#I'm so... poetic

[dixidin]

And you still haven't responded to most the stuff I've answered from you

@sinnlos-star everyone's so mean 2 me sometimes....☹️

[vaguely-concerned]

the strength it must have taken for illario to not immediately go full 'lmao since when have you even had a kiss hello lucanis' sibling violence mode during the café talk. inspirational. rook and lucanis really were doing all that right in front of his salad huh

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Daddy, don't go.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[hatsbuckets]

[i do not need a fwb situation, i tell myself repeatedly. (i'm in college it'd be way too easy lmao)]

Head Canons (some suggestive stuff in this but not much)

Thinking about John Mactavish volunteering at animal shelters whenever he can. It ends up being like a few spattering of days every month, but he'll spend all day there. He loves being around the animals. And he loves getting to be useful and help wherever he can.

You, a longtime volunteer, there nearly every day, love having the enthusiastic, charming... strong... muscular... funny... extra help too. You were the one who showed John around on his first day, a volunteer event day that he happened upon. A few dozen people showed up, and this mohawked, military man was among them.

He was one of the few who came back to the shelter after the event, and on some random day every week, he's there to lend a hand, listening intently to whatever instructions you give him (he's very motivated to listen to you and help the animals out) and even after a couple weeks of absence, he comes back again, apologizing that work took him away so suddenly.

And after a few months... this silly, mohawked, (might I add effortlessly charming, handsome, pretty?) military man's scattering of volunteer days has become a welcome surprise every time. He's always so sweet when he talks to you, throwing a friendly, "good mornin', love. Survive without me?" Carrying on easy conversation throughout the day, and occasionally something that feels like flirting, but you don't read too much into it.

He's a blessing to have. Dogs need a run? He's the first to grab their leashes. Cats' litter boxes need cleaning? He's there with a scoop in hand. The small collection of rodents' pens need a new layer of bedding? He's already headed to storage.

He comes back drenched in sweat from runs, his tank plastered to his chest. Sweaty thighs peeking out from below his shorts as he squats down to pet the happy, panting dogs. And you pass him a towel, and his smile just beams up at you. God he's adorable and hot all at once.

His arms flex against his shirt sleeves when he hefts the heavy bags of food up onto his shoulder and god if only he'd do that that you.

His hands are so gentle with the tiny new litter of cats that just came in, helping you clean them off and place them safely into the crate with their mum. need I say more

You learn more about each other. Where he's from, what he does for work, and of course you'd pinned military, but he doesn't quite go into the work that he does. He talks about the men he works with, and you start to recognize names like Price, Gaz, and Ghost. He even shows you pictures of the first two. Not the latter though.

And then another few weeks he's not there... You're starting to miss the loud Scottish voice that normally fills the space as you hose down the concrete patio in the back the shelter. Your thoughts drift to how last time you did this with him he had sprayed you very intentionally with the hose. And you nearly tackled him to wrap your soaking body around him. His hand discarding the hose and wrapping under your legs as he hoists you happily up into his arms and oh you were so close, laughing, smiling, teasing about getting soaked. You were definitely blushing as much as he was.

a couple of days later, just like he'd never left, he's back, helping you organize the larger storage closet. Sharing jokes and teasing. Until you have to reach across him and his face is so close to yours and he completes the distance, catching you oh so off guard but you melt into that kiss. and he presses and prods until your job to reorganize is interrupted by the sudden to fuck each other into the next dimension.

and then a few days later it's the same... You had simply gone to grab a new leash from the closet... he had come for a bag of dog food... or that's what he'd told you at least...

And then your bodies are close, his hand at the back of your neck, your hand travelling down and down, his mouth on yours, hot, needy, quick, and amazing. You're both happy to do it. And it seems you both don't think much of it.

This becomes a routine, in his oh too few volunteer days each month, you make a habit of occupying small, mostly private spaces of the shelter, the small break room, the storage closet, his car, your car. It's only been two or three months, and it's not like it's a big shelter, not that many employees, but damn if it doesn't excite you all the same.

And then after one of these sessions, as you're slipping you shirt on in the back of your car, he pecks a tender kiss to the corner of your mouth. "I'll be gone a few weeks this time, bonnie. Jus' though' I might warn ya." (his accent gets thicker when it's laced with lust, you've come to notice.)

And he is, gone a while, that is. And during this time one of your old flings comes to town... some business trip... and God is this one always a good time, so charming and kind, buys you chocolates and all, a good person truly, just not one to settle down. That's fine by you. So, you let them take you home, let them in your bed, and have a good time. And then they head back to whatever the hell fancy job they have in whatever town they live in now.

It's longer than you expect before John comes back. And when he does, he greets you with that charming smile and you put him to work almost immediately, and he's happy to get to cleaning the dog kennels with you. You get to talking, he asks how your past few weeks have been. And John is so easy to talk to. And you mention your old friend you visited, how they visited your home, even bought you chocolates, the goof. But John gets quiet at this... you don't mention it, not yet...

And then of course, he walks you out to your car that afternoon and of course you end up in the back of it (I should mention here that you do not own a small car, after being the animal lover you are, you need the space to load crates in the back seat) and something about how John takes you this time is needy, needier, possesive in the way he nips at your skin and presses against you.

And at the end of it, he leaves with the same gentle peck at the corner of your mouth, but this time there's no quip, no tease, just a "drive safe" and a gentle smile...

A few days later this man returns to the shelter and before he even asks what needs to get done, he's offering up a small box of chocolates with a bashful little smile.

You thank him and accept the chocolates. and then it's back to work. That evening though, after a particularly long day after getting three new dogs and a new cat, when John walks you to your car, you ask if he wants to go home with you. You'd thought about it all day... somewhere between cleaning and intaking the new animals, mustering up the courage to ask. He accepts with that same enthusiasm that the dogs have when someone walks in with their leashes.

You wake up tangled in him, his arm slung heavy over your waist, his chest warm against your back, one leg thrown over yours like he’s actively trying to wrestle you into the mattress in his sleep. And this man sleeps light, military training and all, but the second you start shifting to sneak out of bed, his grip tightens. "Where ya goin’, love?" all rough morning voice and sleep-heavy slur, nose nudging against your shoulder like he could just sink right back into you and stay there. (You do not go anywhere.)

And things stay the same, mostly. He still only comes around every few weeks, still volunteers, still fills the shelter with that chaotic, obnoxious, charming energy. Still gets drenched in sweat from running the dogs, still lifts those massive bags of food onto his shoulders like he’s personally showing off for you (and he is), still sneaks off into the storage closet with you when no one’s looking, grinning against your mouth before pressing you up against the nearest shelf.

But then, one evening, right as you're closing up the shelter, he lingers by the front desk. Hands shoved deep in his pockets. That telltale shift of weight from foot to foot like he's got something rattling around in his skull, something he's been turning over for a while now.

"Was thinkin'..." He exhales sharply, rubs a hand over the back of his neck, looking down at his boots like they’ve got the answers. "I've gotta go again, but maybe next time I’m back, we go out somewhere. A proper date, aye?"

And fuck. That shouldn’t make your stomach flip. But it does. You should say yes. You want to say yes. But you don't.

Because life is a cruel and petty little bastard, your old fling had waltzed back into town. Just for you. A familiar, easy thing. The kind of person you don’t have to think about too much. And for some reason, you say yes when they ask you to dinner. Maybe because you don’t want to wait for something uncertain. Maybe because John is John—flirty, gorgeous, disgustingly good at making you weak in the knees, but never around long enough for you to be sure. (And John doesn't show it, not outwardly, but it breaks his heart.)

And then John comes back. Finally. And he’s not alone. There is a mountain standing next to him. Big. Broad. Dressed head to toe in dark clothes and hoodie like he’s ready for spying, the lower half of his face covered by a black medical mask. He looks like he could crush a man with one hand and still have fingers left to spare. And his eyes, dark, cold, sharp as a fucking blade, land on you like he’s personally offended by your existence. Oh. Oh, this must be Ghost.

John, completely unfazed, grins. “Ghost wanted to see what all the fuss was about.” Ghost says nothing. Just stares. (You have never felt more judged in your life. The fuck did you do to make this walking fortress glare at you like that? You know he doesn’t know. There’s no way he knows. Right?)

And things go back to normal, kind of. John keeps showing up, keeps doing his usual thing. But there’s something off this time. A shift in the way he looks at you, something quietly considering behind his eyes. It all comes to a head one evening when you’re closing up together, standing in the back room trying to fix a shelving issue. He’s quiet. You’re quiet.

And then, you break first. Spill it out like you didn’t mean to—how your old fling wasn’t what you thought, how you shouldn’t have agreed in the first place, how you let yourself get caught up in something easy instead of something real. And John? He leans back against the counter, arms crossed, listening, nodding along like he’s already pieced this all together. Until you mutter, "And I don’t even fucking like chocolate."

And that is what makes him pause. And his brows pull together. Just a little. And then, in the softest, most John way possible—"...Oh."

And the next time he walks into the shelter, it’s not with chocolates.

It’s with a small paper bag. He hands it to you with a little smirk, and inside.

Fresh strawberries. From the farmer’s stand down the road. You’d only mentioned them once. Some passing comment made one day while you were both cleaning up in the yard outside. And John had remembered. And with a charming little smile, he takes your hand. "Let me take ya out properly." And you blink up at him, caught off guard by how easy, how simple he makes it sound. "I—yeah."

And yes, you go on that date. And yes, you end up back at your place. And yes, you have a very, very good night.

And yes, eventually, John introduces you to Ghost properly. (and Price and Gaz too, ah John and Kyle.)

And yes, somehow, someway, you end up with not just one, but two terrifyingly strong military men helping out at the shelter—John still enthusiastically doing everything he can, and Ghost looming in the doing every little thing you ask without question, surprisingly good with the most feral old cats, somehow terrifying and begrudgingly helpful all at once. (He makes it a point to lift two bags of dog food for every one John carries. Jesus Christ)

And yes, eventually, Ghost ends up in your bed too.

But that’s another story.

Thanks for reading.

[thecorvidrotation]

HAPPY WHITE BOY JUMPSCARE WEDNESDAY here's my report from Maggie Stiefvater's TRB Graphic Novel portion of the Penguin Summer 2025 showcase (copy-pasted to its own post for ease of access):

Stief said she always wanted a TRC graphic novel adaptation and always imagined Sas Milledge as the artist, ever since seeing her fanart around back when Stief was more involved in the fandom, so she's thrilled that all the pieces came together to make this happen.

She's really excited to get to show details like GANSEY'S JOURNAL and have visual sequences for the action, the word cinematic was used.

One of the Penguin reps said that there IS a schedule for the other books to have their graphic adaptations 👀 So full series adaptaion confirmed???

But like they didn't give more details on the releases so only the three people who win the giveaway raffle (for attendees) are gonna get to see that schedule I guess :\ (no one in my family ever wins raffles but I signed up just in case) (I assume we'll get the release schedule at some point regardless)

I'm gonna watch the zoom recording once it's sent out in case there's anything I missed/immediately forgot! But these were my main take aways and pretty much all of the important stuff.

[laurellala-comics]

Ok, so we know that after Phoenix saw news articles about how Edgeworth had become a ruthless prosecutor but before Phoenix became a lawyer himself, he wrote letters to Edgeworth to try and get through to him and convince him that what he was doing was wrong. Do we think Edgeworth read the letters? Do we think he kept them? Realistically, I think he read the first one because he recognized Nick's name and was curious what he had to say, and then got angry and threw out all the subsequent letters without looking at them. But imagine if he had kept them, and after reuniting with Nick, went through them. I feel like that would be a good opportunity for drama.

I also wonder if Nick thinks Edgeworth read all his letters or not. Like if he said certain things in the letter and assumes Edgeworth knows them when they meet, it could lead to interesting miscommunication. Obviously you could do this in a ship context, but I think it'd be compelling from a friendship point of view as well. If Nick had emphasized how much respect he had for Edgeworth and how much he believes in his ability to do good in the world and how he cares deeply about helping Edgeworth realize that, and all Edgeworth does is tell him to go away and that he never wants to see him again, that that feels a lot more crushing if Nick thinks that Edgeworth read about him being vulnerable and honest and then just didn't care.

Honestly though, I feel like after not getting a response for awhile Nick would assume Edgeworth wasn't reading the letters and start getting pissy, and only continue to send the letters for the principle of the matter (Edgeworth will have to see the letter in his mailbox after all and be reminded of Nick's existence even if he doesn't read them). I could see him using the letters more as a way of shouting into the void about his feelings with no expectation of them being read. I imagine the first letter was a very mild and kind plea that Edgeworth remember his old friend and who he used to be, and then 10 letters later it's just one page with "bitch" written in big letters because Nick is So Done. In which case, it would actually be so much funnier if Edgeworth DID read all of them from the beginning. Maybe this is why he acted the way he did when Nick met him again.

[emioliravioli]

have i ever talked about how they're both the princess and her loyal knight? because they are, and they make me insane because of it.

[inamindfarfaraway]

I would find Blondie Lockes very annoying in real life, but I love her in fiction. She's a genuinely good journalist in terms of both skill and ethical integrity, who only occasionally forgets to check the facts because she's fifteen and holds herself accountable when she does. She has incredibly high standards for everything and believes herself to be the ultimate authority on quality. She has magical lockpicking powers because her fairytale is about Goldilocks breaking into a house. She somehow completely ignores the story's moral that Goldilocks was wrong to break into the house, feels entitled to go wherever and help herself to whatever she's able to and cannot comprehend why people dislike this. She's been terrorizing an anthropomorphic bear family with her cheerful disrespect for privacy and is convinced that they love her. She has a non-anthropomorphic pet baby bear. Her motivation is dependence on external approval rooted in deeply internalized classism. She's desperate to be useful and important to those with higher social status and feels the need to lie that her family is technically royalty to fit in with her royal friends, even though they treat commoners like equals all the time. She positions herself as a conduit of true greatness; closer to it than the masses, but never the hero, always reporting on other people and evaluating what they've done. Because what she's done isn't enough to be worthwhile. What she is isn't enough. But this performative lifestyle makes her anxious about being judged as a fraud and an interloper, and ashamed of selfishly transgressing against social norms. Her microphone head looks like an adorable little bear head. That's one hex of a character alright.

[spadeworks]

i fear i may not finish this, so i'd like to put this wip here

[saetiate]

christmas with itoshi sae <3 (sae x reader fluff)

Sae exhales. It's cold and warm all at once. He likes it this way, that there's cold and warm spots in the house. The chilliness of the kitchen means a warm drink is that much more satisfying. It also means, like a cat seeking comfort, he only has to look in the warm areas of the house to find you.

He holds two mugs of hot chocolate in his hands, brings one to you where you're sitting on the floor right in front of the fireplace, next to the tree you've both just finished setting up. He steps off his slippers carefully before stepping on the (freshly washed!) carpet. You hold your hands out in a grabbing motion that he can't help but find endearing. He thinks how he feels shows from the way you smile even brighter. Or maybe you're just really excited to have hot chocolate.

"Thank you, love." The throw blanket in your lap gets readjusted until it's your 'perfect comfy position', and he plops next to you with less grace than he usually shows.

There's a soft silence that pillows between you both. He watches you as you smile at the marshmallows bobbing in your cup, swirling them around to watch them swim before taking a sip. A whole one moves into your mouth with the liquid and you bite into it as you swallow.

"Don't choke," he tells you, setting his cup down on the coffee table an arm's length away, and you give your cup for him to do the same. That same big, eye-crinkling smile that makes the corners of his mouth turn up in return. You're staring back up at the Christmas tree, twinkling lights reflecting on the shine of your skin. You've gone for a warmer theme this year, soft yellow lights with red and white baubles.

"Are you satisfied with it?"

His voice has always been softer with you, though it took you a while to realize. Something between a gruff and a whisper. You turn to him with a beaming smile.

"I am." You take his hand in yours, and he pulls you in with it, wraps his arms around you and kisses your cheek, like a present being wrapped in the warmest ribbon. Tucks you into him and envelops you whole.

"My parents called to say they're excited to see you." He kisses your neck. "Even Rin is coming,"

You wrap your hands around his arms, strong muscle flexes and tense under your fingers. You giggle when his nose nuzzles into your neck and that's the last straw, he's flipping you over in his arms and pulling you both down until you're gasping a laugh and on top of him.

He likes it like that. When you're all over him. He cups your face to look at you, really looks. Something indescribable flits over his face, something like adoration and sweetness, but he doesn't give you time to truly process it before he's kissing you, grabbing your waist. He pulls the throw blanket up over you too, a candied consideration with a hearth-warm hold.

You press your face into the crook of his neck, his soap and natural scent is more home than you had ever expected. Chest to chest, you can feel his heart beating against yours.

"Merry Christmas, beautiful." His chest rumbles with the words, his hands brushing through your hair, a kiss pressed to your crown.

"Merry Christmas, Sae," you're face to face with him now, noses brushing. His hand is gentle at the nape of your neck as he brings you in for another kiss.

other things you and sae do together for the holidays: ice skating at a local christmas fair, big dinners with both his and your family, night walks after eating in the chilly cold air.

[maximura]

[ptieuca]

buffy + angel's claddagh ring

[shitpostingkats]

*takes a long drag of my cigarette* You know, I often see people misunderstanding what an attack dog is.

It's not a broken and brutalized beast. An attack dog is a lot like a service dog, or a herding dog, or any other dog that has a job. We've gotten very, very good at making dogs that want jobs. So you take a creature we've made to want to be helpful, and you give it purpose. You tell it to chase the man you pointed at. You show it to bite the arm that's raised in front of it. And it will be happy to play the game. It will do all that, and wagging its tail. Might even be healthier, what with the sense of purpose and mental stimulation

Sure, that kind of prolonged exposure to a high stress and violent environment has horrible impacts on the dogs health, obviously. But the act of training a dog to attack isn't what does that to them. A dog who's been attack trained can be hard to differentiate from any ol' domestic one. Granted, of course, that no one points at you, and you don't raise your arm a specific way while in its field of vision.

Anyways. *stubs out my cigarette* This post is about Zack Fair.

[lines-in-limbo]

Harry and Snape’s Clashing Communication Styles

It's interesting to think that Harry and Snape don’t have longer conversations in the series, but when they do, their communication styles are so different that they often clash.

Harry’s way of communicating is practical and straightforward. He tends to break down complex ideas into simpler terms that he can easily understand. This makes sense, given his upbringing in a non-magical world and his tendency to rely more on gut instinct than deep theoretical knowledge. For Harry, things are usually black and white, and his directness shows his desire to cut through the confusion and get straight to the point.

Snape, on the other hand, has a more complex and layered way of speaking. His language is precise and often sarcastic, which reflects not just his intelligence but also his disdain for what he sees as Harry’s lack of subtlety. Snape’s use of imagery and metaphor, especially when he describes consepts, gives his speech a poetic, almost philosophical quality. He takes pleasure in showing off his superior knowledge and uses this as a way to belittle Harry.

We see this clash clearly in OOTP during Harry’s first Occlumency lesson:

Snape looked back at him for a moment and then said contemptuously, “Surely even you could have worked that out by now, Potter? The Dark Lord is highly skilled at Legilimency —” “What’s that? Sir?” “It is the ability to extract feelings and memories from another person’s mind —” “He can read minds?” said Harry quickly, his worst fears confirmed. “You have no subtlety, Potter,” said Snape, his dark eyes glittering. “You do not understand fine distinctions. It is one of the shortcomings that makes you such a lamentable potion-maker.” Snape paused for a moment, apparently to savor the pleasure of insulting Harry, before continuing, “Only Muggles talk of ‘mind reading.’ The mind is not a book, to be opened at will and examined at leisure. Thoughts are not etched on the inside of skulls, to be perused by any invader. The mind is a complex and many-layered thing, Potter . . . or at least, most minds are. . . .” He smirked. Whatever Snape said, Legilimency sounded like mind reading to Harry and he did not like the sound of it at all.

For Harry, when Snape mentions Legilimency, it immediately sounds like “mind reading,” which is a reasonable but overly simple way to understand such a complex concept. His quick jump to this conclusion shows his need to make sense of something that feels threatening, but it also reveals his limited grasp of the deeper nuances.

Snape, however, can’t resist mocking Harry’s lack of subtlety. His response is laced with condescension as he insists on the complexity of the mind and dismisses the idea of “mind reading” as something only muggles would think of. Snape’s explanation is detailed and philosophical, contrasting sharply with Harry’s desire for a straightforward answer.

Another great example of their different communication styles comes in HBP when Snape puts Harry on the spot, asking him to explain the difference between an inferius and a ghost:

“Let us ask Potter how we would tell the difference between an Inferius and a ghost.” The whole class looked around at Harry, who hastily tried to recall what Dumbledore had told him the night that they had gone to visit Slughorn. “Er — well — ghosts are transparent —” he said. “Oh, very good,” interrupted Snape, his lip curling. “Yes, it is easy to see that nearly six years of magical education have not been wasted on you, Potter. ‘Ghosts are transparent.’ ” Harry took a deep breath and continued calmly, though his insides were boiling, “Yeah, ghosts are transparent, but Inferi are dead bodies, aren’t they? So they’d be solid —” “A five-year-old could have told us as much,” sneered Snape. “The Inferius is a corpse that has been reanimated by a Dark wizard’s spells. It is not alive, it is merely used like a puppet to do the wizard’s bidding. A ghost, as I trust that you are all aware by now, is the imprint of a departed soul left upon the earth . . . and of course, as Potter so wisely tells us, transparent.” “Well, what Harry said is the most useful if we’re trying to tell them apart!” said Ron. “When we come face-to-face with one down a dark alley, we’re going to be having a shufti to see if it’s solid, aren’t we, we’re not going to be asking, ‘Excuse me, are you the imprint of a departed soul?’

Once again, Harry demonstrates his practical and straightforward approach. He gives a simple, clear distinction based on what would be most useful in a real-life situation—whether the entity is solid or transparent. This shows how Harry tends to focus on what’s immediately relevant and actionable, and Ron’s defense of Harry’s answer highlights this practicality. Ron even points out that in a real-world scenario, Harry’s answer is actually the most helpful, contrasting it with Snape’s more academic approach.

Snape, though, dismisses Harry’s answer as too simplistic and mocks him for stating what he sees as the obvious. Snape’s communication is more about the theoretical and precise understanding of magical concepts. He emphasizes the deeper, more complex nature of an Inferius, which, while academically accurate, is less practical in the context that Harry is thinking of. Snape’s disdain shows that he values this deeper, nuanced understanding more than the direct, practical knowledge that Harry offers.

These moments really bring out the deeper divide between Harry and Snape. Harry approaches things with instinct and a straightforward mindset, while Snape is all about nuance, precision, and seeing the layers in everything. Because they see the world so differently, they struggle to communicate, which only adds to the distrust and misunderstanding between them—a tension that echoes throughout the entire series.

[grungepoetica]

I'M BACK IN THE FUCKING PIZZERIA AGAIN

[little-mouse-adventures]

Rereading TLC and loosing it at the realization that both No1 and Artemis are fourteen years old.

Like they’re both snarky, pessimistic little shits, with no friends, a ridiculous vocabulary, and vast amounts of power at their fingertips.

Most people would want to give No1 a hug and a hot chocolate. Most people would want to punt Artemis into a muddy ditch.