#it is so emotionally powerful it's astonishing

[slytherinslut0]

hey can you please do tom x hufflepuff reader hcs??

Tom Riddle x Hufflepuff!Reader headcanons.

(A/N: idk how this ended up being so long. i got carried away. i love tom. i love his complexity. i could write about him forever. anyways, enjoy:))

tom riddle and a hufflepuff reader would be damn near polar opposites, and there are a few reasons why i say this->

tom is a very reserved man, yet undoubtedly driven by an ambitious and power-hungry nature, always seeking dominance and control in every aspect of his life.

hufflepuffs, on the other hand, are known for their kindness, their loyalty, prioritizing the well-being of others over personal ambition.

tom riddle is the type of man who is not afraid to deceive others for personal gain, while hufflepuffs value fairness and honesty in each of their interactions.

not to mention how tom is emotionally restrained, rarely displaying vulnerability or empathy, while hufflepuffs are known for being emotionally open and expressing genuine care/understanding for others.

i believe tom would be rather annoyed by hufflepuffs, perhaps even put off by their loud, outgoing nature, but i also feel as though he would respect them more than other houses because they are known for being more by-the-book.

i believe this pairing would be WONDERFUL for him, and i’d imagine it’d go a little like this->

perhaps you and tom would be involuntarily paired up for an assignment, an unlikely collaboration that tom figured would be an easy mark for him.

originally, he’d find himself irritated by your constant cheerful and optimistic nature; finding it rather absurd that you weren’t at all fazed by his cold, cunning attitude.

there’d definitely be initial clashes between the two of you, disagreements of methods, but tom would find himself stunned as you met every one of his suggestions with a positive, passionate attitude, not daring to get discouraged or frustrated with him.

your unwavering optimism would be shocking to him. especially in the face of his calculated cynicism. it’d be then, that tom would be astonished by your dedication and genuine passion for learning, a rare quality to obtain.

his initial cold, guarded demeanour would slowly begin to fade.

tom would find himself beginning to pay more attention to you, his curiosity extending to outside the confines of the classroom.

he’d begin to wonder if your genuine kindness is truly authentic or merely a manipulation tactic, leading him to question the sincerity of your character.

which he’d only question because that’s the way his mind works.

he’d never known someone so open and genuine like you. he’d convince himself you had ulterior motives.

however, tom would quickly observe that your authenticity extended universally, and was not just directed at him.

your small acts of kindness and interactions with strangers became evident, and he’d witness your unwavering positivity even in the most challenging situations.

he’d notice how thoughtful you are, how you’d spend your free time maintaining the Owlery, ensuring it’s well-kept and sanitary.

he’d watch you from a distance as you continually brought the owls food and water, giving them attention and love which was something you did upon your own accord, without expecting any compensation.

it became clear to him that you did these things because you genuinely loved to do them, not because you wanted praise for it. and at this, tom was completely taken aback.

your radiant smile, capable of lighting up any room, would become a revelation to him, leaving him puzzled about how he initially overlooked this aspect of your character for all those years.

it’d be here that inner turmoil would begin to brew within tom as he’d have no choice but to acknowledge your ability to see the good within everything and everyone, and especially within him. something not many people are capable of.

as time passed, you couldn't help but notice a gradual softening in him.

during your collaborative sessions on the assignment, he became more receptive to your ideas, actively seeking your thoughts.

surprisingly, he started engaging in conversations beyond the project, asking about your day and exhibiting small changes in his demeanour that were entirely new to you.

tom was breaking, his walls slowly being chipped away by your infectious smile and enthusiasm.

the unexplainable shift in his perspective both intrigued and unsettled him, as you became the catalyst for awakening emotions he never believed he could feel.

he’d try to fight back, he’d try to get himself together, but it was useless. you were in his head, and there was no getting you out.

however, given the fact that tom struggles with showing even the smallest amounts of vulnerability, he’d try to be as subtle as possible with his interest in you. hoping that you’d eventually catch on.

perhaps he’d begin with small gestures, like gifting you a book on rare and beautiful magical creatures, saying that he noticed it in the library and thought of you, believing you might like it.

it would not go unnoticed by you just how considerate this was, and just how much he’d begun to take awareness of your interests.

you found yourself engrossed in the book, a sight that never failed to bring a subtle smile to tom’s face whenever he spotted you across the hall.

observing you immersed in the pages made him quietly content, often requiring a conscious effort on his part to break himself free from the captivation.

his brain would be screaming, “what the hell am i doing?” but he wouldn’t be able to deny just how much he loved seeing you enthralled by the gift.

the feeling was intoxicating, and wholly unfamiliar; he needed more. he needed to do more.

perhaps the next move he’d make would be to gift you a rare enchanted plant, after having noted your love for herbology.

he’d present the plant to you in a subtle way, saying that he’d found it while taking a stroll through the forest and thought you’d like it.

he’d go into details about its properties, its rarity and how to effectively take care of it, even though he knew you already knew all of this.

he knew you absolutely loved the fact that he cared for these plants just as much as you did. this was all part of his plan.

and of course, at this point, you’d have the hunch that he was into you; but being as perceptive and intuitive as you are, you’d know that pestering tom or trying to force him to admit feelings would be useless.

the man moves at his own pace.

so instead, you’d invite him to join you as you cleaned the Owlery, wanting to spend more time with him. the two of you would gradually become closer and closer, tom’s harsh demeanour fading away with the wind with each passing day.

and even still, tom hardly made any advances. tom hardly wanted to put himself in a vulnerable position. he wanted to be sure you wanted him before he ever revealed his intentions.

if he was touchy with you, he’d never insinuate it was because he’s into you. he’d kiss you on the cheek after walking you back to your dorm for the night, and then act like nothing ever happened in the morning.

and this might have annoyed some, but not you.

you understood that this is how tom was, and you admired him for it. you were entirely understanding. you wanted him to open up on his own terms, and you were willing to wait for him.

eventually, tom knew he couldn’t hold back his feelings anymore. he knew he needed to make you his. he knew he’d do fucking anything.

and this feeling would only multiply as he spotted you across the courtyard, speaking to a boy from your house.

your smile was glowing, your laugh was radiating, and the feeling this sight inspired inside tom’s heart could have been enough to ignite the entire castle into pure fucking flame.

whatever he was doing at this moment didn’t matter anymore, he only had one objective in mind.

making you his.

without waiting for you to finish your conversation, he’d interrupt, stating he needed to speak to you.

you’d smile, sensing his urgency, and follow him over to the far side of the courtyard, looking out at the breathtaking view of the faraway valleys and mountains.

as soon as tom was content with your seclusion, he’d cup the back of your head and crash his lips to yours, kissing you with enough fervour to make up for all the days and weeks and months he’d wished he’d have made a proper move.

pulling back, he’d meet your eyes. “i need you to be mine,” he’d whisper, as though the words scared him. “you’ve made me feel things i’ve never known possible, you’ve broken me down without effort. you are the most beautiful, genuine woman i’ve ever met, and i have been falling in love with you for months…i can’t hide it anymore, i need you…”

the words would be music to your ears, the joy unfathomable.

of course, you’d be his.

[solspina]

Hello! I saw that your request box is open if this doesn’t suit your taste you can ignore this.

Could you write a hurt to comfort fic that involves a workaholic Guilliman and his politically married wife?

They knew they had being married to a primark would be rough but they didn’t think it would be so emotionally draining/lonely. Guilliman finally decides to do something and acknowledges his wife when one day she’s considering divorce and there are TOO many suitors waiting to have her hand.

Could you add how Robute pines for her but doesn’t know how to show how he loves her because he’s trying to manage a dying imperium and he doesn’t think he’s worth loving?

Never Again Will I be Gone

roboute guilliman ⋆˙⟡

i deeply apologize if this is rushed, i couldn’t figure out how to end it and it may be a little all over the place, but i hope it is enjoyed nonetheless!

why spill blood if things can be handled peacefully? guilliman is far too afraid of becoming attached or falling in love with his wife, and eventually she places the most dreaded option on the table for him. when tragedy befalls her, guilliman can hold his act of withdrawal no longer

warnings: blood, distant ass guilliman

how she had gone from being an incredibly privileged noblewoman to the wife of the last remaining primarch, she did not know.

there was a point in time she had believed she was a beacon of hope for her people. once her father’s reign was over, she would finally be able to restore peace to her planet, heal the sick and the dying, uplift the thousands that resided there from poverty. It was only when she stood on the altar and was encapsulated within the piercing blue gaze of roboute guilliman that she realized her people could not be saved.

the planet she resided on, the one she was supposed to rule, had an astonishing militia. the imperium did not wish extinction upon an innocent colony, nor did they want to challenge a planet that would undeniably put up a fight. teaching her father the ways of the emperor was far easier than trying to convince him that a woman could lead or be of any importance.

that ideal had been drilled in her head her entire life. she was to be married off from the day she was born. not a single suitor met her father’s standards, for none of them held enough power, until guilliman.

but it was fulgrim who convinced guilliman to take a wife in the first place. her planet was dangerous. if a peaceful negotiation was on the table, why sacrifice any lives?

fulgrim relaxed in his chair, pulling his wine glass away from his lips with a sly but genuine smile on his face. “you don’t have to love her guilliman. ive wed dozens of women. we do this out of necessity for peace, not out of love.” he said, his tone aloof and dismissive. guilliman hated to admit that his brother was right, thousands of his sons and innocent humans did not need to lose their lives when peace was on the table. “besides,” fulgrim added, his eyes gleaming with mischief and something akin to lust. “she is quite beautiful. i’d watch your back, i’ve heard others deeply desire an opportunity with her” guilliman’s expression remained stale and unmoving from the papers on his desk, though an unfamiliar feeling flickered through his eyes at the thought of someone else coveting his soon to be wife. was this possession?

“sure thing, brother.” guilliman replied, cold, unfeeling, and professional as usual.

he did not get to meet her until their wedding day, and quite beautiful she was. gorgeous fragile, and timid. her cowardice in his presence was something he was not anticipating of a noble, let alone the daughter of an incredibly cruel king. yet her eyes, glassy with tears, looked upon her people with great sympathy and sadness. they looked back at her the same way. she was not cruel, she was kind. these people were being ripped away of the only kindness they had been shown from their rulers.

when her father approached the two of them, she seemed to shrink into guilliman, clinging to his arm as if her father would rip her away the moment he got close enough. the king’s gaze shifted back and forth between guilliman and the girl, before her wrist was grabbed with such force guilliman swore he heard a crack. “i’d like to say goodbye to my dearest daughter” the man said, cooing as she whimpered at the pressure on her wrist, her hand turning blue.

guilliman’s eyes narrowed as he wrapped an arm around her. “release her, and say your goodbyes here, then.” he stood sternly, eyeing the girl’s hand. her father let go, not expecting such a protective tone from the primarch. “i will not depart from my wife.”

he protected her from her father, sure. but his words were a lie. for he did not have to love her.

throughout 6 months of marriage, he had only allowed himself to see her a dozen or so times, each meeting brief and rushed. his sons took great care of her in his absence, always sure to carefully to reply to every “where’s lord guilliman?” with a flat and prompt “he’s busy”.

the only time she remembered physical contact with him was the kiss they shared their wedding day, and the occasional brushing of hands when she handed him his paperwork. being allowed to sit in his office and watch him do his work was a rare and very awkward occurrence. she had her own room. her own space. she should spend time there instead. neither her or her belongings were allowed in guilliman’s personal quarters, anything to stop her sweet and intoxicating scent from getting on his sheets. anything to stop him from falling in love. he does this out of necessity, he has no time for love. he did not have to love her.

he’d admire her from a distance instead, or he’d submerge himself in papers and documents to avoid catching a glimpse of her. she’d sit in her room, contemplating the blank tear stained divorce papers that sat upon her dresser as she traced her fingers over the contours in her wedding ring. all the paper needed was guilliman’s signature.

her quarters were still close to his despite being separated. he heard her cries at night, incredibly often. comfort, she needs comfort. she needs warmth. he’s been in that room before, it’s so… so cold. he knew, and yet never once did he act on it. instead, he sat alone in his room doing paperwork by the warmth of his fireplace, the cracking flames helping drown out her sobs. he did his best to ignore them. he did not have to love her.

sometimes he couldn’t help but stop and listen, pressing his ear against the cold wall, knowing just how freezing and lonely it must be past the walls of his massive and elaborate quarters. his bed was more than big enough for the both of them, and he mulled over the thought many times. it didn’t matter, a little cold wouldn’t kill her, he did not have to love her.

one particular night, though, guilliman did not hear her crying as usual. her sobs and the sounds of the fire were replaced by heavy footsteps approaching his door. the heavy metal boots of cato sicarius were unmistakable as he made his way toward the primarch, a stern but panicked look across his features. Something about the look on cato’s face caused guilliman’s heart to quicken.

“my lord” cato’s voice was close to trembling, sweat pooling on his forehead “it’s lady guilliman… she’s hurt” cato’s voice echoed despite his panting. guilliman rose to his feet with an urgency he had never before felt toward his wife, his heart filled with a mix of panic, confusion, and anger.

“how badly?” he asked with a hint of controlled fury behind the question, every millisecond that passed causing him to dread every possible answer more and more until his heart felt as if it would beat out of his chest.

“she is in critical condition, my lord” the worst possible outcome rang through cato’s lips, but fell on deaf ears as the primarch plowed past him, walking directly to the medical unit and ignoring anything attempting to grab his attention along the way.

guilliman cursed to himself. to hear her cry was one thing, to long for her was one thing, but to be absent and allow her to become fatally injured?

when he arrived in the medical bay, multiple medicae surrounded the bloody and trembling body of lady guilliman. tears poured from her eyes despite her state of near-unconsciousness, the clear wound left by none other than the claws of the night haunter was swollen and crimson, it’s bright redness mixed with black screamed at guilliman. he should’ve been there. there was not an excuse in the universe that would satisfy the fact he was blind enough to let konrad curze get his filthy hands on his wife.

“where’s… guilliman…” she choked out, past her exhaustion and teary eyes.

one of the nurses seemed to tense up at her sad and confused expression. despite his constant absence, despite the papers for divorce he had found on his desk, she still cried out for him. “i apologize my lady, he’s busy” the nurse responded, watching her face twist into a look of defeat. he’d already signed the papers, had them prepared for her, and placed them on her nightstand in her quarters.

his heart could hold its true feelings no longer as he felt it begin to crumble. “i’m here.” his voice announced his presence as he approached her bedside, the nurse who cared for her widened her eyes in shock, swiftly stepping to the side to allow guilliman to see his wife. she reached up weakly with a single one of her tiny hands. her eyes were half lidded, confused and full of sorrow.

he stepped forward, reaching out his own hand to grab onto hers. “you’re really here…” she whispered, a small smile upon her features. “you found my papers, guilliman?”

his smile, once mirroring hers, faded into the slightest frown. “yes.” he responded. his voice cold and yet sorrowful. “they are signed but,” he paused, wanting a moment to consider the weight of the words on his tongue. “I cannot let you return home until you have recovered.”

she frowned. “i don’t want to go back home, roboute.” he tensed at her use of his first name, the only piece of his identity that was truly his own. “but there i had my people, and here i have nothing at all…” her voice broke as she cried, the pain of her wound overwhelming her as the machines stitching her wound together brought healing alongside pain. Exhausted and in something akin to agony, tears began to stream down her face.

“then i will give you everything” he replied with a solemn vow, turning to face the nurse as she nodded toward the primarch, the machine finishing its work and signaling to him that she was free to go as long as she did not walk or strain her body for a few days. he, for the first time, lifted his wife into his arms with more gentleness than that of which a primarch was capable.

he carried her into his room, past her own freezing cold quarters. he’d have her personal belongings moved within the next few days. Gently, he lay her on the soft rug next to his fireplace, not wanting to stain his bedsheets with her blood or hurt her as his period of scheduled rest passed. he removed his own armor, placing it to the side with ease before moving over to his bed. He did not lie down, instead grabbing a soft blanket and draping it over her body, ensuring she stayed warm. He sat next to her, placing her head on his thigh as she nestled into him for both comfort and warmth.

perhaps his scheduled rest meant nothing at all. damn the schedule. he had more important things to attend to now, and those marines of his were more than competent enough to handle it. his focus now was on nothing more than his wife, the girl who lay with her head in his lap as he stroked her head, memorizing every hair on her scalp like he should’ve long ago.

she shifted in her sleep, her body instinctively cuddling closer to her husband, thankful for the warmth she had always longed for. she did not cry on this night. he placed his hand over her shoulder and leaned back against the wall, his heart finally willing to admit the truth. he did not have to love her, but he did. by the emperor, he did.

[sanemisstalker]

Idk why but like I really wanna die in somebody’s arms- it’s like such a beautiful but sad way to die?

(**kny spoilers**)

kinda like how Mitsuri died in Obanai’s arms bc that was such a heartbreaking moment but it also was kinda sweet at the same time? Idek anymore 😭 ty for your time btw <3

Broooo-

I hate to be that guy and point to your username, but I think dying in Giyu's arms would be the worst emotionally. I think it'd be actually devastating.

CW// Death / Implied Major Character Death/ Implied Suicide/ Angst

A part of me reasons that Sanemi could handle it about as well as he handles anything else. Poorly, but he'd continue like he always does. That's all he can do because he thinks anything else is a show of extreme cowardice and he doesn't deserve to feel that way.

But when you're in his arms, dying, more color is dissapearing, and he's fighting to see your face past the tears- he's wailing and screaming, and trying to command you to come back. That normally works. Maybe he's gotten scary enough to scare death, but no. He'll never be enough to fend off the inevitable.

I don't think Shinobu would be much different. She has an astonishing amount of hate in her heart. Enough to patch up the wound long enough for her to pretend it isn't there anymore.

You'd be lying in her arms, and all of it would be beating against her head. Every word you ever said, every piece of medical knowledge she had, and for her to be the only one able to know just how incapable she was of saving you- She'd start begging a higher power, probably, begging you to be strong in her stead- save yourself because she's not strong enough.

Rengoku wouldn't cry until you fully slipped away, doing all he could to muster his voice flat- you needed comfort, obviously. He knew it wouldn't heal the wounds, nothing could, but he was still denying that to keep his smile wide.

You wouldn't be in his arms but on his lap, his hand sweeping hair from your fading eyes. I think He'd sit there for a while. For too long, just trying to prevent tears, because you wouldn't make a move to wipe them.

Tengen would hurt, bad. You're in his arms, and he's rocking you, and he's having a panic attack- He'd deny it the hardest. For the longest.

There's a notable difference, Tengen understood, between the weight of a breathing person, and a dead body. He knew that difference the second you slumped against his shoulder, and his knees hit the ground. He'd try to wake you up, tell you to stop the act, it isn't funny, because God, what else could he do but joke in a half witted prayer to hear your laugh.

Giyu....

Fuck me , man. I don't think he's emotionally strong enough to handle anymore loss. He's already disliked by his peers, by himself, god, and everyone who breathed. You were the only person willing to talk with him- to waste time on him. To love him.

The imagery for this one is vivid- the rain. Ironic. Even in his own element he couldn't save you. He's hunched over you and mimics your shallow breathes, protecting your face from the down pour.

You can't get the words out to say how much you really, deeply love him. He keeps shushing you, trying to conserve your energy- He's panicking, too, hands unsure of their need. There were so many wounds, he couldn't possibly tend to them all.

The poor boy would whisper a beg- to let him go in your stead. He couldn't be left alone to survive again. Not again. He had too many lives he was carrying on his shoulders. Too many souls he was responsible for reaching heaven with, and he was never that good a man.

He's not asking God, he's asking you. And how cruel you were to not let him die.

'I can't- Y/N, I can't do this again.' He'd sound close to vomiting. A certain animalistic sound to his voice. Guttural, almost. 'You-You-God- no-no-n-'

But you'd be gone, unable and unwillingly to give him to permission he so desperately needed. Not deserved, He'd remind himself.

He'd all but rot next to you. The second your last breathe loosed, he'd stop breathing, too. Days would go by. Unmoving. Unfeeling.

I truly believe he'd die with you that day.

[posletsvet]

Satoru Gojo and the Infinity That Sets Him Apart

Throught the flashback arc that opens JJK'S second season, the story goes to great lengths to make us sympathize with Geto. We are privy to the inner workings of his mind when he faces personal catastrophes of his youth, and it grants us a profound insight into how his mental/emotional state deteriorates in response to a painful realization that later comes to define his entire life. Gege found a way to turn Geto's tendency to internalize his experiences into a narrative tool, the mechanics of his Cursed Technique becoming an apt metaphor for it, and that's one truly astonishing writing.

But what about Gojo? After all, it's his memories that play out before our eye as he daydreams, and Geto is no longer an active force in the narrative, so the arc should be introduced in the first place to shed some light on Satoru's character and highlight certain aspects of it. However, while the narrative goes out of its way to humanize Geto by exposing his interiority to the audience, it seems to bit by bit deny readers access to Gojo's mind until Satoru is entirely closed off emotionally at the end of Hidden Inventory Arc. From that point on, any reading of his words and actions can be as good as the other since personal interpretation is all that is left to us to try and understand what lies behind the appearances (I guess that's precisely why there are so many widely different, conflicting interpretations of Gojo out there). What process Gojo's character undergoes throughout his past arc is, essentially, dehumanization.

Let's take a look at Gojo as he is in the main, present timeline. Pretty much as any other person in Gojo's vicinity, the audience can only observe him from the outside, always held at an arm's length away from his interior thoughts and emotions. Whenever we do get an insight into his mind, it's mostly for a solely practical purpose of keeping the readers informed about the direction which the fight is about to take, with Satoru's internal monologues consisting almost completely of him dryly strategizing against his opponents.

Even Gojo's design is set to dehumanize him, teasing the audience with how much it conceals and how little it allows us to derive from what we see. Plain black clothes, long sleeves, long trousers, high collar. Barely any skin exposed, scarce detail, completely colourless expression. To crown it all, his blindfold -- we do not get to see his eyes. Eyes mirror the soul, they communicate emotion which our words fail to. Eye contact is a primal tool of non-verbal communication because of how much our eyes alone can give away about our feelings. With Gojo's eyes perpetually hidden under his ever-present blindfold, there's an additional layer of protection, another hindrance to our understanding of his state of mind. A simple piece of cloth adds to the distance preventing access to Gojo's direct perspective, as impenetrable as trying to look through a blindfold would be for anyone but Gojo himself. The same could be applied even to his height: people around him are required to reach up with their gaze in order to look him in the face. Once again, this choice in his design strives to communicate one thing: you cannot meet him at his level, there is a palpable distance between where he stands and where you are. Everything about Gojo feels almost impersonal, evasive, further increasing the extent of his alienation.

There's an interesting connection found between Gojo's technique, his need to cover his eyes and the narrative distance that does not allow us to get any closer to his character. It's precisely when Gojo puts his mind to perfecting his usage of the Limitless that an unbreachable impediment settles between him and the people around, resulting in him and Geto from that point on being forever unable to get through to each other. With his technique taking a toll on his body by becoming more overwhelming to use after such a rapid increase in power, it's also when Gojo starts to wear his shades all the time. And whereas before we were allowed to look past the tanned spectacles and see his eyes, read the emotion in them, now we're denied even that much. It's probably a short after Geto's defection when Satoru switches to a blindfold, indicating how he completely shuts off emotionally. Just as Geto's Curse Manipulation stands as a metaphor for him repressing his feelings till the breaking point, Gojo's mental state is reflected through the physical appearance, too. Him physically distancing himself from everything within the world around him with his Limitless technique sustaining an uncrossable invisible barrier around him and his blindfold hiding his eyes from the viewer is also how his emotional detachment is established on the meta level of the narrative.

Since Geto's defection, Gojo's defenses are breached in the main timeline just once, and that is during Shibuya Incident Arc. It's barely a coincidence that, as the Limitless falls short and the ever-present physical distance is crossed sharply with the Prison Realm reaching Gojo, the emotional distance is immeadiately eliminated, too.

All defenses down and the memories of his youth flooding through the cracks, Gojo suddenly isn't numb to all the hurt of his past mistakes and what it cost him and the people around him; all the ache of losing his best friend not once but twice and being utterly unable to do anything about it still weighs on him. Neither is numb to all of it the reader, not anymore. The narrative 'catches up' to Gojo at this moment. It was an alienating, almost inhumane experience to never get a sight of Gojo's emotions when it mattered the most, at the pivotal events of his life which come to shape him as a character and as a person. We were simply denied that intimacy. But with Satoru's physical body made within reach and his mind suddenly transparent, laid bare, the delayed heartbreak is alive and present as ever. The weakness of his human heart is exposed, but it required crossing the Infinity to get to his heart.

The physical distance is only breached because the emotional one is eliminated beforehand. However, we finally get to catch a glimpse of Gojo's true feelings because something within the world was able to reach him physically, penetrating through his Limitless technique. The two are the sides of the one coin, they go hand in hand within the narrative, ultimately rendered inseperable by it. At the end of the day, the body is the soul and the soul is the body.

I've started writing all this well before the spoilers for the last chapter came out, but what we see in it, at least how I personally take it, speaks in favour of pretty much everything I've been talking about above. It's somewhat notorious how little emotional impact Gojo's fight against Sukuna lands. Until now. Until Gojo's Infinity utterly fails to prevent his body from taking the damage. Once again we gain insight into his interiority the instance he's physically exposed to the world. With Gojo's invulnerability ultimately overcome, the narrative grants us access to his inner feelings and thoughts one last time. Satoru's heart is an aching wound split open one last time.

[denimbex1986]

'If Peaky Blinders made the Irish actor a household name, will Christopher Nolan’s nuclear blockbuster send him into the stratosphere? He talks about extreme weight loss, hating school and why his next character won’t be a smoker.

Cillian Murphy is struggling with what he can and can’t say about his title role in Oppenheimer, the latest Christopher Nolan epic, such is the secrecy surrounding this film. Murphy is under “strict instructions” not to talk about the content. Which is awkward when you’ve flown to his home in Ireland to interview him specifically about playing the physicist who oversaw the creation of the atomic bomb, later detonated over Hiroshima and Nagasaki. It’s not clear who issued these instructions. Nolan? The studio? The US government? All I know is that as well as Murphy being gagged by hefty NDAs, I am not allowed to see it (“bit unfortunate”, he concedes).

So, yes, here we sit in an empty upstairs room of a restaurant near his house in Monkstown, Dublin, working out how to do this. The room is dark, the sun shining through a solitary Velux lighting his features like a Géricault. The only background noise is the low hum of a wine refrigerator. Murphy loathes interviews, looks visibly tortured at points. But he relaxes when I ask if he’s pleased with Oppenheimer. “I am, yeah,” he says. “I don’t like watching myself – it’s like, ‘Oh, fucking hell’ – but it’s an extraordinary piece of work. Very provocative and powerful. It feels sometimes like a biopic, sometimes like a thriller, sometimes like a horror. It’s going to knock people out,” he adds. “What [Nolan] does with film, it fucks you up a little bit.”

Nolan wouldn’t disagree. The director recently told Wired magazine that some of those who’d seen it were left “absolutely devastated … they can’t speak”. Which sounds like a bad thing, but is related perhaps to the thought of the 214,000 Japanese people, overwhelmingly civilians, who lost their lives when the bombs were dropped. Kai Bird, the historian who co-authored American Prometheus, the 2008 biography of J Robert Oppenheimer upon which the film is based, said he was still “emotionally recovering” from seeing the film, clarifying that it was “a stunning artistic achievement”.

Murphy’s portrayal is said to be astonishing (“Oscar-worthy” is the buzz). This is not unbelievable. While Hollywood might not know him as a leading man, this quietly intense actor has long been celebrated in the UK and Ireland, most notably for his nine-year stint as Tommy Shelby in Peaky Blinders. When he first appeared on our screens, looking like a renaissance painting of Saint Sebastian – chiselled head contrasting with translucent blue eyes – it was impossible not to be distracted. He appeared first on stage in Enda Walsh’s Disco Pigs, then the screen adaptation. Then 28 Days Later; Intermission; Ken Loach’s The Wind That Shakes the Barley. Previous collaborations with Nolan include the Dark Knight trilogy, Inception and Dunkirk, “significant milestones in my career,” he says, adding that Nolan “might be the perfect director”.

It was Nolan’s wife, the producer Emma Thomas, who called Murphy one afternoon at the home he shares with his wife, artist Yvonne McGuinness, and two teenage sons. Nolan doesn’t actually have a telephone, or an email, or computer for that matter: “He’s the most analogue individual you could possibly encounter.” So, Emma said Chris would like a word and passed the receiver, then the director came on the line. “Cillian, I’d love you to play the lead in this new thing,” he said. Murphy tries to recreate his response to this news. “I was lost for words. But thrilled. Like beyond thrilled.” It is characteristic of Murphy that the modulation of his voice barely changes as he expresses this. He was so stunned, he had to sit down. “Your mind explodes.”

In the absence of the three-hour feature, I scrutinise Oppenheimer’s three-minute trailer. It’s a rush of snapshots against the crackling of a Geiger counter. There’s Murphy, short back and sides, lifting 1940s eye goggles; blue and red atoms coming at him fast; orange light; white light; blackout; silence. Massive explosion against the backdrop of space. Overlaid is Murphy’s narration, “We’re in a race against the Nazis / and I know what it means / if the Nazis have a bomb.” There’s Matt Damon looking porky as army general Leslie Groves, director of the Manhattan Project: “They have a 12-month head start.” Murphy, pointing with cigarette: “18.”

He has put back on some of the weight he lost for the part, I’m relieved to see; his skin isn’t quite so taut over his skull and there are freckles over those eagle-wing cheekbones. He was determined to nail the scientist’s silhouette “with the porkpie hat and the pipe”, testing himself to see how little he could eat. “You become competitive with yourself a little bit which is not healthy. I don’t advise it.” He won’t say how many kilograms he lost, or what food the nutritionist told him to cut out. NDA? “Ach, no. I don’t want it to be, ‘Cillian lost x weight for the part’.”

Then again, the hurtling speed at which Nolan worked, crisscrossing the US, made it easy to skip meals. Murphy began to forget about food in the same way he began to forget about sleep. “It’s like you’re on this fucking train that’s just bombing. It’s bang, bang, bang, bang. You sleep for a few hours, get up, bang it again. I was running on crazy energy; I went over a threshold to where I was not worrying about food or anything. I was so in it, a state of hyper …” he gropes for the word, “hyper something. But it was good because the character was like that. He never ate.” Oppenheimer subsisted on little more than Chesterfield cigarettes and double-strength martinis, rims dipped in lime. “Cigarettes and pipes. He would alternate between the two. That’s what did for him in the end,” Murphy adds, a nod to the scientist’s death from cancer in 1967. “I’ve smoked so many fake cigarettes for Peaky and this. My next character will not be a smoker. They can’t be good for you. Even herbal cigarettes have health warnings now.”

I raise method acting and Murphy tilts his head and frowns. “Method acting is a sort of … No,” he says, firm but with a half smile. Oppenheimer had many defining characteristics, not least walking on the balls of his feet and a vocal tic that sounded like nim-nim-nim, but Murphy didn’t want to do an impression. Nolan was obsessed with the Brillo-texture hair, so they spent “a long time working on hair”. And the voice. The real question for Murphy was what combination – ambition, madness, delusion, deep hatred of the Nazi regime? – allowed this theoretical physicist to agree to an experiment he knew could obliterate humankind. “He was dancing between the raindrops morally. He was complex, contradictory, polymathic; incredibly attractive intellectually and charismatic, but,” he decides, “ultimately unknowable.

“Listen, it’s not like a spoiler,” he says, checking himself before he leans in, “but there are incidents in his early life that were quite worrying; very erratic.” They are in the film and the book, he steers. I suspect he is referring to Oppenheimer’s postgrad at Cambridge in 1926, when he placed a poisoned apple on the desk of a tutor towards whom he harboured complicated feelings of inadequacy and jealousy. Arguably, this was attempted murder. But Oppenheimer’s rich New York parents rushed in to bundle him into psychoanalysis. He was diagnosed with “dementia praecox”, a term describing symptoms associated with schizophrenia.

Murphy likes these complex characters; they’re his meat. People that don’t necessarily follow the – yawn – traditional transformative arc of storytelling. Not villains, exactly (although he’s played a few, including Scarecrow in Dark Knight and Jackson Rippner in Red Eye): “Villains are good if they’re well written, but if it’s one note or a trope, then they are dull.” He likes a script to stretch leisurely into all corners of the human condition, “all the shades”. At the same time, you have to understand his exceptional ability to portray interiority, physically manifesting intense human emotion without a word, radiating fierce, consuming energy. Which he does today, actually, when I stray off track.

Although Nolan is usually, shall we say, antiseptic in his approach to romance, Oppenheimer represents a significant shift. He told Wired the love story aspect “is as strong as I’ve ever done”. It features prolonged full nudity for Murphy and Florence Pugh, who plays Oppenheimer’s ex-fiancee, as well as sex, and there are complicated scenes with Emily Blunt, who plays his wife, “that were pretty heavy”. Murphy turns coy: “I’m under strict instructions not to give away anything.”

He asks if I’ve heard of chemistry tests. “They put two actors in a room to see if there’s any spark, and have all the producers and director at a table watching. I don’t know what metric they use, and it seems so outrageously silly, but sometimes you get a chemistry and nobody knows why.” This is a roundabout way of saying his scenes with Blunt and Pugh conjure this magic. His established bond with Blunt (they co-starred in A Quiet Place II) meant “the audience gets something for free”, he says. “You can be immediately vulnerable and open, and try stuff. There were moments where I remember saying, ‘I couldn’t have done that if it wasn’t with you.’”

Murphy, 47, grew up the eldest of four in Cork. His father was a civil servant, his mother a French teacher. They were a middle-class family, musical; his father “can pick up any instrument”, his brother played piano, and they regularly got stuck into “traditional Irish sessions”. Bookshelves were stuffed with literature, the radio often on, the “shitty” TV set not so much. Home life was busy but his parents taught him French and Irish, and sent him to an all-boys academic, rugby-playing private school. “I got all the education” he says, drily.

The story of how much he disliked the Presentation Brothers College, the hard-drinking masculine emphasis, how he found solace playing guitar in a band, is much rehearsed and he says today he doesn’t want “to slag the school off. I hear it’s great now.” Something about this experience seems nonetheless unsettling. He had one friend, who is still his best friend, “so I wasn’t, like, an outcast”. He played rugby for the first couple of years, but abandoned it “because everyone was all of a sudden towering over me.” Was it an unhappy time? He shifts. “It was OK. I was a bit of a messer, like I’d get in trouble and say nothing. It wasn’t the ideal school for me.”

He enrolled in and dropped out of a law degree at University College Cork, which created some friction with his parents (when I ask if his own sons will go to university in Dublin, he says, “Whatever they want”). He continued with the band, his first creative love but the one that got away. When they were offered a contract with Acid Jazz records, he turned it down for a number of reasons, he says, crucially that he didn’t feel good enough. He still writes and plays at home but, no, you won’t be hearing any of his recordings, ever, he says.

It’s a funny thing talking to Murphy. He’s at once garrulous (on the craft, or literature, or ideas) and reticent (pretty much anything else). I sense in previous interviews that he skates over issues close to his heart – such as the expression of emotion in Ireland and the need to teach empathy in schools. But when I try to drill in to these topics, get to the root, he clams shut, emitting energy like a nuclear reactor.

Later, in a different context, he will tell me a truth: “I’m stubborn and lacking in confidence, which is a terrible combination. I don’t want to put anything out that I don’t think is excellent.” But he clearly hates the pantomime of publicity, asking why I am returning to certain topics and repeating lines I’ve read elsewhere. I can almost see him at home with its views towards the Irish Sea, complaining to his wife as they tuck into supper: “Another one, asking the same fucking questions.”

If he could get out of going to Cannes, of standing on red carpets, dressed as is his habit for a funeral, hair shellacked, hands in pockets; if he could turn his back on the coloured-foam mics thrust in his face, he would. He really would. No, it dawns on him now, there’s something even worse than the red carpet; there’s the talkshow rounds. The very word “talkshow” comes out of him like a pain from his ribcage, as if the parcelling out of amuse-bouche anecdotes, offering them up to the forced laughter of that false god of show business, the studio audience, is in itself the most cheapening experience known to mankind.

“I do them because you’re contractually obliged to. I just endure them. I’ve always found it difficult. I’ve said this so many, many times.” Then there’s the double wince of realising that, yes, he’s done it again. He’s laid into the industry that feeds him. His hands raise slowly in surrender. “I want to just caveat this by saying, I’m so privileged. I’m so happy to be doing what I love. I’m really lucky. But I don’t enjoy the personality side of being an actor. I don’t understand why I should be entertaining and scintillating on a talkshow. I don’t know why all of a sudden that’s expected of me. Why?”

There’s an awkward silence. I say that he reminds me of Naomi Osaka, the tennis player who refused to talk to journalists after the French Open in 2021. He says he feels “100%” sympathy with her, “because why should she have to perform?” Then he relents. “But I get it. I get it’s a kind of ecosystem where the film feeds the publicity which feeds the talkshows which goes back and feeds the film, so, like, that’s how it works. I suppose I’m just not good at it. At interviews, at this stuff,” he gestures at me. He says after he leaves me today he’ll be going down the stairs thinking of all the things he’s said and worrying it’s come across all wrong. “Do you know what Sam Beckett said? ‘I have no views to inter.’ I love that. That should be the interview.”

We return to his art, the tension falls away and he’s back to his charming self, charged air evaporating. Since Oppenheimer, he’s also wrapped Small Things Like These, an adaptation of Claire Keegan’s brilliant novella set in 1985 in a small Irish town on the edge of which is a convent and “laundry”. Murphy is a huge fan of Keegan. He remembers reading her 2010 novel Foster on a train and having to pull his hoodie over his face because he was crying so hard. Anyway, he’d wanted to work with the Peaky Blinders director Tim Mielants and they were throwing ideas around in his sitting room when Murphy’s wife suggested Small Things. “No, there’s no way,” Murphy said. “That’s going to be gone already.” But when he called the agent, he found it was available. “I went, ‘No, you’ve got to be fucking kidding.’” Murphy pitched the idea to Matt Damon, who has set up a studio with Ben Affleck. “From there it all just happened really quickly.”

Murphy plays Bill Furlong who, funnily enough, is a man of few words. Keegan’s light-touch writing is everything he loves in art – the sense that you are not being bashed over the head by an idea. That’s how he tries to act, he adds. “I’m always trying to cut lines in scenes, because I feel like you can transmit it. Like when you see a person on a train thinking, or driving a car, and you are purely observing someone and feeling the energy that is vibrating from them. That’s the sort of acting I love. In a lot of film and television, they want to cut those bits to go to the action. I like films that pose the big questions and then leave it to the audience.” Perhaps this is at the heart of his reticence in interviews? That he doesn’t feel the need to explain.

He still finds it “nuts” that the last of the Magdalene laundries closed in 1996, that it was illegal to buy condoms in Ireland until 1985, that divorce was made legal only in 1996. He remembers vividly thousands of people still going to see moving statues in Cork when he was growing up. “Crazy. But, like, how far the country has come since then, we’re so socially advanced now compared with where we were. But you must look back. And art is a better way of doing that than reading all these reports [into the laundries].” (Afterwards, he emails me: “The nation is actually dealing with an unresolved collective trauma. Who knows how long this will take to heal, but I feel strongly that art, film and literature can help with that process. It’s a kinder and gentler sort of therapy. I hope that our movie can help with that in its own little way.”)

Because he’s a nice man, because he doesn’t want me to feel bad about our encounter, and because he’s generous and hospitable, Murphy finishes by telling me some of the best places to visit in Ireland. He and his family are staying here for the summer. They’ve had it with air travel and his home town of Cork is only a couple of hours away. He supplies me with other recommendations: a great book he’s just read, Brian, by Jeremy Cooper, oh, and there’s the Francis Bacon studio exhibition I should catch on my way out.

But before I go, what has he learned from playing Oppenheimer? Foremost, he says, that scientists think differently. He knew this already from playing physicist Robert Capa in Danny Boyle’s Sunshine (2007) and hanging out in Cern, home of the Large Hadron Collider in Geneva, for research. “I had dinner with all these geniuses. I’ll never understand quantum mechanics, but I was interested in what science does to their perspective.” He sought their opinions on subjects that matter – love, politics, our place in the universe, “infinity, or whatever the fuck. Because they have a completely different way of taking in information than we do. I remember one scientist saying, ‘I don’t believe in love. It’s a biological phenomenon, the exchange of hormones between the female and the male. That’s all. Love is a nonsense.’” Murphy taps the table with his hand. “I couldn’t go along with that, obviously.”

[doumadono]

My dearest friend. Now, it's my turn to place an emergency request. I'm in an emotionally abusive relationship and have no way out at present. I'm stuck away from home with nowhere to go and not even a career to fall back onto.

When I go out for my evening walks, I always stare at the moon, imagining that my beloved Kokushibo rescues me from it all. And....that's my request: being rescued by Upper Moon One.

Please take your time as this is simply an aggrevation of years and years of a chronic condition. And feel free to change the reason for me being rescued if the real-life reason is too confronting. Lysm 💞💞💞

A/N: My dear friend, I'm truly sorry to hear about the difficult situation you find yourself in. Yet, you have the strength to overcome this, and brighter days are ahead. Don't lose hope, and keep moving forward ♥

EMERGENCY REQS MASTERLIST

In the eerie stillness of the night, as you gazed at the moon's pale glow during your evening walks, you held onto a secret wish. A yearning that transcended reality, a longing for escape from the torment of your emotionally abusive relationship. Little did you know, the universe had other plans.

One fateful evening, as you wandered along your familiar path, your eyes fixated on the moon's silvery visage. The world around you seemed to fade away, and you whispered a silent plea to the heavens.

As your heart poured its anguish into the night, the moonlight shimmered and swirled, forming an ethereal gateway. The air around you grew heavy, laden with an eerie presence. You stumbled back in awe and trepidation as a figure emerged from this otherworldly portal.

It was Kokushibo. His cold, yellowish irises bore into yours with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine. Dressed in his distinctive kimono, he radiated power and a kind of dark beauty that was both captivating and terrifying.

Without a word, Kokushibo extended a pale hand, beckoning you to him. His voice, like a haunting melody, echoed in your ears. "Come with me, and leave your suffering behind. I've been keeping an eye on you for quite a while."

As you took his hand, you felt a surge of otherworldly energy coursing through your veins. The two of you ascended into the night sky, leaving your earthly troubles behind.

The journey with Kokushibo through time and space was an astonishing blur of wondrous sights and sensations. It happened so swiftly that it was difficult to process every detail, but what remained etched in your memory was its breathtaking beauty.

As the journey with Kokushibo came to a sudden halt, you opened your eyes, having squeezed them shut to shield yourself from the overwhelming beauty of your cosmic voyage. When your vision cleared, you found yourself in a room that contrasted starkly with the celestial expanse you had just traversed.

This new space was intimate and warm, with wooden walls that exuded a comforting, earthy scent. The wooden floors felt solid and familiar beneath your feet. A single futon was laid out, inviting and cozy, offering respite after your ethereal adventure. The room held a few decorative items, their presence adding a personal touch to the space. On the wooden walls, you noticed intricate designs and patterns that seemed to tell a story of their own.

You gazed up at the tall, enigmatic demon, shivers running down your spine as you stood in that wooden room. You couldn't help but ask the question that had been burning in your mind since your arrival, "Where am I?"

Kokushibo, Upper Moon One, regarded you with those penetrating thee pairs of yellowish eyes. His voice was both commanding and reassuring as he spoke, "You are in your new home, a sanctuary where you can feel safe. You don't have to worry here. I'm not here to hurt you. I've heard your pleas for many nights," he confessed, his words carrying the weight of the countless moments you had looked up to the moon, seeking solace. "I listened as you prayed to the heavens and even the depths of hell for help. And it seems," he continued, "the second one, the one from the depths of darkness, was the one to respond. You see, little human, sometimes the answers to our deepest desires come from unexpected places, in forms we could never have imagined." His words hung in the air, carrying a profound truth about the mysterious and often unpredictable nature of life's responses to our fervent calls for help.

Curiosity burning within you, you couldn't help but ask the question that weighed on your mind. "What am I going to be doing here?" you inquired, your voice quivering with anticipation.

Kokushibo met your gaze with a knowing smile, his eyes never leaving yours. "You," he began, "will become my apprentice. Here, I will teach you everything there is to know about vengeance."

A small, determined smile crept onto your lips as you nodded in response. This was the very opportunity you had dreamt of, the chance to learn the means of retribution and take vengeance on the person who had inflicted so much pain upon you. The thought of turning the tables and finding a way to reclaim your power filled you with a renewed sense of purpose. With Kokushibo's guidance, you would embark on a path to reshape your own fate and confront the source of your deepest wounds.

[bioethicists]

(this is not abt the last response; that person was kind + i always welcome ppl disagreeing with me on my posts)

it is quite jarring to me + telling of exactly where ppl's disability politics end that people's VERY FREQUENT reaction to my views on psychiatric abolition (which i fully acknowledge are emotionally loaded + hard to stomach for ppl who have only ever viewed psychiatry as positive!) are to accuse me of lying or exaggerating, suggest that i hate disabled people, heavily imply that i deserved whatever happened to me because i probably Was Crazy, accuse me of trying or even having the power to revoke care from ppl, imply i'm either an idiot or an anti-vaxxer, or, my personal favorite, wish additional psychiatric violence on me or imply that i'm tainted or crazy bcuz of it (like suggesting i "get a refund for the lobotomy" i clearly had. how anyone who claims to oppose ableism could say this is astonishing to me)

i am not taken seriously until i evoke my own experiences with psychiatry, because otherwise ppl assume i am not "one of them" or they accuse me of lying/say "it's not like that anymore" or "it's not like that at the good hospitals". but the very nature of my experiences means that i have handed everyone the weapon they need to never listen to me again, because i'm crazy/jilted/out of my mind. the traumatizing thing which i am trying to prevent via my activism + scholarship is the thing i experience every time i speak about it. this is why so many of us are silent.

[cthrnschumacher]

I'm Yours - Ch.4 Teenage Dream

Toto's POV

I hear the door open and soon shut as I pack my things. I take a minute to assess my day before going to her immediately. I have never been around anyone who makes me feel or act in such a way. It is not that she is driving me literally insane, but all I can imagine is her taking everything I can give her. That can be up for interpretation for most people, but I mean it emotionally, financially, and mostly physically. This isn't to say that she is someone who is lost and needs a solid figure in their life to help them. But I want to be there for her to release the built-up pressure inside her. I've been making mental notes the entire day on her reactions towards what I do, the consistent blushes (which is fucking adorable), over-apologizing, always working and keeping busy and, most importantly, self-doubting her abilities or things she rightfully earns. She has had a strict upbringing because I exude the same traits, except I'm now established and want to help her. She needs a dominant hand to help her become the person I know she can be. She is a good girl. Hopefully, my good girl and I will do anything to build her up and be more powerful.

Shaking off this inner monologue, I turn to exit the hall and out of the building. I see her in the distance, just admiring the skyline; the shade of orange is beautifully falling on her, and the city, and seeing her brings a smile to my face. Walking towards her, "Ready to get dinner? You can put your things in the trunk of my car while I drive to the place?" This is still surreal for her since she stumbles over her words, "Uhhhh..... sure ...... l-lead the way!" We walked silently as I led the way to the parking garage. I had to slow down my pace so she could walk close by to me and allow her to just slow down for a bit since I knew her day must have been busy, but I glanced towards her. She is on her phone again, typing away on her notes app. I decided to comment on it since I noticed it all day, and I know she isn't doing it intentionally. However, she can't stay in the moment or still. "You are such a busy person. Do you ever get a chance to just stop and relax?" She saves the notes and looks up at me, a little embarrassed, but responds nonchalantly, "Not really, but I like being busy. It fills a void, you know." It makes my heart ache to hear her say that, especially with such poise. Being busy fills a void; this poor girl never gets to have time for herself.

No wonder she is constantly moving, and it's at an alarmingly rapid pace. She doesn't give herself a break; she must be burnt out. I've decided that when she comes to Brackely, she will be close to me, and I will bring her to races to relax. I retort back, since I am confident it needs to be taught, "Y/N, when you start your fellowship, your first lesson is the art of boundaries because you clearly need to learn some." I smirk at her with this comment. I intended for her to know that boundaries are in all aspects of our lives, and she needs to allow me to teach that to her. Pulling me from this thought, "Boundaries have been nonexistent in my life, and I'm always willing to learn new things, so why not." I am at peace that she agrees and senses that this is an actual learning opportunity to build a helpful habit and that she is willing to let me help her.

We headed into the building, repeating the actions I had done earlier, and started leading the way to my car again. She followed closely until I reached the car and popped open the trunk. I place my shoulder bag in the trunk and turn to help her take off her backpack and place it in the trunk. What surprised me was the weight of her bag. It was heavy; no wonder she fell backwards when I bumped into her, "How do you carry such a heavy thing on your back? This must hurt." I am genuinely astonished at the amount of things she goes through. She giggles and tells me it is part of the workout routine, and the comment makes me shake my head; at least she is being humourous about it. I press the button for the trunk to close and try to back her up until she is leaning against the trunk. She turns red from my actions, curious about what I will do and how close I am to her, and she bites her lower lip. I just look her deep in the eyes; I want to do so much but don't know where to begin. I caress her cheek, then switch the positioning of my hand so her cheek is in my palm, and my thumb is swiping her bottom lip; I want to be the only one that tugs at that lip, but to make light of the situation while keeping it intimate, "Ohh... Liebling, you should bite your lip; we will eat soon. You don't want to waste your appetite." But I still swipe my thumb across her trembling lip. I pull away now, lead her to the passenger side, and get her safely in the car as I go to the driver's side and take us to the restaurant.

We both make light conversation during the car ride to the restaurant; I allow her to pick a music station so the car isn't dead silent; it is astonishing how comfortable she is with silence. She is used to solitude because of school and work, so silence is more efficient. She found a station she likes since I can see her bopping her head to the song on the radio. This gives me some peace, and before I even know it, I am pulling up to the place. I hope she really likes it. I never intended to make this evening a date, but I hope she sees I am not just some hotshot Team Principal on the grid; I care for those I work around and try to know everything about them. It's the least I can do when everyone around me makes the same effort to succeed. I pull into the parking lot and park the furthest away. Getting out first, I make my way around to open Y/N's door to let her out; she smiles and thanks me as I shut the door behind her. I sense this is still awkward, but I wonder if she has ever been on a date or been treated like this. Maybe that's why she is nervous; no guy has ever done this. Well, at least I get to set the standards high.

We walk into the restaurant. I give the maître d' my name, and we are immediately seated by the window overlooking the city skyline; she admires the view, and I can only admire her. The menus are set in front of us, and I glance up at her just not to startle her. "Is it alright if I order for the both of us? There are a few things I think you'll like?" "uhhh, Sure, I'm not that picky when it comes to food. All I ask is you not poison me, haha." Her sense of humour is too cute. "No, no, no, don't worry, that will be for another time," I joke back, and she smiles, "Did you also want to have a glass of wine, just so I can get a bottle?" I can see she is a little hesitant; she is thinking, I hope I didn't make her recollect a horrible memory. Maybe I'll repeat, "You don't have to have a glass. It's okay. I’m just offering." "No, no, no, it's fine; I was just thinking I have a light day tomorrow, so one glass won't hurt." That was a bit of a relief; I really didn't want to pressure her into anything.

The waiter returned, and I placed the entire order for both of us, from start to finish, including our wine order. The people here know I like minimal interruptions since I spend most of my time answering emails on my phone. Once he leaves us, she happens to be looking out the window; she seems more relaxed and winding down. I can tell she puts up a front when interacting with faculty and students, a professional one which is appropriate for her situation, but it takes a toll on her. She has one with me right now, but I don't take any offence; she is still shy, and I can only do my best to be less intimidating. As the starters come, she initiates the conversation; her way of recharging is quiet. That's good to note, "What made you want to guest lecture? I know this isn't your first time doing so, but what inspiration are you hoping the audience gets from your content?" She understands that we are in a more intimate setting. It's an excellent question on the passion behind teaching and what brought this opportunity about. She starts picking at the blue cheese salad, which she likes. I would have considered her interested in blue cheese, but she seems satisfied with it or just picking at it. "Well.... the Professor of your course is interested in equity, diversity and inclusion within certain fields. Now, the area of sports is highly different; he saw the transition happening in typical North American Sports, which is a classic route to research. However, there is little discussion on European sports, which consist of cricket, football - your version of soccer, and specifically motorsports. I assume he is a team fan and keeps up the initiatives that Mercedes has been announcing, which is why he brought me to guest lecture a few times ...... As for the interest in speaking to students, I don't see it as 'lecturing to you'....... but rather as a means of a conversation and wanting your inquiry on improving inclusion and equality efforts within the industry. As someone living, breathing and always thinking about Mercedes and F1, you don't see the outsider's perspective. It helps to have younger minds who are more creative to help assess if your actions are truly right or wrong, and when they are, the best part is looking for a creative solution." It was an honest answer, and the best part was seeing how these young minds view the world I live in and how to improve it for others to come and enjoy my passion. I take the chance to start eating the salad; she has eaten about one-fourth of it; she takes the time to absorb what I say but to get some food into her system as well.

Once I'd had a few bites, I asked her, "What brought you to the world of F1?" Midway through chewing and swallowing her bite, she choked a little and started to blush heavily; concerned for her, I brought the glass of water close by so she could have a sip after her little fit and took it appreciatively. After regaining her composure, she still had a rosy colour to her cheeks. I smirked, waiting to hear her answer; it must be ironic if it made her choke slightly on her food. "Would you hate me if I said it was through watching DTS?" She looked up at me shyly, waiting to see if I would be offended; I wasn't. That was the show's purpose: to broaden the audience of those interested in the sport. But I could tell she wasn't telling me the truth, "Which part of DTS interested you?" "Well, the first time I saw the show was Gasley’s episode, and him winning his first podium at Monza. It was a heartfelt episode, especially when they showed how dangerous the sport can get......But before I even decided to watch the show, I did some research on the sport and the remebered that it wasn't the first time I've heard about, but the name Schumacher rang a bell and I used to hear about the sport all the time through a friend who enjoyed the sport..... I got older, and it wasn't until recently I got back into it and watched DTS in full from a year ago and started watching FPs, quali’s and the races..... But I guess it was the Mercedes epsiodes that put it over the edge... your zeal is quite compelling compared to the other Team Principals," She giggles slightly before continuing again, ".... Well, it was you and Steiner. Still, Steiner is in his own catergory because he is just straight up hilarious to watch."

I chuckle at her comment, I can see her interest stems from me, but she won't let on much more; I can tell she is a tad embarrassed if I get the honest response out of her, but the Steiner part is hilarious, when I see him again, I have to tell him that my research fellow thinks he's a joke, he will be pissed in jokingly manner, but he also knows it. The waiter comes to take your starters and place our main. I ordered the Aglio olio peperoncino e gamberi, pasta with seafood. It was light on the stomach but hardy as well. As they set the dishes down, I can't help but see Y/N light up. She must love pasta and/or seafood. I am pleased with my choice; she is right to say she is not picky, but I want to get to know her taste.

Seeing her eyes light up like that makes me feel warm; it's the idea of pleasing and making her happy. I just want to witness it repeatedly. As the waiters left, she started eating; I was glad to see her appetite back; we ate for a while in silence; only now did the gravity of my hunger hit my stomach. I try not to make it out like a vulture who hasn't eaten in days, but my last meal was breakfast and coffee with a pastry; real food feels good in my system. I look up and see she pauses to take a sip from her glass of wine; I can tell she is pacing herself, not wanting to rush. I take this moment as a breather to swallow what I was chewing on, swipe my mouth slightly and sip from the wine. She comments, "Your judgement on food is quite delicious; thank you for the dinner." I smile; I don't want to shy away from her compliment; she is enjoying herself, even after all the teasing I put her through, and the fact she values her time with me is an added bonus, which provides me with a sense of relief on an entire day. "Well, I am happy you agreed to join me for dinner; you are an amazing company with amazing food."

I say this, taking hold of my glass of wine and sipping from it again, ready to finish my plate; she takes a sip and does the same. I demolished my plate of food in no time. Y/N has a little left, but I think she can only eat a little more, judging by how she placed her fork and knife on the plate. I signal for the waiter to get the check ready. I look back at Y/N, and she informs me that she is excusing herself to the washroom, and I nod, needing no further explanation. She went to the restroom, and the waiter brought the bill right over and handed me the machine. I gave a generous tip, as I always do, tapped my card, and he handed me the receipt. I get up from my seat and use the restroom, taking this opportunity to freshen up.

I want to drive her home and make sure she gets home safe, and it's pretty late; I wouldn't want her to take transit home at this hour, especially since her day was long. I return and wait at the table again, but she notices me and turns around. "Ready to go?" "There is more to this evening?" I smirked at her response; she didn't want our time to end, which reassured me of my decision to drive her home. "No, I was going to drive you home; you must be tired, and public transit must take forever this late at night." "Ohh, you don't have it. It's not a problem...." "Please, I insist, Schatzi. Plus, I get to spend a bit more time with you." She blushes at the nickname; it was reflexive to say, but she nods to let me take her home.

We walk out of the restaurant together, her hand slightly brushes against mine; I'm happy that I parked quite a bit away, and I take the chance to hold her hand. She looked down at the gesture and blushed. It was intimate, but I didn't expect her to lean into me a bit; it made me gush inside that she was reacting this way. By all means, she doesn't come off as clingy, but I can tell she likes physical affection. We get to the car, and I open the door for her; she slips in, and I shut the door and rush to the driver's side. I turn on the car and allow her to put her address into the GPS system. The drive is 30 minutes; I see it in a little bit of disbelief. That time is double if she is commuting; how she does that daily is beyond me. Once the car GPS is set up, I exit the place and follow the directions. It is relatively quiet this time of night; it's only really 11pm, and there isn't much traffic either.

I feel more relaxed driving with one hand and resting my arm in the center. I glance slightly at Y/N, and she is eyeing my hand. I keep my eyes focused on the road, but I can't tell if she is uncomfortable with me driving like this. Still, I hear her say, "Can I hold your hand again? I know that's weird to ask, but I liked that....." I briefly turn my head towards her and back to the road to see her shy face inquire on the request, "Yes, of course, I would love that." She places her small hand in mine, delicately intertwining our fingers. She is slightly cold, but not so much that is concerning, but it feels nice in my larger, calloused hands. We continue driving in silence; every now and then, I glance at her to see if she is okay and to look at our hands together; she just makes me feel nice. We are about 10 minutes from her house and making a turn to be on her street soon until I hear her speak up. "I know the GPS is telling you to make a right, but don't do that yet. Head straight until you see an empty parking lot, turn into it, and park the car. I want to spend a bit more time before going home." I stutter a bit; the request is something I will not refuse. "Of... of course."

I follow her directions to the parking lot and turn into a random spot, not caring about the parking. Her focus is still on our hands intertwined, and I study her face. She doesn't want the night to end; she relishes being around me. I hook my finger onto her chin so she can look up at me. Doing so, I can see this intensity in her eyes, almost like a bit of pain that the night will end. I speak up to break the silence, "I really loved spending most of today with you, you know that...." "Really? You did?" "Ya... I, too, don't want our time to end..." I say this and slip my hand from her chin to her cheek. Her eyes flutter shut, and she leans her head into my hand, allowing me to caress her more; I adore her like this. It has me weak. Her voice is strained and soft. "I don't want it to end too...." Fuck it, I'm kissing her. This knife-edging of teasing has gone long enough today. I pull her face towards me and crash my lips onto hers. Her lips are soft and plush and feel incredible against mine; the kiss is feverish, and our lips move in sync. I take this opportunity to let go of her hand and use both my hands to caress her face and tip her head back, trying to deepen the kiss. Her small hands were on my biceps, steading herself and accepting my little gesture, her slightly gasping, giving me a chance for my tongue to enter her mouth. We fight until she seizes my dominance; I feel her slightly pull away and realize we have been kissing for a while and need air. I pull away and see her breathing heavily, and I'm doing the same; she looks at me, and all I can hear is the unbuckling of the seat belt and a mutter of "fuck it." Confused, I glance up at her, coming over to the central console and straddling my lap; I didn't imagine this ever happening in a million years, but I push the seat back more for her to fit. She has both her legs on either side of me; she fits perfectly on my lap, her back in a slight arch, wanting to be closer; it’s her turn to grab my face with her tiny hands and kiss me. She is soft and gentle at first, but after I place my hands on her hips and squeeze slightly, she gasps, and I take the chance for my tongue to enter her mouth again. We both fight longer this time, but wanting to hear that gasp again, I switch things up and bite her bottom lip. I can't resist it much longer, and she gasps again; it's music to my ears, making her arch further into me. I keep doing that, kissing and sucking on her bottom lip, it's like a drug to me, but it elicits her to further press into me.

I feel her pull back again; I take the chance to look at her bottom lip. It's bruised, but I love that I did that to her. Reflexively, my hands move from her hips and run my hands up and down her outer thighs. We both sit still, trying to catch our breath. "Toto..... th... that... was" "heavenily." I was indeed on cloud nine. I could kiss her all day on my lap if I could. I am still running my hands up and down her thighs, her arms wrapped around my neck; I look down at her, getting lost in her beautiful brown eyes, my voice soft but knowing this night has to end.

"I must get you home now, its late..." She nods, knowing that for sure now, the night must end. We stay silent for a bit longer; I suggest, "You can text or call me and I will always answer you back, schatzi." "I can??" My heart aches now to be away from her; I cup her face and kiss her forehead. "Yes, I can't stay away from you." I feel her smile, and she hums in approval of the comment. I run my hands up to her hips again to lift her gently off my lap and to help her in the passenger seat. She buckles her seat belt, and I give her many hands to hold. She instantly intertwines her hand in mine; I gently squeeze her, and she looks up at me and smiles. I hope she knows how much she makes me insane, literally wrapping around her little finger, but I will tell her that another day.

I start up the car and follow the GPS to her home. I park a few houses down, get out of the vehicle, and make my way to open hers. I hold her hand and walk towards the trunk to retrieve her backpack. Pressing the button to close the trunk, I place her bag on top. I cup her face, lean down and kiss her one last time. Her small hands instantly reach for my biceps, needing something to hold one. I tug at her bottom lip a few times, not wanting to forget how it feels and pull away. She looks at me warmly; it aches that I must leave her, "Text me when you get back to the hotel, ya.... I want to make sure you get back safe." She makes me smile; she says the darns of things, but it's sweet that she cares for me, "I will, now walk on home, okay? I want to ensure you get in, okay, flicker the lights when you do, okay?" "Okay.... bye, Toto, and again, thank you. Today was memorable." She grabs her bag and walks towards her house. I see her enter and notice the lights turn on above the garage. It flickers, telling me she is safe

I get in my car and drive back to the hotel. It wouldn't be a long car ride since the roads were empty at this hour. I can't help but brush my fingertips lightly over my lips. They are slightly puffed from the kissing, but it makes me blush. Her lips were perfect on mine, in sync with me, and hearing her gasp was music to my ears. I need to hear more of her; that's all I can think about, wanting more of her around me. She even surprised me by straddling me in the car; it took everything in me not to move my hands lower to grab her ass and grind on her, and even how she was gripping my biceps to keep her steady made me hotter. I can feel my chinos getting uncomfortably tighter, the urge to fuck her, hear her gasp, and moan my name. I want those pretty lips to moan for me; that is all I'm thinking about. I pull into the hotel's underground parking, gladdened that these elevators can lead straight to the floor I'm on, so I don't need to cover my situation up too much but fuck, Y/N has me achingly hard. I open the door to my room and shut it behind me; I walk towards the couch, pull out my phone, find Y/N's contact, and text her.

I just got to the hotel.

Gute Nacht und süße Träume, mein Lieber

Clicking send and placing the phone on the desk, I strip off my clothes; maybe a cold shower will help relieve some of my aches. I hop in the shower and lather my body quickly as the cold water refreshes and awakens. I turn off the tap and wrap a towel around my waist. I head to the sink to brush my teeth, and the sight of my puff lips only makes me hard again. Now, it's not that they were overly puffed; it's just slightly pink from our action, but it ignited the many things I just wanted to do to her. Taking no shame for the thoughts this time, I finish brushing my teeth and exit the washroom. Getting close to the bed, I unwrap the towel from my waist, taking the time to dry my legs, up my thighs, ghost over my ranging hard-on, then my abdomen up to my chest and drying both my arms after then placing the towel to my hair and drying it. I know it's wrong to need to alleviate myself from the thought of fucking her, but I can no longer help it.

I climb into the bed, still naked and run my hand down my abs until I reach my cock; I gently brush my fingertips on the length of it, imagining it was Y/N, her ghost-like touches on me. I do this a few times until I feel the precum dripping down my cock. Fuck I'm a leaking mess, but I encourage my actions; I smear the precum from the tip of my cock over the entire length lubing it up. I imagine I'm running my cock through her pussy lips, feeling her slick and how wet she is for me, probably dripping in anticipation. I make sure my cock is covered in my precum before making a tight fist around my cock and sliding down slowly, just imagining her tight pussy engulfing my length, feeling her clench around me until I bottom out in her. I do this a few times and start picking up the pace. Moving my hand up and down my cock faster, thinking it was her bouncing on my cock, to feel her clench around me, and I start thrusting into her more quickly. I am getting close; in the subspace that I'm in, I can barely recognize that I'm moaning her name, asking her to cum with me. I feel my grip tightening around my cock, wishing it was her walls clenching around me as she cums on my cock, that thought sends me over the edge, her cumming on my cock, and I groan at the spurts of cum land on my lower abs, I don't stop jerking my hand up and down, I imagine her riding it out until her walls don't flutter. How much I could give to make her cum, to feel her pussy on my cock, to feel her warm walls around my length. I lazy jerk to that idea, and I look down, and I'm still hard, fuck if this is the idea of her, I can't imagine what it would be like fucking her or Y/N underneath me. I'm at the point where my imagination runs wild, and I can't help but think of fucking her in the car. Hoping this is the last time I cum to sleep peacefully, I scoop up the cum from my abs and lube my cock on last time, her warm walls being the only thing I can think about, thrusting into her slowly, making sure she can feel my entire length, fuck I can feel that I'm leaking and imagine her pussy just gushing being filled, seeing her eyes roll in pleasure. I jerk my hand faster up and down my cock squeezing tight, wanting it to be her pussy, running it tight over the tip, imagining it brushing her clit and slipping inside her until she cums. That sends me over the edge, the cum shot being more powerful this time around. I let go of my slick cock, satisfied and relieved from the pressure. I finally slip under the bed's covers and let the sleep wash over me, Y/N still on my mind in the haze.

[lullabyes22-blog]

In Mel de Mar, how would Mel react to Silco suddenly getting sick or hurt

I think she'd astonish herself by how fraught, ferocious, and protective she becomes.

Mel's entire rationalization in Mal de Mer is: "We have shared goals and get on well. Feelings needn't factor so strongly into the equation. Not everything is black and white."

Naturally, this is a defense mechanism, given the traumas in her girlhood, and her missed chance for a purer and more emotionally stable life with Jayce. She tries to approach her relationship with Silco as a pragmatic merger for future progress, some fun times in the bedroom, and plenty of surface-level banter in between.

However, at her core, she's an idealist, and a sentimentalist. And already far more invested emotionally than she cares to admit - a fact that keeps leaving her off-balance throughout the entirety of the fic, because to her it feels as if her power is slipping away the deeper she falls for him.

Him getting hurt - or in some way endangered - would be a slap in the face with all the emotions she's been hiding from herself. She'd be angry, she's be angsty, she'd be overwrought - and furious with herself, because she's usually the one with the level head and a cool eye to the horizon.

In public, she'd fiercely guard him from anyone trying to get too close or sniff out vulnerability. In private, she'd fret, and find herself being a good deal more touchy-feely than usual. She'd also end up empathizing rather painfully with Jinx, and they'd end up rather cuddlesome, especially if they can't touch Silco - due to illness or injury, etc.

They'd both also try, in their own ways, to get to the bottom of the crisis. If it's an injury due to an attack - they'd put their heads together to track down the culprit. If it's an illness, they'd do whatever is in their power to make him more comfortable.

The fussing, in turn, would irritate and bewilder Silco. But privately, I think he'd be touched to see them getting along. And more determined to get better, because lbr, he's still a territorial shit where Jinx is concerned, and a stranger, even one he's chosen to wed, shouldn't be responsible for his daughter's well-being.

(Watch that trigger its own arc where he wrestles with himself - and Mel - over whether she should have some measure of guardianship over Jinx re: their assets and trust funds, if he ever gets shot or struck by lightning...)

[bookoftheironfist]

"It happens so fast, neither Power Man nor Iron Fist has time to react until Iron Fist is dangling high above the city streets, more helpless than either his partner or his captor could guess, for his body is no more effectively trapped...than his mind. Beneath the mask of Iron Fist is Daniel Rand, a man who is now reliving the day when, as a nine-year-old child, he watched his father plunge to a hideous death in the icy mountains of Tibet." Power Man and Iron Fist vol. 1 #71 by Mary Jo Duffy, Kerry Gammill, Christie Scheele, and James R. Novak

I adore this moment and its acknowledgement of the fact that Danny has, in my opinion, one of the most brutal origin stories in the whole Marvel canon; at the age of nine he watched his father get pushed off a cliff to his death and his mother get eaten alive by a pack of wolves. It's heartwarming and, frankly, astonishing that he's ended up as emotionally healthy as he is now, but here, Power Man and Iron Fist writer Mary Jo Duffy plays with the idea that Danny struggles with heights, as he is rendered helpless by a sudden, debilitating flashback to his father's murder. It's a raw, emotional page, and I wish we had more moments like this, even in the modern comics (heck, he's gone through a whole bunch of new traumatic things since this issue). I don't need Danny to be traumatized forever or anything like that, but I always appreciate nods toward the fact that he went through some unspeakably horrific things at a very young age, and that kind of scar never really goes away.

[crystal-infusions]

Welcome to Crystal Infusions

My name is Cassandra and I'm the owner of this tea room and tea shop.

Step into a sanctuary of serenity and calm, where both mind and soul can find peace.

My tea room is a space designed to help you recharge your energies, regain balance, and immerse yourself in the soothing power of tea and crystals.

Come in, take a deep breath, and let the peacefulness of Crystal Infusions surround you.

About Cassandra:

Name: Cassandra

Species: Baphomet-type demon

Gender: Female

Age: 33

Sexual Orientation: Bisexual

Occupation: Tea Room and Tea Shop Owner

Location: Ring of Pride, Hell

Personality:

Cassandra is a calm and kind soul, although one wouldn't say so at first glance.

She ensures that anyone who enters her tea room feels safe, understood, and at peace. Despite her tranquil demeanor, she harbors a complex inner world, shaped by her past and the burden of her curse. She is empathetic, preferring to listen rather than speak, but can be incredibly persuasive and soothing when necessary.

Her desire for peace and serenity contrasts sharply with the chaotic nature of Hell, particularly the Pride ring.

Cassandra can be mysterious, hiding her past from most and choosing to live a quiet life. She values her privacy and the peaceful space she has created, but beneath it all, she’s aware of the potential for her past to resurface.

Abilities:

-Minor Healing Powers:

Cassandra can heal small wounds and soothe physical ailments, using both her natural abilities and her knowledge of herbal medicine.

-Crystal Therapy:

She can enhance the properties of crystals to calm, ground, and balance the energies of those around her. She can ease the most furious of tempers and bring tranquility to chaotic minds.

-Clairvoyance (Cursed):

Like the mythological Cassandra, she can see the future with astonishing accuracy. However, she cannot control when the visions come or what they reveal. This ability, once heavily sought after, caused her great distress, leading her to abandon it.

Weaknesses:

-The unpredictability of her visions leaves Cassandra vulnerable. She never knows when one will strike, and the content can be emotionally overwhelming. Her fear of being drawn back into the chaos of constant prophecy causes her to hide this part of herself.

-Despite her calming exterior, Cassandra carries the weight of her past and the lies she told to live peacefully. The fear of discovery keeps her on edge, even if she never shows it outwardly.

Background:

Cassandra was once well-known in Hell for her clairvoyant abilities. Demons and sinners alike flocked to her, desperate for glimpses of their futures, whether to avoid calamities or seize opportunities. But with her powers came an unbearable burden.

The constant flow of visions, combined with the endless pleas for foresight, drove her to exhaustion. Feeling trapped by her curse and overwhelmed by the needs of others, she devised a way out—she told the world that she had mysteriously lost her powers.

This lie allowed Cassandra to slip away from the life of a prophet and open a humble tea room and shop in the Pride ring. Here, she could focus on what she truly loved: herbalism, crystal magic, and helping others find peace in a world full of chaos. Her shop quickly became a sanctuary for those seeking solace, and she found joy in providing healing and calm through her teas and crystal therapy.

While Cassandra cherishes the peace she has cultivated, the fear of her secret being discovered always lingers. The visions still come, sporadically, and she’s learned to live with them in silence. But the possibility that someone from her past might recognize her or reveal the truth keeps her guarded. For now, she lives a simple life, offering a small crystal with every purchase as a small reminder of her connection to the mystical world, hoping to maintain the quiet existence she has fought so hard to create.

[safesthaveninexistence]

I'm rigged to naturally attract my target audience therefore I don't have to worry about who sees it for who sees it is automagically see it MONSTROUSLY HIT FOR THEM. I trust and know and is ASSURED that absolutely all the energy work I've done is powerful enough to KNOW not validate any undesirable imagination and thoughts as well as know they aren't real and never reflect into the 3D so it's utterly safe to ignore them and be unaffected by them. All the energy work I've done is rigged to know all undesirable imagination, thoughts and stories aren't real and never apply to me as well never reflect into the 3D. I'm rigged to talk big shit for I'm naturally rigged to have bigger shit to back it up. My Magic is unerringly rigged to hit my target relentlessly. Everyone else is rigged to never have higher chances than me to succeed. I'm naturally rigged to have the unsurpassable highest chance out of absolutely everyone else to succeed and actually succeed while they don't. My energy SATISFIES ME OH MY GAHHHHHH. I'm rigged to be sinister when manifesting. My energy is tangible reiki. My energy is apex predator of tangible reiki. I'm having sm fun manifesting especially knowing mine is packed with magic, witchcraft, hoodoo, voodoo, dark magic, power of the mind, generated validated energy within, power of the vortex the source and the effective power of the void, energy, vibrations, frequencies energetics, faith, trust, assurance, backed-up evidence, intentions, magic of subliminals, reality shifting and SM IMMEASURABLE MORE!!!! My self-validation is rigged to have staggeringly tangible substance and tangible heaviness that conveys its undeniably indisputable realness. I'm rigged to specify zillion. I'm the apex predator of megalodons. Laika is inherently as easy to manifest as it was easy for me to manifest Paris Fashion Week and Milan Fashion Week. My unbelievability tangibly feels energetically valid. My valid unbelievability has that tangible substance that feels staggering and heavy, confirming its validity. Yeah i got balls of titanium for taking huge risks for my risks are rigged to monstrously pay off. They admire me cause i monstrously got balls of titanium. They inherently deeply revere me. I monstrously got balls of titanium for going to Europe FULLY CONFIDENT THEY'D ACCEPT ME. Paris and Milan Fashion Week are inherently STAGGERINGLY COLOSSAL AND ELITE ACCOMPLISHMENTS (chills). My life is rigged to be as perfect as how my life comes across on Instagram. The fact I took a STAGGERINGLY COLOSSAL RISK TO GO TO MILAN AND PARIS AND THE RISKS ACTUALLY PAID OFF IS IMMEASURABLY BEYOND AWE-INSPIRING AND JAWDROPPINGLY ASTONISHING (chills). My energy is tangibly more amplified and pronounced. I'm the apex predator of lottery winners. The fact I'm in two Miami Swimweek shows inherently feels STAGGERINGLY COLOSSAL. The behind the scenes profoundly has an unshakeable foundation. I'm rigged to be a winner in every sense. All things unlikely are rigged into my favor. All bad luck are rigged to be out of my life and out of my vicinity. How delicious, when I say I'm accurate, I am! I always won! Everything that involved luck, I always won! That's been the case since I was little and will continue to be so! I stay winning MONSTROUSLY BIG. Luck is rigged to be my state of mind. I'm rigged to focus on myself. I'm winning so much IT'S CRAZY. I'm physically, financially, romantically, platonically, emotionally, mentally, psychologically, physiologically, energetically, psychically and spiritually incapable of being sad. I'm physically, financially, romantically, platonically, emotionally, mentally, psychologically, physiologically, energetically, psychically and spiritually incapable of being disappointed. I'm physically, financially, romantically, platonically, emotionally, mentally, psychologically, physiologically, energetically, psychically and spiritually incapable of being depressed. All the odds are naturally rigged in my favor. I'm rigged to rewire my mind the right way. I'm rigged to use the power of the positive the right way.

[justrandomfanfictionskh]

Mary Todd pt 13

ao3 Beginning Previous

“What the fuck Bruce?!” Jason’s voice echoed through the manor like a thunderclap causing several things to happen all at once. Some of those things including, but not limited to, Tim doing a quick 180 in the opposite direction of his older brother. Dick jumping up before promptly freezing in indecision. Damian closing his door in annoyance. And Alfred heaving an exhausted sigh as he silently watched the drama unfold.

Bruce on the other hand was not surprised, only resigned as his second eldest stormed into his office and slammed the door behind him so hard it swung back open. If Jason noticed, he didn’t let on as Alfred silently closed it. “Jason,” Bruce said silently. He could not be more tense if Mr. Freeze had frozen him solid, but he was careful to not let his absolute terror at what was to come show in his expression or voice. In his head he cursed Ladybug, her advice had shattered the fragile peace of their relationship, and now Bruce would have to fight tooth and nail to keep his son.

“I take it you read my letter,” Bruce said glancing at the twisted paper in his son’s hand.

“Is that all you have to say?” Jason said quietly fuming. It was all Bruce could do to stop himself from slumping down in defeat. He should never have listened to that girl.

“Everything I have to say,” Bruce said, “Was in that letter. If it crossed a line then, I apologize.”

Jason’s eyes widened in open mouth astonishment, as if he couldn’t comprehend the man in front of him. “And that’s all you have to say?” he repeated in a half whisper.

“What else is there?” Bruce said fighting to maintain his calm but maintaining it all the same.

“Jesus, Bruce!” Jason said collapsing in the chair across from him. He began to rub his temples as if he had a headache. An exhausted action that confused Bruce. When he had left the letter for Jason in the wee hours of the morning, he had expected to face screaming, yelling, and the full firey rage of the Red Hood. Except that was not what was happening. He held his breath and refused to move a single muscle, as hope threatened to blossom in his chest.

Finally shaking his head, Jason looked up and smoothed out the paper and, to Bruce’s great, hidden embarrassment, began to read. “‘And though I know, you have never seen me as a father, you should know that I have always seen you as a son. Our relationship has always been slightly strained, but that does not mean that I haven’t always loved you. And though I will never approve of your methods, I will never not be proud of your accomplishments…’ I repeat, What. The. Fuck?”

Bruce very pointedly ignored Alfred’s slight approving smile, and the muffled gasps from behind the door and focused on the young man in front of him. The fact was, Bruce didn’t know how to express his emotions. Oh, he always knew what he was feeling and why. He was not nearly as emotionally constipated as his children liked to believe. But that didn’t mean he knew how to express those emotions, or those feelings. Which was why Marinette had suggested he write a letter. But apparently that was not enough. So he decided to use the only emotion that he knew how to express with perfect accuracy…his intensity.

That was the secret behind his “Batglare,” as his kids called it. It was not anger, disappointment, or any other emotion he might be feeling at the moment. It was how intensely he felt that emotion that gave the look power and made people quell before him. And so, while he didn’t quite know what Jason was looking for, or needed him to say, he knew that if there was one thing he needed Jason to know, it was just how seriously he meant those words. So, he focused all of his intensity in his eyes as he looked his son in the eyes.

“I meant every word,” he said watching Jason closely waiting for Jason to recognize and except what he was saying. When he did, Bruce softened his expression back to his calm neutrality and said, “Marinette and I talked.” Jason stiffened but Bruce continued. “She had some rather…interesting information to relate to me. Among those things was some sound advice, that I should have taken long ago.” The glance he shot Alfred was all the apology he could give, but Alfred’s small nod and gentle smile signaled that he understood and should continue talking with his son.

“She suggested,” Bruce said as some of his tension leaked unconsciously into his voice. “That if I find talking difficult, then I write you a letter. I believe her exact words were, ‘There are too many missions—‘”

“‘And too few chances,’” Jason said with a soft smile, “‘To say what you really mean. So, make each one count, or you will regret it for the rest of your life.’ Yeah, she said the same thing to me last night. Shit, I remember when she cried after watching Lilo and Stitch! Now she’s spouting philosophies better than Wonder Woman.”

“Do you think she learned that one from Wonder Woman?” Bruce asked with a raised eyebrow.

Jason smirked and shook his head. “No, I think she learned that one on her own. I don’t know all of the details, but I think there was a liar in her high school class that made her life a living hell for a year or two before her friends and family got wise to what was happening and helped her. Between that and Hawkmoth, I get the feeling that Mari has an extreme aversion to lying and emotional suppression.”

Bruce grunted his affirmation as silence fell upon the study. There was a muffled cough outside the door, but Bruce refused to break first. He had said everything he needed to say, and he wasn’t going to say it again. At least not until Jason responded. He seemed to understand, as he straightened in his seat and looked Bruce right in the eye returning all of Bruce’s intensity and more as he said, “I…I can’t say I never hated you. When I came back…but the less said about that the better I think.”

Bruce nodded his agreement and waited for Jason to continue. He didn’t have to wait long. “The point is B. I…I don’t hate you now. Actually I don’t think, I don’t think I’ve hated you for a long time. And as for the whole, father/son thing…I guess…well…You’ve been my father sense the day you adopted me. And I guess that doesn’t really change, even after a few bombs.”

Bruce's breath caught a the pure flood of relief and joy he felt at those words. It was the last thing he expected Jason to say, and it was the only thing he had ever wanted him to say. It froze him in place, as he tried to memorize this moment. And then...

“Oh my God!” a muffled voice cried in exasperation from behind the door.

“Steph hush!” another voice that sounded suspiciously like Dick said.

“But they’re so bad at this!”

“Well at least they’re trying!”

“Excuse me sir,” Alfred said with his own trademark stoicism. “I believe there are some nosy mice that need my attention.” Bruce and Jason shared an amused look as shuffling, scrambling sounded behind the door as Alfred moved toward it. Once the pair were alone, silence reigned once again. Until Bruce cleared his throat.

“Marinette is an extraordinary young woman,” he said completely honestly.

Jason nodded completely engrossed with the detailing on his armrest. “The last time I saw her. She wasn’t even tall enough to ride the tea cups at Disney! Now she’s leading armies. Training with Wonder Woman. And giving us therapy.”

Bruce hummed and studied Jason’s face cautiously. “Was that all she talked to you about? Your emotions?”

Jason met his gaze, something dark and scared lingering there. “You’re talking about the Arbiter, Guardian, Executioner thing.” When Bruce nodded, Jason sighed and stared distantly at the grandfather clock. “Yeah, she said she was going to talk to you about that.”

“What do you think of it?” Bruce asked.

Jason shifted. “I get you’re no killing rule now.”

 Bruce’s eyebrows shot all the way up into his hair line, and he almost wished Alfred had not chased the others away so that he could have witnesses to that. “Really?” he asked.

“Oh, don’t be so smug!” Jason said running a hand through his dual tone hair. “I’m not changing my philosophy. If anything, this whole thing only proves my point. The Joker should have died a long time ago.” Bruce remained silent, so Jason continued. “It’s just…the idea of her killing. The idea of her having to be the one, to make that choice…it just feels so wrong to me. I mean…I was supposed to protect her! And hearing what she had to do to survive, to save us…I hate it. It just feels so unnatural, like…like the idea of the Joker helping an old lady cross the street without beating her with a stick! The idea of Mari killing, just feel…wrong.”

“And do you agree with Marinette?” Bruce asked, “That you feel that way because you are the Executioner?”

“I don’t know Bruce,” Jason said, and he looked as exhausted as he sounded. “I don’t know. To be honest, all I want right now is to spend a nice, normal three months with my sister. Get to know her. There’s still so much I don’t know about her, but it seems like the only thing we’ve done since being reunited is cry and talk shop. Is it too much to ask that we get just one normal week? You know before we have to deal with all of this cosmic crap!”

Bruce allowed a small chuckle to pass through his lips. “So in other words, do everything in our power to keep her away from Joker. I’m sure we can manage that. She told me that she won’t get to work in honest, until after she’s visited Themyscira. Do you know where she is now?”

Jason furrowed his brow and shook his head, “Said something about meeting a friend for lunch.”

“Do you know which friend?”

“Actually, I have no idea.”  

Roy took a deep breath as he tried to calm his nerves. He resisted the urge to run his hand through his hair, as he waited in the corner booth of the diner. He jerked up when the bell rang, and he couldn’t help but smile. Even when she was in completely casual clothes, Marinette was beautifully stylish while perfectly blending in with the Gotham locals. He tried not to run to her, but he didn’t try to hide his excited smile upon seeing her. “Hey!”

“Bonjour!” She said with an equally bright smile, as they exchanged a la bise. “I’m glad we’re getting to do this. Between running from you at the gala and the whole brother revelation, I feel like we haven’t gotten a chance to really talk.”

“I know,” he said with a laugh, “Is life with you always this crazy?”

“I told you the tag line of my life is ‘It’s Complicated!’” she said as they stepped up in line to order. “Scared yet?”

“Nope!” Roy declared, “As long as…you know, that’s probably not the right thing to say.”

“That never stopped me!” Marinette said with a laugh that seemed to warm the whole diner, “Although perhaps if it had, I wouldn’t have nearly as many embarrassing memories.”

“Oh really?” Roy said mischievously. “Any you’d like to share.”

“Oh no! I’ll leave that conversation for when you formally meet my friends. I’m sure my exes would love to share every single embarrassing anecdote they can think of!”

“I’ll hold them to that,” Roy said, and he found that he couldn’t stop smiling. Damn, he thought, I’ve got it bad! Cool it Roy, we don’t want to scare her off. But he covered himself by saying, “You know it’s refreshing to meet someone whose still friends with their exes. All of mine want to kill me. Jay…well the less said about his the better. And as for the rest of my friends…well, Dick’s probably been the healthiest out of all of us, and one of them became his pseudo-sister.”

“Should I be concerned with…any of that?” Marinette said with an incredulous smirk.

“Well…why don’t I answer that after we order?”

Marinette laughed and agreed. Once they had made their way back to the corner booth, they both had an awkward moment where they both wanted the side where they faced the door. But Roy conceded the seat with a flourish and a bow, that made her laugh again, and he was satisfied. Roy then…in brief, told the story of him and Cheshire and how Lian had come to be in his care. It was such a relief to know that Marinette was a part of the hero community. And not only was she a part of the community, but they had met outside of the mask first. In fact, they had never interacted in the masks! Which meant there was none of that awkward, “Well I think I know you. But I also know this other side of you, so who are you really because we’ve been lying to each other for our entire relationship,” crap. Instead it was just an easy flow of conversation, where they told their stories. Their mistakes. Their successes. Their favorite villains to fight.

“Mr. Pigeon?” Roy said, “Seriously!”

“Poor M. Ramier,” Marinette said with a shake of her head. “All he ever did was cause traffic jams and cover statues in bird crap, but he was still a pain in the butt. Still I can never be mad at him, because he was always so pure! Literally the only thing that could ever get him akumatized was his pigeons. It was king of adorable, until you know.”

“It became just plain annoying,” Joy said with complete understanding. “I get it. You know, Lian does this thing when she wants candy. It’s the most adorable thing in the world. She goes to the counter where she knows the candy jar if hidden, and she starts bouncing, while doing this little huff-huff thing. Like this,” he imitated his daughter’s “I want candy noise.” Sending Marinette into giggles.

“Aw! I can totally see her doing that! She must be so cute.”

“She is,” Roy agreed, “And it was, until I was trying to focus on my work. Or doing taxes. Or calculating our budget.”

“Oh, poor baby!” Marinette cooed.

“Thank you!” Roy said but then pause narrowing his eyes, “Wait is that for me or Lian?”

“Either,” Marinette said leaning forward, “But surely you have people you can call when you need to focus. Jay-Jay or Dick?”

“Oh yeah,” Roy said with a proud smile. “I have a really good support system here. I mean obviously Jay is over practically once a week. I think he’d adopt Lian if he could, but he would never steel my child, so he settles for the fun uncle. Then there’s Dick and Kori, that’s Dick’s wife. Have you met her yet?”

“No, not yet. I understand she’s off world right now.”

“Yeah, she wanted to take their daughter Mar’i on a tour of their home world…Which now that I think about it, is probably why Dick keeps calling me every other day. With Kaldor and Wally on a mission, I’m the only OG he can bother so he doesn't think about how much he misses his wife!”

“OG?” Marinette asked, “I understand the slang, but…”

“Oh,” Roy said, “OG sidekicks. Before the Titans, the Young Justice, and every hero and their monkey got a sidekick, there was just me, Dick, Wally, and Kaldor. We’ve been through the ringer. But we’ve always had each other.”

“Sounds like me and my team,” Marinette said with a nostalgic fondness, “No matter what Hawkmoth threw at us. Now matter how crazy, or dark Paris got, I always had my team. The Court of Miracles.”

“Where are they now?” Roy asked.

“Here, there, everywhere,” Marinette said with a sigh. “We’re all chasing our careers and trying to live our lives. I let most of them keep their Miraculous, but I’ll have to take them all back before I go to Themyscira.”

“Why?”

Marinette sighed as she leaned back in the booth staring at her half-eaten sandwich. “So many reasons. Cosmic balance. Paranoia. Responsibility. Yada-yada. But we’ve all been so engrossed in the hero business for so long. I couldn’t just rip the band-aid off. They needed time to adjust to life outside of world ending threats, to heal before…you know. Taking away their mini, emotional support god for probably forever.”

Roy nodded his understanding, “But you’ll still have them. Even when your still Ladybug and they’re just civilians right?”

Marinette sighed, “I hope so. I really do. But it won’t be easy. I have a lot of work to do here and all over the world. I don’t know if any of them will be able to keep up with me.”

The look of exhausted resignation cut Roy deeper than it probably should have. But he couldn’t help it. He had only met Marinette three times, but in those moments three things had been ingrained into his memory forever. First, she was kind. She had taken time to help a lost girl in the middle of the most dangerous city in the world, without a second thought, just because said girl was crying. Second, she was incredible. She had led a team of barely trained teenagers to save the world, multiple times, all while still being a teen herself. And during that time, she had graduated top of her class, and had made herself a household name in the world of fashion. And third, she had suffered. She laughed, she smiled, she joked. But that didn’t hide the sadness in her eyes. The exhaustion in her limbs. The pain that lingered in some of the words she said. Hawkmoth’s Reign over Paris had nearly broken her.

She had walked out of that hellscape a strong, powerful, kind, and incredible leader and warrior. Roy would have had to be an idiot to not fall head over heals for her. But hurt and memories held him back from rushing things. He knew she liked him, but he wasn’t sure if she had fallen for him, the way he had for her. So, he restrained himself from the hundreds of things he wanted to do to comfort her and resulted to just reaching for her hand. He squeezed it and tried to convey all of his understanding and support into his gaze as she looked at him. “You’re not alone, Marinette,” he said softly. “You have me, and Jay, and Diana, and after all of this probably every single member of the Batfamily to. You don’t have to stick around. But when you come back…we’ll be waiting.”

Marinette turned her hand to hold his, as she softly smiled. “Thank you, Roy.” Roy found himself caught in her beautiful blue bell eyes which were shining with unshed tears. And he wondered just how many tears she had kept back over the years? How many times had she kept herself from crying out to anyone? She had been the sole provider and protector for so long. If she needed help, would she even know how to ask for it?

Suddenly Marinette started and her whole demeanor changed. She was still smiling and happy but there was a guarded edge to it. “I think I see your little fairy coming now. But who is that with her?”

Roy turned and looked out the window. “Shit is it that time already?” He turned back and at Marinette’s confused look he explained. “That’s my sister-in-law Artemis. Basic back story, her mother was Tigress, but after she was paralyzed, and Jade ran away, she begged Oliver to make sure she didn’t become a villain like the rest of them. So, she’s also technically, I guess, my surrogate sister?”

Marinette shook her head, “Superhero bio-families really are complicated, huh? What does she know about me?”

“Not much,” Roy admitted, “Aside from whatever Lian told her. But I don’t want you to think I just sprung them on you! Artemis was taking Lian to the aquarium today, and I told her just to meet me here afterwards. I honestly didn’t think we’d be talking this long.”

“Well it has been,” Marinette’s eye widened as she checked her watch, “Three hours! Wow, I did not expect that!”

Roy laughed and then grimaced. “You don’t mind meeting her, do you? She can be a bit much. And is very protective of Lian.”

“I don’t mind,” Marinette said with a smile. “I’ve actually been wanting to meet her. Although I never would have guessed that her hero name was the same as her civilian name! That’s almost as bad as Clark Kent! Wait you do know about Clark, right?”

“Yeah,” Roy said with a laugh, “I do. Oh! Here they come. Here’s hoping Artemis is on her best behavior.” He turned to wave at his two favorite girls, when he saw it. A flash of bright green on a bowler hat, and a golden question mark.

Of course.  

Next

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[homestuckexamination]

What would you say is the best scene in Homestuck where Rose and Terezi displayed their acuteness respectively?

With Terezi, I feel it has to be pre-game, the lead-up to the Incident. Terezi and Vriska were known to be a ruthless pair in campaigns, which already plants her as a good strategist during their campaigns-Aand once Vriska started going too far, Terezi gave her a grace period hoping she WOULDN'T go further, and the moment she did? She correctly identified Vriska's means of cheating against Doc Scratch, found out a way to contact him against Scratch's own expectations, provided him with the One Piece Of Information to fill the blank spots in his vision, and without lifting a finger, managed to nor only severely harm Vriska, but also destroy an item that had been giving her an unfair edge in obtaining accurate information, and which was a heirloom recovered from Mindfang's Chest. With one singular conversation, Terezi wounded Vriska, both physically and emotionally, probably as HARD as she could possibly had, put a target on her via Scratch, and while opening herself up to retaliation in the process, avenged her friends.

Rose... You could talk about her analysis of her friends- Such as being able to correctly identify that she could not see into John's Dad's room because he'd never been into it, or furthermore, that John's Dad was a totally normal business guy, and that maybe the clown obsession was borne of him trying to connect with John, mistaken by the scrawling on the posters that he'd done subconsciously in his sleep. She just, like, figures All That Out pretty quickly. She also, in Pesterquest, takes ONE glance at Dave and his room and hears him talk about Bro in person One Time, and she's like "Oh my friend is getting abused, I am going to murder this man", where otherwise there's a lot of obliviousness about the parental shittiness going on. And even though she's doing it quite spitefully at one point, Rose is just obstinate to find answers even if she has to tear her entire Land apart- Identifying SBURB's quest as a 'farce' to guide her 'development' and deciding to instead pursue the truth of what the Game really is about and how to save her friends, and effectively finding it before anyone else does, contrasting various sources together to get as full of a picture as she possibly can.

Both Terezi and Rose are forces to be reckoned with that just, power through what's in front of them, understand the situation, and get what they want at the other end. They're clever, got a good grasp of the world around them, and how to fill the gaps in their own knowledge to act accordingly. Their flaw, of course... Being this same obstinacy, often leads to them blinding themselves with confirmation bias. They are blind to themselves, in a way. Rose must know, on some level, that her Mother is trying to do good things for her but that she can't understand her motives because their relationship is deeply strained due to being unable to understand her motives, mainly because of her alcoholism and the secretive nature of Skaianet stuff making her unable to pierce the veil of who she REALLY is. Terezi must know, on some level, that it doesn't make sense for Vriska to be the one behind the events of Murderstuck, but she's SO fucking obsessed with her that she ignores the obvious clues right in front of her face. Which ironically makes them also have some of the 'missing what's in front of their face' moments in the series.

But that's just a flaw they gotta grapple with.

Honorable Mention also goes to Dirk, whose ability to plan ahead and predict what everyone around him is going to do is quite astonishing, but I think my vote still goes to the Seers on account of him being 1) Older, 2) Having Hyper-Advanced Tech at his disposal, and 3) Being already awake on Derse.

[psychobookoholic]

Oh my God I just got a fanfic idea. Do not use it!

Imagine this

Jesminda hid that she's pregnant from Lucien for baby's sake, because she knew something terrible is about to happen, she had a baby girl and never told anyone. They were living in a cottage house.

She went out one day (baby was around human 5 years than) and she was vaptured by Beren and his sons (exept Eris), tortured and killed in from of Lucien.

Little girl is waiting for her mommy to return. For days, months, years😭. She managed to find good on her own, heat the cottage and water (even in things like tee) thanks to the powers she doesnt understand. She sings the songs mother thaught her, read books she left.

One day she sees kids going to classes and joins them by taking books (like Fae version of Hamlet or something🤣) and packing them in little bag her mom had. The teacher asks her questions who she is and where are her parents, but she doesn't answer, she just takes book out and read while other kids are colouring. Teacher gives her appropriate books and feeds her.

That goes on for the time girl is an adult and gets out of school. Teacher was like a mother to her, but she never told her anything about wats going on wirh her life, because she's too afraid. At that point she hates her real mother, she's certain that the woman left her, as well as her father. She hates them both.

Despite that, she have earn lot of money, cause she was working after school, she's great at singing so she gives amazing performances.

One day she meets a boy and fall in love. He's promising to give her the world, but when she moves in with him the relationship becomes incredibly toxic and she can't leave. He's abusing her mentally and physically. After a year of that life she snaps and kills him. She runs away and again living a lonely life.

After some time she is hired to perform on a party in the Autumn Court. Eris is astonished by her singing, he goes to talk to her and he thinks of the resembles between her and him. At first he thinks she may be his daughter, but later he thinks about the magic she used forshow (like Helions light and air manipulation [at this point is well known who's his son]) and comes to conclusion she MUST be Luciens daughter. He asks her questions about her past and though resilient at the beginning, she feels tired of the secrets and tells him everything. They drink and talk. She even tells him if she'd have a different start she'd want to be solving crimes, she calls it a silly dream of hers.

Eris doesn't tell her about his suspicions, he feels that she's in a deep low emotionally and she's suffering. He knows a place, a court that helps people like that. Feyre, Nesta, and before that Mor.

While she's sleeping slightly drunk in bedchamber next to his, he announced himself to the Night Court. Rhysand allowes him to come to the River house. Everyone are there. Including the children. Two of Cassian and Nesta, and one of Amren and Varian. And Nyx, obviously. No Lucien or Elain, Rhys respected his wishes. They have been in a very good place since Eris became High Lord.

He explain them situation and asks Nyx for help. He finally can do something good for his family, for his brother and possible niece.

Nyx agrees to teach her the art of solving the crimes. He's in a need of assistant anyway. But he agrees to that only if Eris will tell the girl about who her parents may be.

At the morning High Lord of the Autumn Court does as promised and girl is shocked. She beggs him not to tell Lucien until he will be certain and agrees to work with Nyx.

More to come in short stories I will be writing about them. I'm sorry for any mostakes but it was written quick and English is not my first language. The characters of course belongs to Sarah J. Maas, exept the main heroine.

Do not use the ideas in any way. Do not copy without adding my name.

Copyrights 2022 Sandra Knurowska. All Rights Reserved.

[mousieta]

Review: 180 Degree Longitude Pass Through Us

Year: 2022 Country: Thailand Platform: GagaOOLala Every so often a drama comes along that feels truly transcendent; it so completely nails the essentials of writing, directing and acting that these elements come together to make something that is not only better than the sum of its parts but resonates so deeply that, if caught by the right viewer at the right time, emotionally marks them in some way. That was 180 Degree Longitude Pass Through Us, for me. It is the best drama I watched this year, hands down.

The discussion for this show has to begin with the writing. In one sense the story is a parable about Queer Authenticity. What renders it powerful, however, is that this parable never looses the trees to focus on the forest, instead it shows us the forest but looking deeply, intimately, intensely (almost claustrophobically) at four particular trees: Wang, a youth fresh off his first year of college, his mother Sasiwimol (Mol) an acclaimed Drama director, her deceased ex-husband and Wang’s father, Siam and Siam and Mol’s estranged college friend, Inthawut (In).

The show is entirely character driven, the plot revolving around the internal lives and choices of the three main characters: Wang, In and Mol. All three are complexly written and rendered, full of human emotion and flaws and beauty. The writer/director Punnasak Sukee has extensive work in theater which is evident in the show but it not a detriment. There is a visual simplicity to his direction that allows the focus to be on the characters and gives weight to the elements that are visible. The set pieces tell as much a story as the actors and dialogue.

As for sets, there are few. Almost the entirety of the story takes place in Inthawut’s rural home. This could risk the show feeling stale, flat but instead allows the focus to be completely on the characters and the actor’s performances. There are whole episodes that consist of nothing but people moving from room to room, conversation to conversation but the watcher tension is strung so tight as to nearly snap under the strain. There were long stretches where I could barely breathe.

All of this set up - the script, the directorial choices, the sparse and economical sets - provide the backdrop for absolutely breathtaking performances from the whole cast. Each has such a powerful understanding of their character. Their chemistry together pulled me to the very edge of my seat.

The story itself is complex in its simplicity. Wang longs to know his missing father and, finding Inthawut, pleads for what grief prevents his mother from providing: the truth of his father’s past including the nature of Siam’s relationship with Inthawut.

The writer is wise and skilled in ways that blew me away and left me astonished and envious at his understanding of and courage to tell the story as it had to be told. As a lesser writer, I would have made different choices, I longed for other choices from the characters, but those choices would have violated the story that needed to be told. (I’m being a bit coy here because I don’t want to spoil anything)

So while he never loses sight of this characters, he has the insight to never undermine them for the easy and comforting tale. A tale that does confront the homophobia of modern societies but in a way that reiterates why the topic needs to continue to be addressed but in the hands of a Queer perspective.

I literally cannot heap enough superlatives on the show. I’ve watched it twice, written reams of meta and wish I had the time to write more. I sometimes find it useful to draw a distinction between Queer Media and BL/Yaoi/Slash as I do think there are differences between them which don’t disparage either but are important to understand when looking at them, and this definitely sits in the overlap between them but feels further on the Queer side than BL. For that, I’m grateful.

2022 Drama Reviews Masterlist