satoru began playing the familiar melody of the diapason you had been taught ages in the past. It was the one your grandmother played for you, just once. It was the one she played for your mother and father for their wedding. It was the one you played for Satoru, once unknowingly, and every time after that intentionally.
The one he was playing for you now.
Your mother teared up faster than you did, reaching for a clean napkin to dab her eyes with while she waved her free hand at her face, trying to stave off the tears so that they didn’t smear her mascara, though she wasn’t succeeding. Your father was gently shushing her, rubbing her shoulder while he looked between you and Satoru with pride, and you…
You recalled the first time you heard him play the composition his father had written, when you still believed he was just an advanced player. Back then, you felt entranced.
Now, you felt completely spellbound.
You lifted yourself, carefully making your way between the enchanted spectators. Some clutched and squeezed your hand as you passed, and a few others breathed out little congratulations to you, not risking breaking the delicate atmosphere. 
By the time you made it to him, your vision was blurry, and he was playing the last line of bars.
The arrangement floated into the placid, halcyon evening, each individual note rising like a star to join the thousands that looked on with bated breath, protecting this little moment of clement apotheosis.
His hands swept across the final few steps, barely touching the keys at all. The concluding tone resounded, fragile and silk-like, followed by a second of calm silence before the crowd erupted with cheers, hoots, and deafening applause.
Satoru rose from the bench, encircling your waist with his arms and pulling you in for a deep kiss. It echoed in you, the sweetest lullaby, the happiest composition that could never be written down identically. It was one only the two of you could hear and feel, one only the two of you could dance, live, cry, laugh, breathe, and love to.
Of all the endings you ever tried to give that precious lullaby your grandmother had written so long ago, the one Satoru created was perfect.
Because you created it together.
─────•(-•ʚɞ•-)•─────
banner by cafekitsune ♥
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desert-horned-lizard · 1 year ago
Text
Hello, it's nice to meet you.
Oh, how nice. It's a pleasure to meet you as well.
Would you like to shake hands?
Of course.
Which hand would you like to use to shake, and which hand should I use?
Well, the common convention is that both of us should use our right hands, and at the current moment, I see no compelling reason to disregard that tradition.
Great. How shall we shake? Shall I grip from the top or the bottom? Or perhaps, we could even lock our fingers together and shake like that. There are many possible variations.
Conforming to my earlier statement, I see no reason not to use the traditional grip, where I curl my fingers around the bottom edge of your palm and you do likewise, while we nestle our thumb's in each other's thumb-crooks.
Oh, splendid, just splendid. Now, shall I grip gently or firmly? Perhaps somewhere in the middle?
Well, if you grip too tightly, it might hurt my fingers. But on the other hand, if you grip too loosely, we won't enjoy the full pleasure of each other's grips. In my opinion, we should set our strengths somewhere in the middle, ensuring that no complication arises that might compromise our enjoyment.
Ah, but you see, I had already accounted for those complications. I understand well - perhaps too well! - the many pitfalls that riddle the royal road to good handshakes, lying in wait like bandits along the highway, making victims of the ignorant and the incautious. Judging by your obvious familiarity with handshakes, I had assumed from the very first that you were well acquainted with the risks of over-compression and the perils of under-squeezing. When I spoke of the tightness of our handshake, I was referring to the tightness that lies within the bounds of acceptable handshakery. My question, if you were to rephrase it with the assumptions exposed, would be something like the following: "Within the range of possible grip-strengths that produce an acceptable handshake, excluding any that would result in over-compression or under-squeezing, would you like to have a handshake that is more towards the limit of acceptable tightness, or more towards the limit of acceptable looseness? Or would you prefer something in the middle?"
I see. Owing to the large number of unknown factors, I still think it wisest to stick somewhere in the middle. You see, strength is relative. What a mayfly might consider a strong grip would be a scarcely noticeable pinch to a bonobo. We have never shaken hands before, and therefore I have no idea of your physical strength. What you might consider too loose might be too tight for me, or vice versa. Of course, there are certain clues that might give me an indication of your strength, such as your stature or the visible development of your muscles, but these things are only hints. It's a personal matter, you see. I cannot judge until I've felt it with my own flesh. All the guessing in the world cannot replace the raw reality of actual contact for me. By keeping our strengths in the middle, we are more likely to come to an agreeable handshake. Perhaps if we shake again we can begin to experiment with a veriety of advanced techniques, but for now, I insist we stick with average strength.
Very well, then. We shall shake with our grip strength somewhere in the middle. Now, shall we pump our hands quickly or slowly? Or again, somewhere in the middle?
In the middle, for the reasons previously enumerated.
Any special maneuvers you'd like to include?
None.
Not even a little tickle?
Not interested.
Very well then. We shall have a handshake, we shall both follow the convention of using our right hands, we shall grip the bottom edge of each other's palms and nestle our thumb's into each other's thumb-crooks, the grip strength shall be of moderate strength, the pumping shall be pumping of moderate speed, and no tricks or special maneuvers shall be employed, not even a little tickle. Does that sound correct to you?
Yes, that sounds about right.
Are you ready?
Hold on, let me take my wedding ring off... Okay, I'm ready.
🤝
...
...
...
*ahem*
...
...
...
Well, it was nice meeting you, but I'm afraid have to get going. I'm meeting my mother for lunch, you see, and mother can't stand it when I'm late.
Yes, it was such a pleasure. I do hope to see you again soon. I have my own business to attend to as well.
Ah, but one last thing before we part. I can't leave a new friend without shaking their hand goodbye. May I shake your hand in farewell?
Why, of course my friend. It is only polite.
Oh, excellent, excellent. Now, the question is, which hand would you like to use to shake, and which hand should I use?
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ms-demeanor · 9 months ago
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hello! sorry to bother w this but im sort of desperate at this point. given your post about school abuse: so like. i had a similar experience and i thought that i had sorted my brain out. BUT. big but. now im trans and every time i have to correct people w/ misgender or come out to people that i dont already know their opinion on the issue, i get an anxiety attack that makes me unable to do it. ive told many therapists and no one so far has understood why im terrified of making stuff that other people can perceive as me being difficult to work with. would you have *any* advice? thanks!
Okay so first of all it is totally valid to feel that way; that isn't an irrational response, that is your body and brain going "!!!! I have learned this lesson before!" But just because it's a sensible response doesn't mean it's functional in the long term, which is why it needs to be addressed (which I'm sure you already know, I'm just explaining for people in the back).
So now here is some meandering advice:
Spend time with people you already know you can trust. It's okay to take a break from new people and situations (as much as is possible) when you are processing traumatic events and learning to care for yourself. Spending time with people who you don't have to come out to, who don't misgender you, can help you normalize being out and correctly gendered to yourself.
Recognize that you don't have to be out to everyone and some assholes aren't worth it. This is going to depend some on the context, but you don't owe everybody an explanation for yourself and if people repeatedly misgender you after being corrected you may just be better off not spending time around those people.
Loop in trusted people in low-stakes ways. If you get the sense that someone who you think is pretty safe has misgendered you on accident, it might still feel too intimidating to correct them in person but it might be a good idea to follow up with text or a call or a message to say "hey, just FYI, I think I heard you use a/b pronouns for me earlier, I just wanted to let you know that I use c/d pronouns. Did you want to meet up again next week?" the breakdown on why I think this is effective is - Distance means you're safe - nonthreatening "FYI" means you aren't saying "I'm offended" and assumes good faith from the other person - feels less accusatory (not that you need to tone police yourself, but if you're trying to lower the stress level overall then assuming it was a mistake and letting them know you don't think it was on purpose should reduce the overall tension) - request to meet up again or topic switch to something lighter once again says "I'm not mad, that was just regular information, we can now return to our scheduled programming"
I think that, generally speaking, this is also a decent way to come out to people if you're nervous; physically remote and emotionally casual can be a good place to work from (even if you're actually panicking in your head but you can pull off casual in a written message)
Find (or create) a space where people are 100% going to support you. If you need to create a discord server, if you need to schedule a regular coffee date with trusted friends or family members, whatever it is, give yourself a space where you are unconditionally supported and can have people to bounce ideas and concerns off of. Even if it's just you and one other person, it's good to know you have *someone* who you can say "I think I want to tell this other person to use my pronouns but it's scary" to and know that you're not at risk in any way. I'd say try to make sure that you're still interacting with people outside of that space, but have a space to retreat to where you can just drop the worry.
Recognize that somebody else's problem is not a reflection of you. If you have, for instance, a coworker who is being a piece of shit and refusing to recognize your gender, that is not a reflection of your gender that is a reflection of them being a piece of shit. If there is a classmate or a sibling who uses the wrong pronouns after being corrected that doesn't mean you're not entitled to your pronouns that means they are being a piece of shit. Some people are just not going to accept you and that's on them. Try to minimize your time spent with them and if you have to spend time with them at work take steps to ensure your safety, but don't fight losing battles with assholes.
It really is legitimately scary. You have good reasons to be scared and you are doing a very frightening thing (and not to do the meme thing but you are legitimately being so brave about it; the fact that you are reaching out and asking anyone for help, including randos on the internet, means that you are taking steps to doing the scary thing and that is SO GOOD and I'm really proud of you for making the effort in spite of the fear).
Here is some less meandering advice:
Practice. Talk to yourself in the mirror, practice with friends, practice with your therapist. Practice coming out to yourself in a casual way. Practice correcting your pronouns. Practice an introduction for yourself that explains the information you want to give to new people you might meet. Get it down to a quick little patter, get it to be something that's easy to say to yourself in the mirror first, then try it with friends for practice, then try it around the safer people you might want to give the information to. It'll get easier as you go.
Look for a local support group (or an online support group). If there's a local LGBTQ+ center you should see if they've got events going on or a support group you can join or workshops or any manner of social thing where you can go interact with people who have been through similar stuff.
Journal. Each time you find yourself frightened of talking to someone about your gender, do what you need to to get through the day and then sit down and think about that interaction. Write down what happened, write down what you were thinking. Was there something in particular that made you anxious? Is it something you can practice addressing? Was there something you noticed about the person that made you uncomfortable? Is that a common thread in the times you have trouble talking about this? If you're able to narrow down specifically what is making it hard to speak to some people that might make it easier to explain to therapists but will also make it more actionable for you.
Here's some very optimistic advice:
If at all possible find a friend who will be rabid and unflinching in their support for you and hang out with them around new people. Get yourself an attack dog copilot who will cheerfully step up and make corrections for you. I know not everyone can do this and I know that if you can find someone like this they can't be around all the time, but it can be wonderfully reassuring to find that one person who you know is going to be ride or die about making sure that everyone in the room respects you. (Being that person for someone else can also teach you how to be that person for you)
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comphy-and-cozy · 10 months ago
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oh I have a marty thot for sure! I’ve been thinking about riding his thigh while he sits back and just watches, kinda unimpressed at the show and telling you “you can do better than that, can’t you?”
Earn It
Tumblr media
Pairing: Matt Martin x sugar baby!reader (f)
Universe: sugar daddy Marty
Word Count: 3k
Warnings: Smut (18+ ONLY). Sugar daddy/baby dynamic, lap dance, semi-public/risque sex, unprotected sex, hair pulling, choking, mild degradation, creampie, a little bit of cum play (lmao jfc).
Fridays are supposed to be celebratory; the end of the week, welcoming in a few days off to relax and reset. What they’re not supposed to be are stressful, non-stop, chaotic. 
Yet here you are, already thinking about the large glass of wine you’re going to pour yourself when you get home; the only decision you’re planning to make for the rest of the night is red or white. 
Setting your keys into the bowl on the table beside the door, you eye the pristine leather sneakers next to your shoe rack, but make no move to greet the person you already know is waiting on the couch. You knew you’d regret having the extra key made for him, that he’d show up unannounced like a poorly-timed pimple, but it’s not like you really could say no—not when you consider that he all but pays your rent. 
When you round the corner, bag left on the quartz countertop (an upgrade he insisted on when you were signing your new lease), you finally offer him your attention.
“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” he muses, glancing up from where he’s scrolling on his phone. You do your best to mask the shiver that runs down your spine when his eyes lock with yours. Based on the smirk that quirks up on his face, you’d wager a guess that you did a poor job of it.
“Hi, Matty,” you say. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“You need a new dress for the charity gala,” he drawls. 
“I do, do I?”
He ignores your attitude, standing up to walk over to the island and setting the invitation in front of you. You glance it over, admiring the thick, black cardstock and gold foil detailing the casino-themed event taking place at UBS Arena next month.
“Black tie attire,” you hum. “I don’t have anything that’s black-tie appropriate.”
“That’s why you need a new dress.”
“And that’s why you’re here right now, sitting on my couch after a day from hell, full of back-to-back meetings, am I correct?”
Matt smiles again. “Already have a bubble bath going for you, my little brat. I’ll be here tomorrow at 9 to pick you up.”
You feel a little guilty for the sass, smiling bashfully at him as he plants a sweet kiss on your cheekbone on his way to the door. “Lock up behind me, darlin’.”
Goddamn him. Always knowing exactly how to charm you to get you to bend to his every will—but not without giving him the kind of attitude that makes his dick hard. A fair tradeoff, in your opinion.
That’s why you work, why your dynamic makes your relationship feel so smooth and seamless and… perfect. Except the part where he’s paying you to fuck him.
Either way, it’s how you find yourself walking along Fifth Avenue, following Matt as he leads you into stores with price tags that intimidate you so much, your cheeks get hot. He lets you browse on your own, warming you up a bit, picking out a few items for work along with a new Yves Saint Laurent purse.
Purchase after purchase. Item after item. The ease with which Matt whipped out his thick, black credit card—you know, the heavy ones that just feel luxurious—almost physically pains you as you try to do the mental math of what he’d spent today.
Finally, you follow him to the dresswear section of Bergdorf Goodman’s, admiring the ease with which he carries the multiple bags in his large hands. You feel well and truly spoiled, thinking to yourself that the dark green lace set he purchased at Fleur du Mal will come in handy later when it comes time to show your gratitude.
“This dress,” he murmurs against your temple, pressing an affectionate kiss to your skin as the fitting room attendant readies a room for you. “I want everyone there to imagine fucking you out of it.”
At this point, you’re used to his blunt and sometimes crude nature, but that doesn’t stop your skin from heating at his crass words. You can’t deny the warmth that radiates between your legs, though, at the thought of him showing you off, claiming you as his, publicly. And, well, how are you supposed to say no to him buying you a dress that’s worth more than your groceries for the month?
The selection is enormous, and you find yourself overwhelmed by the options—lace, chiffon, silk, crepe—all of it doesn’t mean much to you, so you rely on your stylist to select a few options that complement your body type. Matt sits quietly in the corner of the fitting room, watching you try on dress after dress, making barely any comment other than an occasional hum.
When the stylist leaves you to contemplate your options, you glance over your reflection, at the Alex Perry gown that stares back at you. It’s the first dress that feels right, and you can’t help the feeling of excited anticipation that fills your chest when you think about wearing it beside Matt at the gala. Maybe he’d wear that delicious gray suit that you like, the one you almost stained permanently humping his thigh like a fucking dog in heat.
“Is this the one you want?”
You do a final spin in the mirror, checking the various angles and standing on your toes to imitate your height in heels. It’ll need to be altered a bit, but you’re pleased with the way it fits your body and, more importantly, the way it makes you feel luxurious. With your nod, Matt leans forward and glances at the price tag hanging out of the back. His eyes flick to yours in the mirror, and you stew in discomfort for the few seconds before he’s sitting back, apparently approving of the price.
A wide smile forms on your face, feeling a bit like a child on Christmas morning at your excitement. You like Matt for far more than his wallet, but you can’t deny that it feels nice to be spoiled by him, to feel lavished by his gifts and special treatment. 
“Think it’s time for you to say thank you, don’t you?” 
Matt’s low purr snaps you out of your thoughts, eyes focusing back on the navy silk material that’s hugging your body. The corset bodice keeps you tucked in, accentuating the curve of your breasts, fabric draped across your middle and fastened in place with a large, glittering piece. But the real attention-grabber is the slit on the left side that goes up to your hip, revealing almost your entire leg.
You cast a glance at him in the mirror, a flutter in your chest when you see the way his eyes rake in your reflection. He hums, and though he told you it was your decision, you’re pleased that he likes what he sees.
“Thank you, Matty,” you say, batting your eyelashes at him. You lean forward and press a kiss against his lips, warm and soft—the kind you could fall into with ease. He smiles, crooked and patronizing as he tsks.
“Oh, sweetheart, you know that isn’t good enough. Look at all these bags—all for you. I think I deserve more gratitude than that, hm?”
The hidden meaning of his velvet words are enough to make you shiver, your heart chilling as you realize what he wants. His eyes glitter as he watches you, sees the recognition on your face and the hitch in your throat. 
Your voice is hoarse as you whisper, “Here?”
Matt blinks, lazily, with a raised eyebrow, like he’s challenging to you to deny him. Of course you can’t, and he knows it. He leans back on the bench, his back resting against the wall and his legs spread comfortably. It’s a silent invitation, one you can’t refuse, and you find yourself moving to sit in his lap with a shaky gulp.
His hands weave their way to your hips, warm through the material of your jeans. “Good girl.”
With just the right amount of pressure, he encourages you to move your waist, swaying your hips as your ass brushes against his groin. He’s half hard, the bulge firm against you as you set a rhythm, listening for any other customers entering the dressing rooms nearby. The classy elevator music hums softly through the speakers while the silk covering your ass glides against his slacks in a filthy narrative.
A low hum of approval sounds from Matt’s chest, eyes glued to the way you work your hips. It isn’t long before you’re glancing behind you, meeting his eyes as he regards you with his easy, lazy gaze. Beneath the firm press of your ass, you can feel him hardening as the tick of your heartbeat increases in your throat. His signature smirk slides its way onto his face, smug, soaking in the fact that he’s got you wrapped around his finger, willing to do practically anything he asks you.
It isn’t long before he’s stiff, solid beneath you, and you feel an involuntary throb at the size of him. Every moment, you remain vigilant, ears perked for voices—or worse, the sound of someone’s gasp. It reflects in your movements, not lackluster but certainly not to your usual level of enthusiasm. There’s something about him when he’s like this—cocky confidence rolling off of him in waves, his gaze heating your skin—that drives you desperately, deliciously wild, a feral urge in you snatching control of your conscience.
But not right now. And he knows it.
He hums, displeased, and you have a split moment to register his disappointment before he’s purring, “Sweetheart, I think you can do better than that, can’t you?”
The velvet of his voice strokes the flame inside you, sending a wave of warmth between your thighs. Another throb against the stiffness under your ass. His hands remain at his sides, not offering any assistance. You can practically feel his lazy gaze on your ass, waiting patiently for you to react.
He senses your hesitation, knows the reason you’re timid—waiting for the fitting room attendant to come back at any minute and discover the lewd situation unfolding. So he changes his approach, voice honeyed and silky smooth. “Look at that gorgeous dress. Y’look fucking stunning in it, baby. But you gotta earn it, darlin’.”
You meet his gaze in the reflection of the mirror, see the glitter in them that tells you he’s serious, accepting the small nod he gives you. Bracing your hands on his meaty thighs, you resume your movements, pressing yourself into his groin with more force.
Matt’s words echo in your head as you work him—and yourself—into a frenzy. Earn it. He didn’t specify what his… end goal was, but from the glint in his eye you think it’s safe to assume it’s more than just a clothed lap dance in the middle of the dressing room. 
How you ended up half-naked, thong tugged to the side, hands bracing yourself against the wall of the fitting room, you’re not sure; all you really know is the feeling of Matt’s weight behind you, so tall his face is almost out of your view in the mirror’s reflection. He’s not looking at you, instead focused on tapping the head of his erection against your ass.
You bite your lip to stifle a whine, staring at him in the hopes he’ll offer you just a glance so you can beg him silently to please, put it in. Eventually, he does, sees the desperation pooling in your eyes and chuckles smugly, pleased at the rash desire he finds in them.
“Arch it for me, sweet girl.”
Obeying, you press your ass out toward him, thinking you’d break your back right here, right now, if it meant he’d provide you with some relief. His warm palm presses against your spine, encouraging you to go further, and he hums in approval at the view you present him: expensive dress bunched over the swell of your hips, ass out, pussy dripping, eyes wanton and pleading with him in the mirror.
“You want it?” he asks, his voice so low you strain to hear it.
You’re almost embarrassed at how fast you nod, not wanting to waste any time. He smirks again, and you know he’s biting back the urge to tease you, instead just offering, in all its simplicity: “Slut.”
There’s a brief moment where he allows his words to sink in, a flood of arousal seeping out of your bare, uncovered core, threatening to drip onto the faded wood flooring of the dressing room. You’re grateful that he didn’t make you beg—he usually does—but then he’s pressing into you without warning and a loud cry leaves your lips.
Your hand slaps over your mouth to muffle the sound, but he’s already gotten what he wants out of you, a more than obvious admission of the debauchery occurring just inside the fitting room. Instead, he focuses on the warm wetness enveloping his dick, watching the way your cunt sucks him in, greedy.
Despite his reckless attitude, he’s aware of the slap of his hips against your ass, and instead of jackhammering into you the way he wants to, he’s opted for hard, deep, slow thrusts; hard enough to have a soft, involuntary sigh every time he sheaths himself to the hilt inside of you. It’s the opposite of a quickie (even though that’s exactly what this is); instead, he’s diligent, indulging himself in the feeling of your tight walls throbbing around his length. 
All things considered, you’re pleased with the minimal amount of noises sounding from your stall; though your body shivers when you hear the low groan rumble in his chest. With a glance in the mirror, you can see the way he’s watching himself pull out of your cunt, biting his lip at the sight.
Matt offers a light slap of his tip against your lips before he’s jutting his hips forward, subtly, to rub his length against your clit. The sensation makes you shiver, the slickness of his shaft sliding against the tender button, and you feel the shockwaves coursing through you at the movement. 
With his free hand, he gathers your hair in his fist and yanks backward, arching your back until your head is resting against his chest. The sharp pain melds into pleasure, loving the way he knows exactly how to take control over your body to have you dizzy with lust. Hot breath fans over your ear, soft and subtle pants puffing air down your neck. “Fuck yourself on it, baby.”
His warm fingers press into your hips, urging you to move; you do, seeking out that delicious tingle when the fat tip of his cock brushes against your clit, running between your folds. You hear the pleased hum in your ear, quiet, and then the chuckle that follows when he slips into you, a loud gasp leaving your lips.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he murmurs with a low groan. “So fucking wet for me, just the way I like it.”
Matt urges you to keep going, biting back another moan at the feeling of him being buried inside you. Your hips roll him in and out of you, and Matt’s hand trails over your ribcage, groping your breast on its way up to finally land at your throat, fingers curling around the base and squeezing. “Makin’ too much noise. Someone’s gonna hear you, and then I won’t get to flood this pretty little cunt with cum, will I?”
Swallowing the urge to whine with need, you shake your head, trying to tell him with your eyes how badly you want that. His lips press softly against the place where your shoulder meets your neck, keeping eye contact with you through the mirror while he angles his hips in search of the spot that’s going to have you dribbling down your legs. He knows he’s reached it by the way your mouth falls open, your brows scrunching in pleasure when the nudge of him against your g-spot has your eyes fluttering shut.
He hums again, and you know he’s pleased—both with himself for reading your body like his favorite book, and with you for being obediently quiet. The hand around your neck tightens while the forceful punch of Matt’s hips grows more intentional, aiming for precision rather than speed.
The smirk in the mirror, flashed in your direction is enough to make you shiver in his arms. “You think you can stay quiet while you come for me? Hmm?”
You’re trapped—can’t nod, can’t speak, barely hanging onto your last shred of control before you’re succumbing to the release that rips through you. Your legs shake, lungs scrambling for breath as the wave crashes over you, hands clutching the wall in search of purchase. Tears prick at the rims of your eyes, blurring your vision. 
Matty’s eyes glitter as he pulls out of you, grinning when he hears the slickness between your legs. 
“Love it when she purrs for me.”
It’s only when you feel hot liquid oozing out of you that you realize he met his climax, too, burying the evidence deep within your core. Your shaky legs clench together in an effort to prevent his cum from seeping down your legs and onto the floor.
Matt’s hands linger on your sides to make sure you’re steady before he’s tugging your panties back in place and swooping the dress back over your hips. He hums at the creamy drips on the inside of your thighs, swiping up to collect it on his finger. You don’t even have to be told to open your mouth, eyes fluttering shut when he presses the salty mixture onto your tongue. He hums when your lips close around the digit, sucking it clean before he releases it with a pop.
His eyes are still dark when he presses the call button on the wall with a crooked grin, and when the attendant knocks gently on the door, he says simply, “We’ll take the dress.”
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