#Shay answers anons

[dxmurei]

I love your scientist OC! He looks so pathetic but in the “I wanna kiss him stupid” kind of way

[plightofthecentipede]

Hannibal is worth watching if you're a theater gay who loves toxic romance and deciphering incomprehensible dialogues. Mads and Hugh are really close in real life, so it made their chemistry pop on screen and Brian Fuller was putting as much gay into it as he could without pissing off NBC. Unfortunately, they had to rush to an ending because they were only greenlit for one last season and so things sort of fell apart, but I think where people go wrong is taking it as a serious drama when it's really a dark romantic comedy with absolutely bonkers practical effects and Hugh Dancy covered in blood while glistening with sweat every three scenes.

theater gay ❌

loves toxic romance ✅

incomprehensible dialogue ✅

mads ✅

brian fuller (i love american gods season 1) ✅

shows that arent allowed their full potential ✅

men covered in blood glistening with sweat ✅

fair enough you got me

[shays-shitposts]

how long have you been drawing? :0 you’re very good!!

i think… since i was in preschool? idk when i picked up on digital art, but yeah! :]

[timothyslucy]

lol i hope you didn’t going into chicago fire thinking it was rainbows and sunshine’s cause it’s really just a trauma dump for all the characters 😭

of course not, i never expected that, i don't know what i was expecting honestly when i picked up this show, but i certainly did not to expect to be sledgehammered back to one of the most devastating pregnancy storyline's in all of tv history. 😭😭

[autistic-shaiapouf]

I FORGOT I GOT THAT ASK ABOUT POUF

[persimmonteas]

HII SHAY <3 How've you been sweetpea? I could't find you at first, what happened to your bnha blog? I haven't been on this hellsite in a while and i missed you <333

Hiiii <3 The bnha fics are still on this blog somewhere in my tags. I mainly use this for a personal/aesthetic blog now! All my fics should be on AO3 at some point tho, along with a sideblog under the same username.

[shay-creates]

Happy Worldbuilding Wednesday!

How does day-to-day life in your world differ from our own? What chores do the people have to do? What don't they have to do? What conveniences do they have that we don't?

Happy Worldbuilding Wednesday!

I'll answer this for the realm and time period of my current WIP (Dread Secrets).

....This is going to be a long response...oops. I hope this makes sense, but if something doesn't make sense or intrigues you more feel free to ask for clarification or more information about it!

In the era of Dread Secrets, day-to-day life is closer to medieval life, though even then there's differences from Earth's medieval times.

Magic is a common component of life, though magic is significantly weaker than during earlier eras. In this era, many people have such weak magic that they are determined to not have any at all. There are magic creatures and other animals that do not exist on Earth (Ex: The Clivdon: a horse that is roughly the size and build of a Percheron draft horse, omnivorous, intelligent, aggressive in the wild, and loyal once tamed/bonded to people).

Similar to present day, however, there is diversity in the people who live in and out of the kingdoms thanks in part to the first war which brought all continents and countries together through alliances and bloodshed.

Chores are much like today's. They clean their homes, look after their children, do their jobs, cook, bake, create. Depending on your job and status, you may have other people do chores for you (typically for pay or housing). They tend to their animals and crops as well if they are farmers or similar.

Some people have magic that can make life more convenient or aid in their day-to-day lives. Should you live in the City of Rudrian, it could even be more convenient to become a prostitute or entertainer, depending on your preferences thanks to the God of Pleasure and God of Festivals who have patroned the city since it was barely an established village. (does it make sense?....probably not....is it true? yes)

Primordials, the Ancients, Gods, and Immortals walk the earth and can bless people and places. Getting a blessing from any of them holds different meanings. Primordial blessings can be passed down for generations, preventing illness/disease, granting bountiful crops and health for livestock, and even increasing the magic potential of a lineage. Ancient blessings aid with navigation, connection with an aspect of the world, and increasing an individual's magic potential. God blessings allow proficiency, greater understanding, and knowledge about what the god rules over. Immortals offer a lesser blessing of the gods and often act as guardians over a God's realm or individuals their god has tasked them to protect.

[sun-snatcher]

Idk how else to say it but you made me a lover of Haytham with that x reader fic you made. I'm just curious if you are able to write simple fluff on the guy, preferably comfort fluff? But that's only if you're comfortable doing it of course! Love how you write ❤️

( all credits to @bankaizen from this phenomenal gifset ! )

✠ | DARLING, DEAREST ; HAYTHAM KENWAY

summ.  You fall asleep in Haytham’s office. He’s vexed. or:  Haytham refuses to admit he’s been… charmed. pairing.  haytham kenway / ex-assassin!f!reader w.count. 3k. tags.  tooth-rotting fluff , slow burn, Haytham-centric POV , cat-&-mouse established relationship , Haytham is SMITTEN & fighting his demons   a/n.  Thank you requesting dear anon, & I hope this was to your satisfaction! I tried my best </3

        WINTER SEASON HAS set in, and so they’ve lost the light quicker these days. 

“How fares your progress?” Haytham muses, by the… fifth? Sixth? hour of his and yours’ meticulous decryption. 

The Brotherhood’s cipher both you and Shay had (very painstakingly) misappropriated has proven tediously difficult to crack— even for an ex-Assassin such as yourself. Your partner in crime had already conveniently vanished sometime ago under the pretense of ‘stretchin’ my legs’ or so the Irishman claimed.

“I think my eyes are going to fall right out of my head,” you answer, candid. “This has been as dreadfully dull as watching Gist try to woo a woman.”

A wild scatter of encoded papers— more specifically, documents, annals, and missives of the Assassin’s— surround your temporary workspace: Haytham’s astonishingly comfortable chaise lounge, and a rounded tea table you haphazardly dragged noisily to your side from the opposite end of his office as a makeshift secretaire.

It’s crude and admittedly messy (“It’s an organised mess, Master Kenway,” you’d argued when he first fussed on the clutter on his hardwood floors) but, well, it’s proven sufficient.

“These are practically hieroglyphs,” you continue, sounding defeated. Symbols are soon to begin swimming in the air from your delirium at this point. The dim light of the moon filtering through the sleet-frosted windows and the waning, flickering fireplace didn’t help with the sleepiness either. “Either that or I’ve completely gone mad.”

The Grandmaster cocks his head. “I seem to recall you confidently stating you’d be able to decipher this, considering you’re an Ex-Assassin.”

“And I seem to recall you confidently saying you’d help,” you counter, lazily waving your lorgnette.

He vaguely gestures at his own chaotic desk. “I am. I have.”

“You’ve been staring at that page for the last twenty minutes, Master Kenway,” you say, astutely, which made his jaw tick. “How many times have you reread the same line, I wonder—?”

“It’s certainly more help than Shay can say he’s offered,” he deflects, reclining defiantly back into his seat. Haytham had been staring at the page, but it’d been for the past thirty. “And it was ten minutes,” he lies.

“Even so,” you stretch your arms above your head, languorously feline-like, and pop your knuckles and back with a relieved hum, “eventually, is what I specified. I never promised speed in untangling this absolute mess.”

“No,” Haytham agrees, distractedly. “I suppose you didn’t.”

You look— 

Different, he notes. 

Insolence is intrinsic to all who live in a world as fierce and deceiving as you and he do, and so the Grandmaster has always allowed a little leeway for your challenging of his authority, especially whenever cerebral. (He figures, too, that your temerity and back-talk must be how you ever lost favour with the Brotherhood in the first place.) But now— 

Fatigue has made you less of the spitfire tigress he constantly butts heads with, now tempering you into a more tamed, domestic cat that’s pillowed and lounging against an armrest. You’ve disrobed the unnecessary layers of your usual Templar mufti in favor of moving freely, too: 

Sleeves unbuttoned at the wrists, hair loosened from its usual tidy updo. You’d even gone as far as abandoning your shoes and folding your legs underneath yourself to keep warm, cushioned into the chaise as you studied and pieced together your translations. 

Open informality. Proverbial unarmoring. 

Not different, Haytham realises. You look at home. 

Soft. Subdued. Serene. It’s a rarity to see you with your guard down. 

(There’s something to be said about you allowing him this at all.)

…It’s rather charming honourable to witness.

Haytham’s arguably in a similar state himself; weary and worn out— half from taxing his mind, and half from putting up with your usual snarky remarks— tricorn long since set aside and cloaked coat hung by the door, spine sinking into the backrest of his seat. 

Had anyone else been in the office, they might’ve considered the scene domestic— borderline intimate. Colleagues shedding their armour in the dead of night, focused and working closely; two souls lost in their own shared world as they orbit back-and-forth each other’s tables— each other’s spaces— to dismantle the shroud of information before them together.

“Christ.” You fail to stifle an unbecoming yawn, long and drawn out as you hide your face behind a piece of wrinkled parchment. “Oof.”

In another time he would’ve ignored it, but he’s looking for an excuse not to return to the mind-numbing journal belonging to some Assassin scribe before him, and so: 

“How ladylike,” he compliments dryly. 

“Oh, forgive me, Grand Master Kenway of the Templar Rite,” you scowl, though your spiteful tone is too bleary for its intended effect, “for being unbecoming and feeling rather run down after staring at ink and paper for the last…”

“Five hours,” Haytham says, flatly, from where the gilded table-clock sits ticking incessantly at the corner of his desk. He doesn’t dare tarry in his mind on how quickly and how easily he had finished your sentence, other than a quiet and abrupt realisation: When did we become this in tandem to one another?

But he shelves the thought away. It isn't the right occasion yet to rationalise or introspect. Or, more accurately, he doesn’t want to. (Or, even more accurately, he’s simply afraid to.)

Haytham couldn’t blame you for losing track of time, anyway; not only had you been tasked with the decryption, but you’d also been the one sanctioned and responsible for leading the theft of the material from the Brotherhood’s hands that early morning.

“...Five hours!” you cry, and exaggerate by dramatically slumping further into rest. “I almost fell off a roof, too, thanks to Shay. You ought to give dear-old-me a break.”

“I did give ‘dear-old-you’ a break,” he deadpans. “And you rather vehemently declined my offer because you were insistent on ‘gaining headway of the bastards lest we lose their trail’,” he quotes, pointedly.

A beat. 

Then you’re laughing. It’s gentle; the first Haytham’s ever heard of you sound that way. 

It shouldn’t have stuck out to him— but it did.

“Did I say that? I sincerely don’t remember,” you say, gaze affixed on the crackling fireplace. “I suppose I was right when I said I’ve completely lost my mind. Or perhaps you’re just a liar, Master Kenway.”

Then, more quietly, as you begin to doze off: 

“Mh, no,” you retract. “…you never lie to your own, now that I think about it.”

“I don’t make a habit of it,” he agrees, half-heartedly. “And watch yourself. That sounded dangerously like a compliment. I might just hold you to that.”

…No witty quip. 

No ‘you flatter yourself!’ nor ‘you must be hearing things!’— Just silence. 

He tilts his head from his seat to catch a proper look at you. 

“Don’t you dare fall asleep here,” the Grandmaster declares, suddenly. “I will not hesitate to drag you out of my office myself.”

You inhale. Sharp. Blinking rapidly. Haytham has stood up to round the desk and lean against it, broad arms crossing his chest as he narrows his unimpressed gaze down at you. Had your eyes closed? 

“I wasn’t. M’eyes were just resting,” you sniff, turn your nose up, and shift your resting position once more to fight the grogginess out your body, “you big British—”

Haytham cocks his head warningly. Go on.

“—brute.”

He snorts. “Charming. And what does that make you, lying over my lounge like a discarded coat?” 

“Why, your very own brilliant genius, Master Kenway,” you say, sagely, to which Haytham had rolled his eyes and resisted from replying with, I don’t want you to be my very own anything. (Because, well. Hadn’t he just said he doesn’t make a habit of lying?) 

“Right. Where were we? We’ve gathered they still use a mixture of rotating keys and mask letters,” you revise drowsily, reaching for your most promising endeavour yet: a suspicious letter about some vessel coming in from the Johor Sultanate. “And they usually send these through separate couriers, so I’ve been trying to do the guesswork on which might match,” you explain. “But that also means there’s a good chance the letter hasn’t even been sent— if we’re lucky, and we can intercept it— or worse, already been received, read, and destroyed.”

“Have any of these been checked for Sympathetic Stain yet?” Haytham asks, flipping through some of your transcribed material. The stain only reacts to direct heat; gaps in the leaves of pamphlets and reports could easily reveal hidden messages between the lines. 

“Shay was supposed to work on that,” you sigh, rubbing your eyes. “I’ll get to it. I hardly think he’ll understand the cursive anyway.”

“I’ll tell him you said that,” Haytham threatens mildly, before sliding a lit candle close to his side to assume Shay’s abandoned duty. “A shame. It was rather nice knowing you.”

“Watch yourself, Master Kenway,” you parrot, amused. “That sounded dangerously like a compliment.”

“I— tolerate you,” amends Haytham, meanly. But there’s that low, doting laugh of yours that he can’t help but find himself lingering over again. It fills up the hush of the room. Echoes in his mind. 

“Well, Shay’s self-aware, anyway; so he won’t kill me for saying that,” you dismiss. “I, ah, don’t know the word for it…”

Hm? You hear the Grandmaster hum. And even with your eyes trained to your papers, you can imagine the lift of his brows as clearly as you can hear the invitation in his voice to continue your story. 

“When we were younger, Shay always complained that the alphabet would switch places whenever he reads,” you recall. “He could read perfectly fine, ofcourse. Just… took a little more time than usual. But, well, you know how kids are. They gave him a hard time over it.”

“I’m assuming you were one of those kids, given your character.”

“On the contrary,” you scoff, feigning offense. “I defended him. It was mostly—” Liam, you catch yourself. The grief of losing him is still far too near, even after all this time. He’d also been a childhood friend. There’s no such thing as knowing Shay Cormac without knowing Liam O’brien. “—other kids,” you soften.

Haytham glances at you. 

Your elbow is propped against the armrest, fidgeting with the edge of a document; there, but not really. Your eyes are half-mast and shadowed by the firelight, distant in some memory he isn’t privy to. “You should retire for the night,” he says, finally. “You’re no use to me half-dead like a damsel in distress, after all.”

“One last paragraph,” you insist, shaking your head stubbornly. And he knows you’re truly tired now, because you hadn’t even bothered to bite back at his attempt to provoke you. “Then I’m done for the night.”

He says your proper name. Your heart stumbles over itself. “Go now,” he asserts, “before I make it an order.”

“No.”

“Mind yourself,” Haytham snaps, to no avail. You know him too well— well enough to read when he was genuinely upset by your penchant for insubordination and overstepping.

“You’ll have to drag me out here yourself like you threatened before,” you volley, flicking through your dog-eared pages busily, “or write me a formal decree, as Templar Grand Master.”

“I’m not going to do anything,” he says, frostily. But he eats his words when you finally set your quill pen down your table, and hand him the suspicious letter from earlier. “What’s this?”

“A terribly insipid report about some Dutch shipment coming in from the East Indies. I reckon there’s something else hidden at the space where the signature borders,” you nod to the candle as he moves to activate the stain. “It might be a key or atleast give meaning to one of our dozen useless decryptions. Read it out.”

(He glares at you over the blatant demand, to which you’d courteously added a humble “Please and thank you, Master Kenway” immediately after.)

-- To the Esteemed Officers of the British-American Trade Commission… Haytham skims the text. It reads out like the humdrum routine of a ship’s manifest, listing numbered figures and commercial cargo: Chinese textiles and silk, Singaporean porcelainware marked for auction, Indian spices meant for export, and other trades and assorted goods from neighboring countries. There’s nothing out of the ordinary at all; remarkably unremarkable.

“Ah. Here we go,” Haytham says, when the true script had finally revealed itself. “To you, my Brother,” he begins to read out:

“ ‘I’ve planted three of our finest to guard it— you shall know them when you see them— and have already arranged with our informant the finer details of this operation. Worry not and ensure only the hand-off shall take place smoothly. The Fortuyn will arrive in time for you, and will be there waiting to depart with you aboard once all is said and done with the deal.’ ”

“Signed by… no one. Ofcourse. How painfully theatrical,” Haytham adds, and skips over the last line of the message deliberately: ‘Nothing is True; Everything is Permitted.’

The Grandmaster turns to rifle through his desk of useless Assassin-ledgers before pulling out the sketch Shay managed to swipe along during the mission. “I assume the ‘it’ mentioned is yet another artifact. A piece of Eden the Assassin’s intend to get their hands on,” he muses aloud. “Troubling. The Fortuyn would’ve already docked by now. I can send for Gist to see what he can gather from the Harbour Master.”

He turns to address you. “In the meantime, I don’t suppose any of your decryptions have mentioned a hand-off date or location? Perhaps a possible name for said informan…”

The Grandmaster trails off.

You’ve— fallen asleep.

Soundly.

Lullabied by the crackle of the small office hearth, the calming tick of the desk clock, and the lilting croon of Haytham Kenway’s smooth-stone voice.

“Ofcourse,” he declares, bluntly. But a small part of him had instinctively mellowed his voice to not rouse you. He decides not to ruminate on why. “I thought I told you not to dare sleeping in my office?” he mutters.

No answer, still. Pure exhaustion has finally caught up to you, rendering you boneless with relaxation in your disarrayed bird-nest of papers and handwritten scrawls. What an insufferable woman you are, he wants to chastise, despite the alarming warmth demanding to bloom somewhere in his ribcage at the damning sight and unspoken implication: 

You felt safe around Haytham.

You trust him. Wholeheartedly. Enough to drop your defenses, it seems. How foolish. How—

—at home you look, Haytham concludes the second time that night, listening to your slow and evened out, susurrus breaths. (Soft, subdued, serene.)

You’ve curled into yourself like an oversized cat, seemingly warding the chill of the Winter that’s seeped into the bones of the office by tucking close as humanly possible. Loose papers threaten to slip through your slackened grip, and the lorgnette you’d been using has already tumbled its way silently to the carpet floor. 

“I ought to oust you for this utter display of unprofessionalism,” he grumbles uselessly, and strides towards you with half the mind of jolting you awake. (He doesn’t, ofcourse. That would’ve been ridiculous.) 

For once, you don’t look like you have a sharp retort for him; your lashes are fluttered down to your cheeks in a dreamless sleep, and your peaceful face is swathed in a chiaroscuro of shadow and the dwindling firelight. You look, as much as he refuses to allow himself it, as stunningly graceful as a baroque painting. 

Haytham blinks away and exhales. Ignores the thrum of… something, in his chest. 

Distraction from it comes with slowly cleaning up the mess of your making: He puts himself to action and moves in complete silence, light-handed as he delicately removes the papers between your fingers, gathering up the remains of your hard work into stacks, where he sets them all under a paperweight on his desk. Then the candlelights and oil lamps are put out one by one, lorgnette kept away, and the tea table returned soundlessly back to its designated spot. 

In the aftermath of his time-consuming tidying, Haytham spares a minute more by your side, lingering. 

You’ll sleep yourself stiff, here, he debates to wake you. You’ll wake with a crick in your neck tomorrow that’ll end up with you complaining to me the entire day about. Maybe you’ll make sleeping here a terrible habit; or claim I’ve overworked your dear-old-self into exhaustio—

A lock of your hair is tickling the apple of your cheek. 

He could brush it off. He could. You’re already deep in your sleep, and you haven’t stirred an inch.

Haytham’s hand twitches.

“Gone soft, Master Kenway?”

He straightens up so quickly he might’ve gotten whiplash. 

“…Nice of you to finally join us, Cormac,” Haytham censures, clearing his throat as his face sets back to something unreadable. He doesn’t deign to ask how long he must’ve been standing there. “Your ‘darling, dearest’ here has succumbed. Make yourself useful and collect her, why don’t you?”

“My dearest, aye?” Shay raises his brows. He hasn’t yet been able to drop that knowing tone in his voice. “I wouldn’t wake her if I were you, though,” he cautions, before Haytham can fill in the pause by berating him, “it’s more trouble than it’s worth. Hell hath no fury like a woman woken up from her slumber, y’know? An’ your dearest is no ordinary woman, either.”

“Your dearest,” the Grandmaster corrects, sternly.

Shay glances at you. More specifically— 

At Haytham’s cloak that’s curiously been draped over you.

“Aye, Master Kenway,” he smirks, innocently. “S’what I said, no?”

[midnight1nk]

Hi!

I've seen a few of your posts mentioning a speech color theory and I really wanna know what it's about cause it seems very interesting!.. Hey hey can you tell me more? 🥺...

⭐

Hello, anon!!

Alright, for those who don't know what anon's referring to, after the review I've done for the latest episode, I mentioned the "3's Color Text" theory. Here I'll leave the links to the OG

I'll leave links for the OG post from Shay [X] and one from Funkii adding on to it [X], with some screenshot examples for the visual people. A bit of a disclaimer, this isn't my theory, and I wanna give the proper credit, so please check these posts out!! Share some love and be mindful to not spam likes.

I'm merely just a theorist and certainly not the only one, but I do wanna give my two cents on this. I'll go ahead and sum it up for yall:

For context, the color outline used for 3's subtitles has been inconsistent. Now, the possible logical answers would be that each of the editors used a different shade of blue, or it's just so 3's black subtitles could be seen against the video itself. Clear visual contrast is certainly a priority for any production. Within a fandom, it is speculated that the color determines how much 3 is willing to show his true self; the lighter and brighter the blue it is, the more genuine he is being, which usually is when he breaks out of his "evil" persona and/or out of his own will.

I think it's fun theory, considering how I love that kinda shit. We're all aware of 3 and how he tries to keep up with appearances, we know that he actually cares for the Crew. Strong fronts and all, so I think it's absolutely brilliant that we're able to tell the difference through speech if it was intentional. His words absolutely matter, especially bc of his redemption.

Here, I picked out some example screenshots from the latest episodes (and well, whatever I got on my desktop). I tried the best I could to align the colors from "persona" 3 to true 3:

And uh. y'know me *cough cough*

🥹

It's probably the editor option realistically, I'll admit, but it's kinda like a fun game when you're looking back at previous episodes. Gotta love 3 for being a trouble maker with a hidden heart, he cares deep down. Truly the type of guy that would stand by "be gay, do crime >:)"

thanks for the ask, anon!

[dxmurei]

shai looks like the kinda guy who cries during sex tbh

vinyl i know that’s you and i know you know the answer

[jamiedc-they-them]

Blood and Water (Platonic)

Requested Imagine: "can i request a Stilgar x child reader? basically Child reader (8 years old) escapes into the desert with their parents because the harkonens are hutning them down, (reader and their parents left the city because readers parents found a weak spot in the citys foundation that can lead to a rebellion or something like that), the harkonens catch up and readers parents stay behind to give reader time to escape, child reader does and escapes into the rocky mountains but one harkonen catches the reader and thats when Stilgar saves child reader and he is instantly protective of this little child and starts acting like a father to child reader.

if that is okay!!"

AN// Hi Anon! I hope you enjoy this piece! It's quite a long one and spiralled into it tying into Dune Parts I and II, but the central focus is still Stilgar and R's bond! I also had Chani be there as well due to the Tribe as a whole. Thank you for the request! <3

SPOILERS FOR DUNE PART II

Your parents raised you well. They taught you about the Harkonnens and their violent oppression of you and your people. They told you, as well, about the Fremen – in terms of different beliefs and territories.

You were young, about 8 when they died. You were forced to flee when your parents were discovered. Word got to them from friends, but you weren’t quick enough. Your mother held your hand tightly as you ran, your father already had stayed behind. But, despite your age, you know what it means that the Harkonnen’s are still behind you.

He’s died.

Your mother gets you to an exit, a small gap you used to crawl through when younger with friends. Friends you haven’t seen in a while. Maybe they’re dead, too.

“You have to go,” your mother tells you, cupping your face in her hands, “you have to live.”

“What about you?” You ask back, tears running down your face.

Your mother wipes your tears, “do not shed your water, my child,” she says, “not even for the dead.”

“Will – will I see you —?” You don’t get to answer your question, as a knife is stabbed through your mother’s chest. You fall back, on instinct diving through the hole in the wall. A hand grabs you, you just about escape the grip.

You’re out now. Out of a Arrakeen and in the desert itself. You immediately feel the heat, not used to being exposed to it so bluntly.

You hear something above you, an Ornithopter. You can’t outrun these, you’ve seen how fast they can go.

Still, as fast your legs will take you, you run. You run for all the worth that your water has.

You don’t even feel the vibrations on the sand at first. To you, it’s just the vibrations from the Ornithopter above. That is, until you hear it. The low shriek of your god. Of Shai-Hulud, bursting out of the sand, and taking the Ornithopter down.

You don’t even realise how far you have actually made it, making it a rocky hill. Your distraction of the Sandworm appearing means that you don’t see the Harkonnen’s still chasing you on foot, and you find yourself being tackled to the floor. You feel your head hit something, and the world becomes a blur. You try and fight back, but with the disorientation alongside your age and size, you can only wait for the end.

Maybe some Fremen can find some use with your water, maybe that would be useful in some way.

You get your wish, sort of.

You hear voices, and clashing of blades. Then, for a moment, silence.

You fade in and out. You feel yourself being carried.

When you reopen your eyes, you’re in what your parents told you is a Sietch. You never thought you’d see one.

“Calm, child. Calm,” you hear a voice say. You look over, seeing man much older than one you have ever seen. He wears a robe, eyes blue. His voice is deep, but soft in this case, “you are safe now. You are safe.”

You look around your area, seeing no one else, but beds are here all the same.

The man seems to see your silent question, “I brought you here to rest peacefully.”

You nod, thankful in a way.

The man gets up, he holds a hand out to you, “when you are ready, join us.”

He leaves after that. You sit in your bed. You feel the emotion inside of you for the losses you have just gone through, through everything that just occurred so quickly.

But, your mother was right, don’t waste your water. You can grieve for them by fighting back. By continuing it.

You join the man, but instead find this place filled to the brim with other people. Other Fremen. Some dressed differently than others, but maybe that was just the difference between the north and south Fremen tribes your parents told you about. You never fully understood how they knew this though, given that you lived (lived is a strong word, more like just about survived) in the city under the thumb of the Harkonnen’s.

The people stop, and stare at you.

You hear a girl clear her throat, she looks at you – almost doing calculations in her mind – before turning to the group, “Stilgar,” she calls out.

The crowd part as the man from before, now known to you as Stilgar, approaches you.

“Are you well, child?”

You nod. He does as well.

“Come. Chani,” the girl who was looking at you before looks to Stilgar, “fetch the child some food, please?”

She nods, silently going to do so.

Stilgar puts a hand on your shoulder, “come child. There is a lot to discuss.”

Despite your young age, he treats you like a person rather than a young child. Part of you likes that.

He takes you to a corner as everyone starts to eat. Chani hands you some food, before going to join her friends.

“Don’t mind Chani,” Stilgar says, “she is weary of new-comers. She will ease to you with time.”

You nod. You know it’s supposed to be comforting, but it just once again reminds you of your parents.

Stilgar sighs, putting his bowl down and looking at you, “you will be safe with us.”

“My parents…their water…”

“Arrakeen is not a place so easily entered. But, if we can, we shall try and retrieve what we can. We did that with the Harkonnen’s you had following you. It was contaminated, but it does still have uses.”

You nod, at least they got something out of this.

“Why were you so close to the city?”

Stilgar is impressed. Young, but inquisitive.

“We did not mean to be,” he admits, “we heard commotion, and saw Shai-Hulud, so followed and found you.”

“Thank you.”

“No need to thank us. You are Fremen, we are all equal here.”

You look around at these people, your people. You are such a small part of a massive place.

“My parents fought back against the Harkonnen’s,” Stilgar nods, seemingly knowing this, “do you think I could help?”

He smiles and nods, “we will show you the ways of the desert.”

He does. They all do. Chani starts to learn how to fight, and so Stilgar has her be the one who teaches you the most. You’re both decently close in age, so it allows you both to know someone else as well in the tribe.

Stilgar also teaches you about the prophecy and legends that are more so within the southern tribes. About Lisan Al-Giab (or “The Voice From the Outer World”). One who will come down and lead you all to victory and bring Arrakis back to glory.

You notice more about the divide between the North and South tribes in regards to this one time when you are training with Chani:

“Stilgar keeps telling me about the Lisan Al-Giab,” you say, as you and Chani lock training blades.

“It’s superstition. A prophecy all about control and imbalance. A story.”

“How can you be so sure?” You don’t entirely believe it yourself – despite the hope it can give you sometimes, that all this isn’t for nothing – and yet you find yourself defending your closest companion here despite that.

Even Chani notices that within you, “how can you be that you this person will show up?”

It stays with you. However, despite that, you remain close to Stilgar. He teaches you all he can, both through action – like helping you craft your Cysknife or learning the ways to traverse the Dunes without alerting the Worms – and words – telling you about the Fremen ways and legends passed down through time.

He makes sure you’re fed, and always helps you with your Stillsuit, making sure it is secure. If he has to fix something with it, he explains what the error is. With food and water, if he has any spare, he gives it to you. He’s a guiding figure in your life. He is the one who took you in after all. He’s taught you all he’s known. He’s given you something you once thought lost:

A family.

That family all cheers for you when you successfully ride a Sandworm on your own. It’s not massive, but it’s big enough. Stilgar hugs you tightly, and proudly proclaims you as his child, and a sibling of the tribe. The tribe had always teased him for the fatherly ways he had with you, but now it was done in a genuine way. They all celebrate you that night.

Before you know it, several years have gone by. You have fought back how you can. Sometimes big things, like destroying Carryall’s or Harvesters in big assaults, or by eliminating a squad of Harkonnen’s.

Stilgar, as time goes on, still holds that protectiveness, but also knows you can hold your own. You’re equal. Father and child, working in sync, both learning from each other – him in terms of your creativity and your thoughts on the planet and plans (being equals, all opinions are taken in, but your ones are ones they listen to more). For you, it’s learning how to survive and about your people and the history of this planet. Sometimes it's found by what other Fremen have left behind, sometimes it’s stories from him.

Then you all meet someone new: Paul and Jessica Atreides.

Stilgar looks to you and Chani – you’re weary of this outsider, but if he wins against Jamis, then he has earned his place.

“Why did I never have to fight?” You asked Stilgar as Jamis and Paul prepare.

“Because, I took you as my charge,” Stilgar answers, “you were my child when I chose that. I am also Niab, no one could challenge me on it, either.”

You don’t waste your water, but he can tell it has meaning to you. He just gives a nod.

Paul wins his battle. You don’t acknowledge it until it’s too late, but you feel something shift within your father.

At first, Paul and Jessica follow you for mere survival. But, things soon start to change, especially Jamis’ water is collected. Jessica drinks the water of life and…survives; and Paul starts picking up on more and more Fremen techniques like they were his own.

Stilgar starts to drift away from you. He still cares about you and checks in with you everything, but you can feel him pulling away.

Even Chani, your closest friend in the tribe, begins to pull away. But, she doesn’t believe as much within Lisan Al-Giab as she does instead Paul himself and his ability to help you all

One night, when you sit on a Dune, looking out at your home planet, she joins you.

“Something’s different, Chani,” you confess.

“I know,” she says, “but they can help us.”

“Your love for Paul blinds you.”

“And your loyalty to Stilgar blinds you.”

“We are Fremen, Chani. We are family and tribe. He is — he is not.”

“He will be Fremen. Tomorrow.”

You don’t hate Paul, he’s listened to you and helped you – it’s Jessica, the Bene Gesserit Witch, that you don’t trust. She’s pulling strings, you just can’t see them.

“I’m sorry,” you say to your best friend, “I’m not angry at you.”

“I know,” she says, “I’m not angry at your or Stilgar. Well, maybe Stil a little,” you chuckle a bit, “but, he loves you, Y/N. He loves all of us. He’s our Niab, he won’t let anything happen to us.”

You nod, “I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

Chani understands your concerns but doesn’t voice them (she wishes she did later).

The night before Paul’s Sandworm test, you go and find Stilgar.

“What troubles you, child?” He asks. Despite being in your teens now, he still refers to you that way. A reminder of the home you always have with him.

“I’m worried for Paul,” and you, you want to say, but can’t find it in yourself to say it.

Stilgar nods, “I am too. But, I was when I also sent you out on your own ride, and the other tests. But, you survived, and so shall he.”

“How can you be sure?”

“He is Lisan Al-Giab.”

“But I am not.”

His eyes dart to you, “no, you are not. You are my child. You have my knowledge, but your own strength. It was why you have survived.”

Despite the growing distance, you smile at his words.

The day of Paul’s ride comes, and even your eyes widen at the size of the worm. Even you cheer when he masters it in the end. Even you, for a moment, believe. But, you then look to your father, and how wide his eyes are. How taken he is by this legend, by the faith he had in this story; in what the rewards would be in the end.

Your smile dims a bit.

Paul wants revenge? Understandable, so do you for your parents and all other fallen Fremen – but, with the influence Paul is having over your tribe, with the followers he is gathering and the army he is building up in his name alone of Maud’dib  - or, more importantly, Lisan Al-Giab – it scares you. You want freedom and revenge, but you also want to know what would be next. This freedom is for your people, not Paul. He’s even reuniting with people, Gurney Halleck, a brilliant fighter and musician. But, once again, another outsider. This one not even proving himself, just following.

And then you find the old cache of Atreides atomic weapons. A weapon you thought banned in the universe. And yet, here you are, capturing them for you own use.

You don’t know who to turn to with your worries, your fears. Everyone has been taken in by Paul and Jessica, even Gurney. Chani, you don’t know if she is completely blinded by her love, but she hasn’t voiced anything to you yet, so you can’t be sure.

For the first time since you were 8 and on the run, you feel alone. Totally alone.

Or, not totally alone, as Chani slaps Paul as soon as he wakes after drinking from the Water of Life, and the only person she looks to is you before she leaves. She’s as alone as you are. Two people caught up in this madness.

The straw that breaks you is the Southern Tribes being forced to meet after Sietch Tabr falls. You’re glad your father gets to live, don’t get that misunderstood – but you aren’t sure if the person you are begging to see reason and stop what Paul is about to do is the man who took you in and gave you a family and a home all those years ago. You plead, even shouting “father!” To him loudly, startling the other Fremen and even almost getting yourself kicked out. It’s Gurney, of all people, who pull you down alongside Chani.

“Stay hidden, and stay quiet,” he tells you both. Chani removes his hand from your arm.

“This has nothing to do with you,” Chani spits to him.

According to him though, with his thirst for revenge, and a scar he was given, it has everything to do with him.

Paul is declared leader, officially becoming Lisan Al-Giab – all you and Chani can do is dispear and look on in horror.

When it comes to the battle plans, Paul interrupts you before you can even speak, telling you:

“I do like the idea, Y/N, I am glad you told it to me,” his vision must’ve shown him your ideas. Thus, in the meeting, you are left to be mute.

You play your role, just being in the mix of the soldiers. Everything the tribe has taught you with combat and awareness coming into play. It helps you focus. You don’t have any training of a Bene Gesserit witch, but you have your methods.

You picture each Harkonnen you kill being the ones who murdered your parents. You like to image all their water being embraced by Shia-Hulud and the sand.

You win. And all it comes down to is Paul vs Feyd-Rautha. Despite your fears, this is all your efforts have led to. You want Paul to win, but a lesser evil is still evil.

Paul does. Barely, but he wins. You see Chani’s relief. Your father proclaims once more that Paul is Lisan Al-Giab, and kneels. Everyone else follows, even the Emperor after kissing Paul’s ring.

Only yourself, Chani, and Princess Irulan stay standing.

Paul looks to you both, respect and something else in his eyes when he looks to you.

You look to your father, seeing him begging with his eyes for you to kneel. You see the horror there of what could happen to you. The care he shows once again there, but it’s too late now.

Your mind is already made up, however. Whatever happens, it will be because of your choices. Not faith. Not some false hope.

“You will come back,” Paul says, “one day, you will.”

You leave. Chani leaves after you.

You keep walking, ignoring Chani calling after you.

You love her, you do. She’s your best friend and sister. You love Stilgar, he’s your father. But you can’t be around this. You can’t sit and watch this ‘Holy War’ go on. You may be a victim of it due to your leaving. You don’t care.

You’re an orphan once again, it seems. Cast away to the unforgiving deserts of Dune. You’ve just traded in one ruler for another.

You hope you’re wrong. You don’t think you are, but you hope you are.

And maybe Paul is right; maybe one day, you will return.

But not today. And not for many more days.

You’ll see your father again though, you’re sure of that.

In one world, or the other.

So, you thank the Maker and bless them for Stilgar and the family it brought you, and then get your hooks ready and place a thumper of your own down and wait.

Wait to ride off to your next destination.

As far away from Arrakeen as you can possibly get.

You don’t shed a tear. You don’t waste your water. Not even for the dead, metaphorically or otherwise.

[uninformedartist]

did't your friend chai Use shays death to bash viv Even though shays doc said not too And didn't your friend chai Even make a OOF joke about shays death. If you're gonna talk about disgusting behavior start with your friends first darling

Firstly Chai is not my friend, same circle & thats the critical community but not friends, I don't mean this harshly its just a fact sure Chai or anyone else would agree. Interaction or just being in the same circles doesn't automatically equate friendship to me at least. Anyway also all I've seen of Chai is this what I post below anon which to me is very sincere & heartfelt actually on Shay's death & other messages of condolences. Where is this oof joke anon, if you're going to talk please bring evidence I would like to know.

Again not friends & don't call me darling you're creepy doing so.

Also if you're Official_TVC, sup its been a displeasure answering this.

[shays-shitposts]

ur youtube channel is the best btw i love your edits :3

thank you! :D

[klanced]

Hey Katie! What are ur fav and least favourite bits of law school? Also which of the vld gang do u think would become lawyers, I could see allura, lance and maybe shiro

Hope u have a good day!!!! no pressure to answer this if u don't feel like it <33333

you're a sweetheart anon. i'm always happen to (slowly) answer questions about law school, especially people who are considering applying :)

Favorite parts of law school:

I'm going to be real with you guys, I am a dork-ass nerd who enjoys spending hours studying and reading so law school is like heaven for me lol

I just really enjoy being a law student. I like that I'm tangibly working towards my lifelong goal of becoming a lawyer. I like that the material I'm learning is really challenging, because I enjoy the challenge and putting in the effort to really learn and understand something.

This is less law school-specific, but I really love living as an independent adult in the city, with all the perks that come with being a graduate student. Between my social life and academic life, this is the most functional I have ever been lmao

Least favorite parts:

The networking events. God. Both the professional networking events and the law school body events. I hate being a person who is perceived and I also hate drinking around strangers. Fortunately I don't have to go to that many mixers because those events are more for big law/corporate law people, whereas I'm in public interest. But sometimes I force myself to go because it is a really good idea to meet other established lawyers in my field, especially as I start thinking about post-grad jobs. it always sucks though. I met the highest-ranked judges in my state the other day, which was cool

Job-Hunting. It feels like I am always job-hunting. I am applying right now for internships for NEXT SUMMER. I have sent out so many cover letters. I have scheduled so many interviews. Fortunately I've discovered that I actually like interviews and I'm apparently insanely great at them, I think law school has turned me into a sociopath.

I am so stressed all the time omfg. The worst part is that a lot of this stress is my own damn fault (I do way too many things lmfao) but I have SO MANY white hairs now whyyyyyyyyyyy :sobs: :sobs: (narrator voice: she did this to herself)

--

Re: the Voltron cast. Allura is definitely the most clear-cut choice for who would become a lawyer. I can see Lance and Shiro leaning towards careers in law as well, but I have no idea what kind of law they would practice lol. I also think Veronica and Nadia would make great lawyers. And my final dark horse nomination: I can see Shay practicing environmental law.

[shaykesqueer]

IRT that plush post, I'm pretty sure you can make a post unrebloggable in the meatball menu.

Oh hey I think that worked!

LIFESAVER, thanks nonny! ❤️

[teecupangel]

Disabled Desmond anon again. Thank you for always answering my asks! This was the Arno fanart I talked about, btw.

https://www.tumblr.com/hard-times-paramore/760437096902246400/disabled-arno-dorian-everyone-my-fanarts-have-me?source=share

I was also thinking about Shay. He's also disabled, because he was hinted at having brain damage after his failed Leap of Faith from that cliff. I don't think he fully healed from that.

If all the playable assassins had disabilities, what do you think they'd be? And how would they adapt?

Ngl, I can’t think of anything but Arno in a wheelchair thanks to @hard-times-paramore’s art (same link as what nonny gave)

I also think that Altaïr being colorblind would be an interesting idea. Especially if we add in that the reason why he uses Eagle Vision a lot is because that’s the only time he can actually see colors.

For the other Assassins, I remember that @sharonz-arty-corner03 was making a document fic about disabilities in AC? Maybe you’d be interested in that, nonny :)