#i haven't written for him in a while

[rottenentity]

broken crown | arthur morgan

redemption marks him like the scars of a hunted beast, noble yet weathered, as time carves its claim.

contains: introspection, self reflection, guilt, penance and what you would usually except to come out of a shitty fic about arthur morgan.

He moves through the dawn like a deer startled from the underbrush, all sinew and silence, the weight of him pressing into the earth yet leaving no mark behind. The man—if he can still be called that, for there is so little left of him—wears his penance in his shoulders, sloped beneath the burden of a life spent taking more than it ever gave. His breath steams in the frigid air, slow and heavy, curling upward like smoke from an extinguished fire.

His steps are deliberate, unhurried, as though he knows the end of the trail lies not far ahead and there’s no need to rush toward it. Each movement of his body tells a story of injury, of repair that never quite took; there’s a hitch in his gait where something once broke and healed crooked, a shiver in his hands that speaks of wounds too deep to close. The way he tilts his head, listening to the creak of the trees, suggests a man waiting for the crack of a rifle—always listening, always ready.

The air around him feels heavy, laden with the gravity of a storm yet to break. It clings to him, as if the world itself knows what he is and cannot let him go. A predator? No. That would be too simple, too clean. A predator hunts without malice, kills without remorse. He is something messier, a creature whose purpose was undone by its own hand. The blood on his skin has been scrubbed away, but the scent of it lingers, sharp and metallic, a stain that cannot be seen yet never fades.

His face is gaunt now, the hollows beneath his cheekbones deepening with each passing day. A beard cloaks the sharp angles, but it cannot hide the erosion of time, of sickness, of guilt. His eyes, though—those are the eyes of a stag caught in the sights of its pursuer, wide and wet and wild. They glint with something primal, something feral, as if he might bolt at any moment, gallop into the trees and vanish into the wilderness where no man could follow.

Yet he doesn’t. He stays. He faces the world with the quiet dignity of a beast resigned to its fate, a creature that knows the hunt is over but will not bow its head until the blade is upon its neck.

The wind pulls at him, whispering through the tatters of his coat, a garment too worn to keep out the cold but too familiar to cast aside. He wears it like a second skin, a patchwork of his own making, each tear and stitch a testament to the miles he’s traveled and the battles he’s survived. The weight of it drags at his shoulders, yet he doesn’t shed it. Like the antlers of a stag in winter, it is both a crown and a curse.

His hands are calloused, thick and rough like bark stripped from a tree. They are not the hands of a man who should cradle life, yet they do. In the crook of his arm, he carries a rabbit—its body limp and bloodless, its fur damp with the dew of an early morning hunt. He sets it down with reverence, laying it on a bed of moss as if it were an offering. To what god, what spirit, what fleeting notion of salvation, he doesn’t know. Perhaps he offers it to the earth itself, the only thing that has ever held him without judgment.

The mountains loom in the distance, jagged peaks scraping at the clouds like the ribs of some great beast long dead. He stares at them as though they are a mirror, their barren slopes reflecting his own erosion. He has climbed them before, felt their chill bite into his lungs, but now they seem insurmountable, unreachable. The effort it would take to ascend them would be his undoing. He knows this. Yet he yearns for the summit, for the thin air and the silence that comes with it.

There is a sickness in him, an unspoken thing that gnaws at his insides, hollowing him out from within. It is not a predator, but a parasite—a slow death, creeping and insidious, feeding on the marrow of his bones. He feels it in the ache of his joints, in the fire that burns low and steady in his chest, in the way his breath catches and shudders with each exhale. He does not fear it. He welcomes it.

For what is there left to fear? Not death. He has seen it too many times, met it in the eyes of men and beasts alike. He has carried it in his hands, felt its weight, smelled its stink. It is an old companion, one he neither loves nor loathes, only acknowledges.

What he fears is living. Not for himself, but for the weight of what he leaves behind. The ripples his absence will create in the lives of those who have clung to him despite his failings. He is a stag with a broken antler, a creature marked for death yet still standing, still breathing, still fighting to stay upright in a world that would see him fall.

And so he moves forward, step by step, stride by stride, the weight of the world pressing down but never breaking him. He is both beast and man, both hunter and hunted, a creature caught between life and death, forever treading the thin line that separates the two.

There is no salvation for creatures like him, no heaven or hell, only the endless expanse of the wilderness and the quiet hum of his own breath. And that is enough. It has to be.

[elv-arts]

I put him in hl2 hope that's alright lol. Hl1 is his brother's territory I decided. Mostly I wanted him to beat the shit out of a metrocop :)

He'll probably be fine. He's survived his life so far including one end of the world and his nerd brother's mad science antics. What's a little more of the same old bullshit?

I was just gonna do one or two doodles cuz I couldn't think of much. But then i was having fun :)

@bbg100

[livingthedragonlife]

finally getting around to watching the dungeon meshi anime (whilst i wait to have enough money to buy all the manga volumes) and i just can't. get over. kabru's face when he finds out laois' party used ancient magic

look at him. he's so excited. what is your problem. im in love with you

[x-reader-things]

“Because of a cake?”

Ezra Bridger x gn!reader

Summary ; In which you scold your best friend on your birthday.

Requested? ; No, self-indulgent

Warnings ; none.

Word count ; 615

——————————————————————

"So."

You swallowed the bite of cake - jogan fruitcake, no less - and raised a brow at the boy beside you. Well, really, he's more of a man now. But he grew up too quickly. It's hard to see him in that way.

Stars. You grew up too quickly, too, right along with him.

War has a funny way of doing that to teenagers who just deserve to be kids. But nonetheless, you still somehow find moments of respite.

Much like now.

"You mean to tell me. That you risked. Being found. By the Empire. Mr. Mitth'raw'nuruodo finding you, himself. On Lothal. Just to get a cake, all for my birthday?", you asked, pausing every so often for emphasis on how awful that idea was to your best friend. "You risked the whole of this rebellion, because of a cake?"

"Jogan Fruitcake," he corrected, stabbing at his own piece of cake with a fork. "But i guess, when you put it that way..."

He looked off to the side, taking a bite of the delicious treat.

You scoffed. He would risk a lot of things to make anyone in the Ghost Crew feel better, but this just takes the cake.

... no pun intended. Kind of.

He really did steal the cake. You weren't going to discuss that then, though, or even begin to wonder how he pulled that off imperial occupied Lothal. He's never done something that risky for a cake, even for Hera and Sabine.

"You are the dumbest idiot I've ever met, Ezra.", you sighed, holding a hand up before he had a chance to speak. You could just tell he was about to, after knowing him for so long. "And don't tell me that's redundant, smartass, I know it is - redundancy is the only proper way I can describe you at this point."

Ezra laughed, his shoulder gently bumping into yours while you both watched the sunset hanging past the trees on Yavin IV. You guys both found a little hideaway on top of the base when it was first established. Not many people knew about it, save for you, Sabine and Ezra.

And maybe a few others too, sadly, but you digress.

"Well, hey. High risk, high reward--", he began, casting a smile in your direction. The corners of your mouth began to turn up a bit, much to your utter dismay. You can never pretend to be disappointed in him for long. "And besides, it got you this awesome birthday cake, right?"

"Yeah," you hummed in acknowledgement, poking at a slice of jogan fruit with your fork. "I guess so."

Ezra reached over, stealing that slice of jogan fruit. He ignored your scoff of indignation, and gently swatted your hand away from stealing it back. "As long as it makes you happy, I'd do anything for you."

He had the gall to snicker after that, and eat your piece of fruit, that fiend.

"Except when it comes down to stealing my food.", you grumbled. You reached over towards his plate, and stabbed your fork into one of his own jogan fruit slices he put off to the side, as payback for him stealing yours.

"Hey--", he laughed, knowing damn well what he did. "That was my food!"

"You stole mine first! It's only fair--"

"--But I got it for you--"

"--Don't pull that Jedi guilt on me now--"

"--Jedi guilt?!"

The lighthearted bickering continued as the dusk morphed into a calm night. The calmest you've been in a long, long while.

Well, his risk definitely had a good reward. He made you happy today, regardless of the fact that he risked capture once again.

Over a cake.

[despairforme]

Gonna fuckin' haunt ya---

[crescentfool]

having the hc that minato is ace is incredibly funny sometimes when you think about how ryoji is oh so very bi because it's like. "ah. death stole my ability to be attracted to people," in the same way that ryoji stole minato's eye color and energy level. like wow, thanks ryoji, you just keep finding things to steal from minato!

[raticalshoez]

And I'd hope that if I find the strength to walk out, you'd stay the hell out of my way.

Just finished the fic You Could've Applied Online and it permanantly altered my brain chemistry...

Versions without text:

[fictionadventurer]

First Letter from Julia I. Sand to Chester A. Arthur

[1881 Aug 27]

To the Hon Chester A. Arthur.

The hours of Garfield's life are numbered--before this meets your eye, you may be President. The people are bowed in grief; but--do you realize it?--not so much because he is dying, as because you are his successor. What President ever entered office under circumstances so sad! The day he was shot, the thought rose in a thousand minds that you might be the instigator of the foul act. Is not that a humiliation which cuts deeper than any bullet can pierce? Your best friends said: "Arthur must resign--he cannot accept office, with such a suspicion resting upon him." And now your kindest opponents say: "Arthur will try to do right"--adding gloomily--"He won't succeed, though--making a man President cannot change him."

But making a man President can change him! At a time like this, if anything can, that can. Great emergencies awaken generous traits which have lain dormant half a life. If there is a spark of true nobility in you, now is the occasion to let it shine. Faith in your better nature forces me to write to you--but not to beg you to resign. Do what is more difficult and more brave. Reform! It is not the proof of highest goodness never to have done wrong--but it is a proof of it, sometime in one's career, to pause and ponder, to recognize the evil, to turn resolutely against it and devote the remainder of ones life to that only which is pure and exalted. Such revolutions of the soul are not common. No step towards them is easy. In the humdrum drift of daily life, they are impossible. But once in a while there comes a crisis which renders miracles feasible. The great tidal wave of sorrow which has rolled over the country, has swept you loose from your old moorings and set you on a mountain-top, alone. As President of the United States--made such by no election, but by a national calamity--you have no old associations, no personal friends, no political ties, you have only your duty to the people at large. You are free--free to be as able and as honorable as any man who ever filled the presidential chair.

Your past--you know best what it has been. You have lived for worldly things. Fairly or unfairly, you have won them. You are rich, powerful--tomorrow, perhaps, you will be President. And what is it all worth? Are you peaceful--are you happy? What if a few days hence the hand of the next unsatisfied ruffian should lay you low, and you should drag through months of weary suffering, in the White House, knowing that all over the land not a prayer was uttered in your behalf, not a tear shed, that the great American people was glad to be rid of you--would not worldly honors seem rather empty then?

Make such things impossible. Rise to the emergency. Disappoint our fears. Force the nation to have faith in you. Show from the first that you have none but the purest aims. It may be difficult at once to inspire confidence, but persevere. In time--when you have given reason for it--the country will love and trust you. If any man says, "With Arthur for President, Civil Service Reform is doomed," prove that Arthur can be its firmest champion. Do not thrust on the people politicians who have forfeited their respect--no matter how near they may be to you as personal friends. Do not remove any man from office unnecessarily. Appoint those only of marked ability and of sterling character. Such may not be abundant, but you will find them, if you seek them. You are far too clever to be easily deceived. In all your policy, have none but the highest motives. With the lamp of patriotism in your hand, your feet will not be likely to stumble.

Do you care for applause? Of course, you have had it, after a fashion. Perhaps from the dregs of the populace, inspired by the lowest of politicians. Possibly it pleased you at the time--it may have served some purpose that you solved then. But in the depths of your soul, do you not despise it? Would not one heart-felt "God bless you!" from the honest and true among your countrymen, be worth ten thousand times more? You can win such blessing, if you will.

Your name now is on the annals of history. You cannot slink back into obscurity, if you would. A hundred years hence, school boys will recite your name in the list of Presidents and tell of your administration. And what shall posterity say? It is for you to choose whether your record shall be written in black or in gold. For the sake of your country, for your own sake and for the sakes of all who have ever loved you, let it be pure and bright.

As one of the people over whom you are to be President, I make you this appeal. Perhaps you have received many similar. If not, still believe that this expresses the thoughts in many hearts, today--and do not give those who have had faith in you, cause for regret.

Yours Respectfully,

Julia I. Sand.

46 E. 74th st. New York.

Aug 27th 1881.

[kakusu-shipping]

I realized a while ago my most recent full color reference for my Assassination Classroom S/I is like 3 years old, so I figured I'd finally redraw that (for mutual in AssClass reasons)

Along with update some story stuff, for fun fun. Under the cut cause I cannot stop Yapping

He's a boy genius, having graduated high school at age 15, and earning his Doctorate by 18, he went straight into work with a government owned biology lab studying an alien virus

After the events on Okinawa (and with the pressure of few other not-so-minor injuries that had happened during training), both Koro-Sensei and Karasuma agreed Class 3-E should have a Doctor on the mountain.

Emile was chosen and flown oversees from America due to his advanced knowledge of anti-matter creatures like Koro-Sensei, and the progress he'd made studying the Tentacle Virus. He learned just enough Japanese to get by listening to audio books on the flight over.

Immediately Emile is Fascinated with Koro-Sensei, the Tentacle Cells fully merged with an artificially enhanced host. Between bandaging up the students after training he fills a notebook with questions for Koro-Sensei, about his anatomy, his organs, his reflexes, his abilities, just his day to day life, Everything he can think of to ask and then some.

Then, with no hesitation, he presents the notebook to Koro-Sensei and asks if he'd fill it out. Koro-Sensei, finding the forwardness and desire to learn irresistible, agrees, on the condition he can leave a few questions blank (for his own comfort) and that Emile not show the notebook to anyone else, which Emile agrees to.

The next day when Emile gets his Koro-Sensei questionnaire back, he finds the Octopus had answered nearly every question... In Kanji. Which Emile can't read. Not one to leave a learning mind alone, Koro-Sensei offers to tutor Emile in Japanese so that he can better translate the notebook himself. This leads to the two of them spending every day after school in the teacher's lounge until the sun goes down.

Emile is also very close to Irina, they read a lot of the same books and Emile tends to spoil Irina's more bratty and whiny tendencies, which is attention she desperately needs. Emile can speak Russian rather well and Irina is fluent in English so the two commonly have conversations in anything other than Japanese, to the dismay of Karasuma who only knows enough of either language to ask if the other person speaks Japanese.

Despite how he looks, Emile is very strong, to an absurd degree. It's mostly from spending so much time in labs, moving heavy equipment around. He is also Incredibly Clumsy and will trip and fall if not paying 100% attention to his steps. He has the worst luck with any kitchen appliance, he demonstrated this immediately when Karasuma asked him to start the coffee on his first day, which promptly burst into flames.

A brief little look into his Future, after the Assassination of Koro-Sensei, Emile quits his job with the Government and focuses on his love of language and stories, writing his own books for a time before eventually going back to work as a school nurse at Paradise High School after Irina tells him Nagisa was going to end up teaching there.

[sodapopcurtis-dx-asks]

There's a St. Christopher necklace wrapped around a tightly folded note. You can see for Steve written in a handwritin the scratches at somethin in Sodas brain. like he's seen it before.

for the kid. (though fat lotta good it did me huh? ha.) figure it's the most help I can be. don't bug soda with who it's from. man. God knows he's got enough to worry about. Just know that. me n Johnny are lookin out for Pone. best we can at least. sorry 'bout. we'll. everythin.-

DW

Onto Steve's perspective after just running off, he took some labeled with his name, and others that were completely random. This one being labeled.

He pulled apart the note, and stared wide-eyed at the necklace. He didn't even have to read, he already knew who's it was— the letter and the necklace.

He couldn't help but be surprised though.

Ah, jeez, Dal.

It's safe between us, okay? Really. And, thank you.

I'll give it t'him. Just gotta make sure he don't freak or ask where I found it. God forbid they think I'm over here grave robbing. HAHA... eek.

[call-me-oracle]

barbara gordon in batman: urban legends #2 (red hood and batman - cheer pt 2)

bonus:

[tinylilacbun]

In the mood for some brother!rafe or dad!rafe 👀 ideas or thoughts are welcome :3

[qcomicsy]

Lately I've only been wishing to grab a comic about my favorite character and just have a genuinely good time reading it.

[afterthegreatunknown]

random pre-canon moment with some sbg members (all eighteen or older here) that is a combination:

a hot summer is something not many people want to experience. this goes especially so when the hot summer day drives everyone indoors and being indoors isn't help at all, even if you close the blinds and drawn the curtains to limit the sun's ray and heat. luckily, the invention of the air conditioner and the fan makes being indoors enjoyable.

unfortunately, monty montgomery's air conditioner is broken, and he only has one working fan. as such, everyone is taking turns sharing the fan. still, everyone is wearing clothes fitting for the weather. almost everyone, but he isn't currently in monty's place at the moment and that is the opinion of the people indoors: monty, frank, kit, bertrand, and miranda.

monty is currently in a t-shirt and loose shorts. frank is also in loose shorts, but he's wearing a sleeveless shirt, having taken off his button-down shirt on account of the heat. kit is wearing a tied crop top and jean shorts, with her hair in a messy high bun. bertrand has his button shirt undone, and elected to strip down to his boxers on account of not wearing shorts today, with his pants in a nearby corner.

miranda, the lucky girl, currently has the fan. wearing a camisole and workout shorts (her outer shirt she took off), she lies on monty's sofa with the fan blowing on her face. miranda won her turn with the fan on account of winning the latest round of fuck, marry, kill; her answer was fucking dorothea s. markson (not to be confuse with s. theodora markson, her sister), marrying gifford, and killing captain robinson (widdershins' second chaperone)

as monty lies on the floor with frank, kit, and bertrand, all of them having an ice pack on their foreheads -or chest in bertrand's case- miranda continues to lie on his sofa with her eyes close. it's a comfortable silence in the apartment. nearly everyone would have fallen asleep if it wasn't for one thing...

"aha! that's it!" shouts miranda.

monty takes off his icepack, and sits upright. he sees miranda sitting upright also, positioning herself to see the others on the floor.

"what's it, miranda?" asked monty.

kit, bertrand and gustav follow suit, removing their ice packs and sitting upward to stare at miranda.

"i just thought of a new combination in our game on who gets the fan!" miranda smiles at them, devilishly so.

"oh no," say monty. "i don't like that look of yours."

"something tells me that smile implies our choices this round are worser than the last," says kit, pushing up her glasses. "but i'm in. who do we have to pick from?"

"you're being rude, snicket. we should wait for widdershins to come back," says frank.

"i agree with frank," says bertrand. "it's unfair for widdershins to be excluded and lose an opportunity to have the fan."

"i was implying that with widdershins picking up our lunch, we should wait for our food before we play our game," says frank. "but your reasoning is a hell of lot better than mine."

what frank said is correct. widdershins is the one in their group not wearing clothes fitting for the weather, at least in their opinion. he's wearing a light blue button-down shirt -though his sleeves are rolled up and the top two buttons are undone- and brown loose pants. he unlike the others, made no complains about the hot weather.

and that is why widdershins was elected to pick up their lunch.

"oh bertrand, don't get yourself in a twist!" miranda waves a hand at him. "he'll get his chance! you just have to wait to say your answers until he returns!"

"but that means we have the advantage of having to think over our answers, while widdershins will possibly get only a minute or so," bertrand argues.

"bertrand, while i understand your concerns, do remember that this is widdershins we're talking about," says kit. "remember his philosophy."

"he who hesitates is lost," answers bertrand.

"or she," adds in monty.

"exactly!" miranda snaps her fingers. "that means widdershins wouldn't need to think that long to give his answer. ergo, the rest of you are in the clear on hearing the choices."

bertrand doesn't say anything, but he nods his head in agreement.

"since we have everything settle," continues miranda, "let the game round begin! fuck, marry, kill: ghede-"

"ghede!?" interrupts frank. "you pick her of all people!?"

"says the one who gave us gifford in the last round," mutters monty.

frank gives a nasty glare at monty, and then a hard smack on the arm.

"anyway," continues miranda, "as i was saying! fuck, marry, kill: ghede, mr. clovis baudelaire-"

"miranda," interrupts kit, "you're making this too easy. we all know which one beatrice's father deserves."

"we should grateful that beatrice inherited his looks, and not his personality," says bertrand.

"you all need to remember that i'm not done yet," says miranda. "fuck, marry, kill: ghede, mr. clovis baudelaire, and...ishmael."

hearing the last name drop, everyone froze.

of all the volunteers, ishmael was the one they never expected. their generation has such a hatred -or extreme dislike from those who are trying to be polite- for the old man, the four young adults didn't expect miranda to bring ishmael's name up in their game.

everyone is in too much of a shock to make a proper response or complaints of frustration at miranda. speaking of frustrations, miranda quickly crosses her arms, and glares at them all.

"is no one going to yell at me for including that old coot?" asks miranda. "no cussing me out? nothing at all?"

no one still speaks.

"since you're all going to be quiet," continues miranda, "now would be a good time for widdershins to show up."

knock-knock-knock!

"everyone, i'm back! i got our lunches, aye!" shouts a familiar voice.

"well shit," says miranda, standing up now. "i got bless with the gift of prophecy from apollo. don't worry everyone. i'll get the door."

miranda leaves the room, leaving everyone still in their place. the four of them hears miranda unlocking the door, and widdershins stepping in. not long afterwards, the two of them return. widdershins is carrying two large paper bags, one in each hand.

widdershins stares at them all, and then tilts his head. "what got their tongues?"

"my choices for the newest round of fuck, marry, kill," answers miranda. "give me the bags, widdershins. you should sit down. you been in the heat, after all."

widdershins does exactly that, taking a spot between monty and frank. widdershins stares at each one individually, and then twiddles his thumbs. "are they that terrible of choices?"

"depends on how you look at it," says miranda, her voice coming from the kitchen. "well, since you're here, it's now your turn to hear them. fuck, marry, kill: ghede, mr. clovis baudelaire, and ishmael."

widdershins blinks a few times in rapid succession, and then stares at everyone. "that is certainly a combination of choices, miranda."

"i know." miranda comes back to the room, and sits back down on the sofa. "but that is the aim of the game, widdershins."

widdershins turns his attention to miranda. "i suppose so." he then curls up a lock of his hair up like parentheses. he stares at a random spot somewhere for a moment, and then lets go of his lock of hair.

miranda gives a brief glance at bertrand. it's an 'i told you so' glance, for she next says, "i assume you have your answer?"

"aye. gave it some thought too," answers widdershins. "for me, it's fuck ishmael, marry ghede, and kill clovis baudelaire."

seconds later, everyone sans miranda speaks up at last.

"please tell us you're fucking joking," says monty softly, voice so soft it's hard to hear.

"what the ever-loving FUCK," shouts frank, voice bold and loud.

"what are you fucking thinking!?" yells kit, voice hinting great disappointment.

"i must again reiterate: 'fuck' in our game context means sexual intercourse," states bertrand, as if he's reading a dictionary definition.

"aye. i stand by what i said," answers widdershins, standing up. he brushes his hands on his pants, and claps his hands. "i'll tell you my reasoning over lunch. aye, i'm starving. i hope the chill cucumber soup isn't warm. josephine says it's one of the best things she ever ate, aye, and i want to eat it the way it should be!"

as widdershins walks to the kitchen, everyone stares at one another, still horrified with what widdershins said with little hesitation.

miranda is biting her lower lip, eyes wide. kit has her hand on her forehead, looking pale and haunted. frank drags both of his hands down his, and gives a muffled scream. monty runs both hands into his hair, and screeches softly.

bertrand is the only one who has a resemblance of calm. he stands up quickly, and then buttons up his shirt. then he walks over to the nearby corner where his pants are at.

"regardless of our associate's reasoning," says bertrand, putting on his pants, "are we in agreement that whatever we answer, widdershins wins this round?"

"aye," say kit, nodding her head.

"agree," says miranda, blinking a few times.

"no one is going to beat widdershins's answer," says monty,

"of course no one is," says frank. "it's hard to beat the answer of a hypothetical old man fucker."

[not-poignant]

Do you think there will be Raphael pov in palmarosa at any point? I love how you write hiiiiim

Hiya anon!

So far I'm leaning towards no.

The reason is that I actually like that he's so hard to read, and because I find the concept of writing his mind genuinely challenging because he is so inhuman to me. I think if I were writing his POV I'd feel seduced by the urge to humanise him 'internally' and we'd lose the mystery and mercurial power of seeing him as an outsider (i.e. from Astarion's POV).

And while that's tempting in its own way, I'm very much not wanting to do that either! Part of what I enjoy in this story is watching Astarion deal with the loneliness in a way of being with someone / spending time with someone who thinks so differently to him, who prioritises differently to him, who has different values to him, and who is so very *not* human.

And sometimes that's something I want to write, but I actually don't want to humanise Raphael to that degree, so I'll be avoiding his POV, I'm sorry!