#i don't even know WHAT flirt is

[cetuscorvus]

Enjoying the view?

[justarandomhelluvablog]

sorry sorry last time I'm talking about huskerdust tonight but does it fuck anyone else up knowing that Husk and Angel basically lived at the same time but were on opposite sides of the country. But also Husk went traveling. Like these two could have met while they were alive and wouldn't even know it. They didn't even know the other existed until they met at the hotel

Like I have. so many thoughts about this.

[wardenparker]

At First Sight

Alan McMichael x female Reader

Rating: G for General Audiences, but this blog is always 18+! Word Count: 3.1k Warnings: Alcohol, flirting, period manners, fluff, scheming family members, undesirable dance partners. Summary: Alan's sister Eunice is finally engaged and their mother is throwing a grand ball to celebrate. It is the last place that he wants to be...until he meets a young lady who wants to be there just as little as he does. Notes: It's been so, so very long since I wrote anything solo. Please be kind -- all errors are my own, and this is definitely not beta read. It's just a little piece inspired by my downtime at work and countless rewatches of Crimson Peak. Alan deserves some happiness, so I wanted to give him a bit. If there's interest I'll try to write more for these two, but I'll understand entirely if there's not. Thank you so so very much for reading! Dedicated to @julesonrecord for her tireless patience in putting up with me babbling about this character and how he deserved better. And to @ruflirtingwithme for always letting me keep Wade in my pocket wherever I go. There's a bit of him in this as well, for sure.

Despite the tailoring of his tuxedo, the familiar weight of the costume, and the well-traveled ballroom he finds himself standing in, Alan McMichael shifts uncomfortably. He’s lost weight this past year, worry and injury taking their toll, and the tailor assured him that it could barely be seen but took his jacket and the waist of his trousers in anyway. He isn’t as fit as he once was. He isn’t as strong. Not since he followed Edith up that mountain in England, only to bring her back down again to dual hospitalizations and true exhaustion. The doctors at the sanatorium don’t allow him to visit anymore .They say it causes episodes of hysteria. 

So now they must live inside their own heads separately, and his mother has taken that as meaning it is time to push him to move on. “It’s for the best.” His mother had said. But Alan couldn’t be sure. Still, he was forced to resume his everyday life, and now it has been a full year since that fateful trip to Crimson Peak. 

Eunice’s engagement has been a blessing to distract Mrs. McMichael. Her ploy to whisk her daughter off to New York City in the early summer had paid odd and now Eunice is engaged to the son of some banker who claimed to have an ancestor lead the charge at the Battle of Cowpens. They were all, Mrs. McMicheals told everyone in earshot, quite proud.

Now it was Alan’s turn to once again have marriage prospects pushed on him, and he stood in the ballroom ready to receive guests alongside his father with a false smile and a belly full of dread.

* * * * * *

“I thought you didn’t like Mrs. McMichaels?” The question hands in the air as you finish getting ready for the ball this evening. Spending the Christmas holiday in Buffalo with your aunt and uncle had been your brother’s idea – trying to see that you were taken care of without directly saying that having you in his house would be a burden. So you had reluctantly agreed, giving most of your staff the better part of three weeks off and taking only your maid with you to Buffalo. 

It’s not that I dislike her entirely, dear heart,” your aunt Joan insists. “I adore her soirees.”

“How foolish of me.” It takes all your strength not to roll your eyes but your maid recognizes the expression and smiles privately. “I ought to have known. You and Uncle Christian will want to stay until daybreak, won’t you?”

“Certainly.” Aunt Joan quips, appraising herself in her vanity mirror. “Her cook makes the most divine fruit crepes.”

You could point out that her usual overt piety discourages desire and gluttony, but at near seventy years of age, your great-aunt has earned a little indulgence from life. Instead you hum a non-committal agreement and pick up your gloves., “Then it will be well worth staying until breakfast,” you encourage, offering her a smile instead. 

“Indeed.” She seems most pleased at the prospect and shoes your maids away with finality. “Your dance card must be full tonight, child,” she warns with an alarming hint of mischief in her voice. “If we want you engaged before the worst of winter snows threaten to keep us all at home.”

* * * * * *

The McMichael’s ballroom shimmers with candlelight and each guest who is announced at the door is another jewel in the crown of the evening. Mrs. McMichaels flits about like a bird with a rare and precious seed, showing it off to everyone around her, and the guests who have eagerly arrived first bask in the shared glow of witnessing such good fortune. Fortunately, very certainly it is a fortunate thing, your Aunt Joan and Uncle Christian do not believe in arriving early to parties. They believe in leaving their home at the time the party is listed as beginning in order to appear both desirably busy and aloof, which means that your trio is squarely in the second half of arrivals to the McMichael house this evening. Even if it is only by a measure of twenty or thirty minutes, the less time you must spend with eligible men being foisted upon you, the better. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Christian Tate,” are announced along with your name, and Aunt Joan practically shoves your out in front of them to make sure you’re seen. Not that anyone would have noticed you otherwise, so perhaps it’s wise. The peacock colored gown you chose shimmers softly in the gaslight, but the ballrooms of Buffalo do not have the large, expansive windows and glass doors that you are accustomed to in Newport. It is all mahogany and walnut paneling here, and all the ladies but you – in their pinks and creams and honey yellows – knew better. You will be lost in wainscotted corners in your deep blue, green, and purple hues. Though perhaps it is for the best. This is not your society anyway. You have no intention of ending your time in Buffalo engaged no matter what Aunt Joan might intend.

The two gentlemen at the center of the ballroom could not be anymore obviously father and son, but where the father jokes and jovially signs dance cards at praise of his skills in the country dances, the son seems dour and aloof. His pinched smile does not precisely forbid conversation but it certainly does not encourage it, and he all but sighs in resignation when your Uncle Christian seems happy to see him.

“My wife’s great-niece,” you hear him saying, just before you are shuttled forward again. “Visiting from Newport for the holidays.”

“A pleasure,” the man intones, though you cannot think he means it.

“Is it?” You offer your hand only because your aunt clears her throat so pointedly. But it is at this point that the skyscraper with blonde hair you are being introduced to chuckles. The sound is broken but warm, and you are not so displeased with being here that you miss the way his blue eyes sparkle like aquamarine in the flickering light. 

“Perhaps,” he muses, catching the dance card dangling from your wrist before you can take your hand back. “Perhaps you are the first young lady to arrive tonight not to simper and curtsy over the supposed honor of being my mother’s guest. And perhaps I can recognize a fellow soul was was strong-armed into attending.” He looks tired, the heaviness of it hanging deep in his handsome features. Because yes, he is handsome. Intriguingly and admirably so. But that isn’t what is drawing you in to him like a rope tied into your ribcage that tugs you forward whenever he speaks. It’s something else. “Perhaps we will be allies tonight, you and I.”

“Allies?” You watch his hand as he claims both waltzes on your dance card, the first gentleman to do so and claiming what are arguably the most intimate of dances. “How terribly Napoleonic of you,” you droll in response.

He laughs again, a little more deeply, and shrugs his shoulders. “I would avoid the elder Mr. Davies if I were you,” he advises, clearly demonstrating his intent as that very ally he has claimed to be. “His wife passed last spring leaving him with three young children. He has become so desperate for a wife that he is inclined to propose to almost any new young lady he meets.”

“How very concerning for the young ladies.” You murmur back, glancing over at the man being subtly pointed out to you. He is squirrelish and balding, all the hair on his head seeming to have fallen to the bushy mustache adorning his upper lip. “Is there anyone else I ought to be wary of?”

“Oh, a dozen at least.” The mischief returns to this man-shaped mountain’s eyes and he offers you his arm. “It is well worth discussing. Perhaps over punch?”

“Mr. McMichael, I think you are using me as an excuse to abandon the receiving line.” You hum in amusement, not really able to say you blame him for such a thing. Or that you mind.

“Perhaps.” His grin has a shade of mischief and guilt to it. “But perhaps you are using me to avoid the attention of other guests who might bore, annoy, or otherwise rankle you, or even step on your shoes. Which I’m sure are quite beautiful and not to be defiled. This arrangement seems better for us both, don’t you think? I can promise you with surety that it has been more than a decade since I trod on a lady’s slipper at a ball.”

“I had intended to feign lightheadedness from the crowded ballroom halfway through the night,” you confess with a sly expression all your own. “Perhaps I still will. Or perhaps this mischief will prove diversion enough all on its own.”

* * * * * *

There have been many dances in your life that have made you terribly glad for the barrier of gloves between you and the man leading. Whether it was their manners that were unsuitable, the sweat of their palms, or some unsavory odor lingering around them like a drought-stricken pond, there seemed always to be some partners with whom dancing was as undesirable as an overturned stagecoach. 

Tonight you fear it might be you. 

Dr. McMichael — Alan, he has insisted that you call him Alan — is a divine dancer. The grandeur of his stature does nothing to inhibit his grace and as he twirls you both about the ballroom you have the oddest sensation of floating that has ever been. But as if grace and poise were not enough, the man has a damning and wicked sense of humour as well. It has taken only the smallest encouragement from you to earn you scathing reviews of the other partygoers from you. The descriptions have you nearly in hysterics in his arms, but worse yet is the way that he smiles. It is a sly and puckish expression that makes his eyes light and sparkle in the candlelight, and every time he aims it at you, you can feel yourself sweat in the most unbecoming and unladylike way. 

Moist palms or a damp dress back do not make for a desirable partner, and all you can do is hope desperately that your gloves and corset are providing ample barrier so that he has no idea how deeply those smiles and jokes and bright eyes are affecting you. 

“I must sound deeply cynical,” he comments after a pause. He has just told you the story of the two Misses Shrewsbury and their positively ghastly attempt at conning the attendants of a seance he attended in Albany some years ago. “I am not. Or at least I do not mean to be.”

“Is it society that you disapprove of? Or faith?” Neither question is a judgment on your part, but you tilt your head to him conspiratorially as you dance. “I have found myself weary of both in the past, that is why I ask.”

“It is neither,” Alan admits, though he does so with a wistful sigh. “I think perhaps I yearn for times past when I reveled in dancing and philosophical pursuits. When the contents of conversation at a dinner party provided fascination for days afterward.” Subtly, so that you can feel it but it is not seen to the plain-eyes observer, he shrugs. “Life soldiers on, I suppose.”

“It does.” You cannot dispute that, and you would not try. You know the trudging on of time as well as any other touched by tragedy. “May I ask what changed? Or is that impertinent?”

“It is not impertinent.” He casts his eye around the room then back down at you. “But I am afraid it is not polite, either. I would not shock you so, to tell it all. I will only say that I lost my dear friend very recently.”

“Then I am very sorry to hear it, but I have every belief in your humanity. Your taste for society, your faith, and your fascinations will return.” The look on his face says he wonders how you can be so sure, and you half-smile. The hint of sadness in your eyes keeps it from becoming full. “Take the word of an orphan of two beloved parents, Dr. McMichael. You will come back to life again after the loss of your friend. It may simply take time.”

“Alan,” he presses softly, reminding you of his insistence. “And I am sorry to hear of your sadness, as well. But it seems that perhaps God or the ghosts of our past have seen fit to introduce us tonight. Whichever it is that you believe in.”

“Whichever it is, I welcome their intervention.” It seems to you at this point that he does not care much for spiritualism or ghosts of any kind, so you will not speak your mind on that topic. As for God? His guidance has not been the one you sought in many years. No, tonight you will not give credence to any of it, if only to keep the mood light and perhaps make Alan laugh again. “I think, however, that I shall ascribe it entirely to my great-uncle. As he was the one to see us introduced.”

“So he was.” As the song ends, Alan bows quite deeply in deference to his admirable partner. “I believe I shall have to thank him for it.”

* * * * * *

“Why don’t I know the girl your son has been doting on all night?” Mrs. McMichael is behind her fan to her husband from the edge of the dance floor, inspecting the dancing and overseeing the needs of all her guests. Her guests. Which is why she is so perturbed not to be able to identify this young woman immediately. “Who is her family? She must be with one of your business associates, yes?”

“Let Alan flirt.” Edwin McMichael waves one hand dismissively, not even looking in his only son’s direction. “It’s good for him. He’s been too dour for too long.”

“I don’t care if he flirts.” Ellen ruffles, her lips pursed and ready for an argument. “So long as he flirts with the correct young ladies.”

“How do you know she is not correct?”

“Because I do not know who she is or who she came with.”

“She is Christian Tate’s great-niece.”

Ellen’s nose wrinkles. “The orphan?”

“The orphan with an eight million dollar inheritance and a palatial cottage in Newport in her name.” Mr. McMichael raises one eyebrow as he peers down at his wife, knowing precisely the sort of affect this news will have on his wife. After all, she married him for his fortune — why should Alan not marry a fortune as well? “Let Alan flirt. It makes him smile.”

* * *

He finds you again later, outside of the ballroom when you’ve wandered away to breath air that hasn’t come from the mouths of five other people first and doesn’t smell distinctly of stale cigars and brandy. He finds you when you are slumped, unladylike, in the window seat of his father’s library gazing out the window at the snow as it drifts lazily down from the pitch-black sky. 

“I thought you’d run away on me.” His voice is light but the undercurrent of worry, or else embedded sadness, is there if you listen. Like a weariness that had taken hold in him sometime since the loss of his friend that he had not been able to shake. Rather than apologizing for it or paying it any mind, Alan simply holds out one of the delicate cups of mulled wine that he brought with him when he went in search of you. “I’m very glad to see that isn’t the case.”

“I had to make myself scarce from the quadrille,” you admit, having the good sense to look at least a little sheepish about it. “That Mr. Davies…the one you warned me about? He caught sight of the fact that I had been left out of the dance before and attached himself to me.” Though the conversation could not be considered so terrible to be characterized as harrowing or torturous or anything as dramatic as all that, you still had not enjoyed his overbearing presence and unfortunate lack of manners. “I’m afraid that I feigned a headache to excuse myself.”

He laughs. Truly and thoroughly, and from his belly. Alan McMichael laughs so entirely that you bury your face in one hand after you accept the offered drink from his hand and you sigh audibly. “I’m sorry…” he chuckles, gasping for a dramatic sigh when he can catch his breath. “ It’s just that you’re so terribly apologetic and sweet about it. No one would be cross with you for avoiding an impertinent man old enough to be your father.”

“I see you have not met my Aunt Joan.” With a dutiful but resigned sigh, you stand from your place of respite and sip the rather delicious drink that he has brought you. At precisely 4:02 in the morning it is both horrifyingly too late for such a drink and far too terribly early – a dichotomy that delights you. “She has done her best to see me partnered with every single man here tonight. It is only my ill luck that I encountered the only desirable partner so early in the night. To dance together a third time would expose us both to comment.”

“So?” Alan sips his own wine and gazes down at you curiously, wondering whether or not you actually give a damn about all of this convention and these rules that seem to have been mutually agreed upon by the same people who determined what food is served at each course at formal suppers. That is – someone very long ago and far away that no one can remember any longer. “I’d like to dance with you again. And you just said that you’d like to dance with me. So who gives a damn if someone talks about it?”

“Won’t your mother be cross with you?” He had said something earlier about his mother wanting him to dance with just every young lady at the ball tonight. And you know for certain that he has not just as you have not danced with every single man. 

“My mother is routinely cross with me.” He admits, enjoying a laugh at the truth of it. “I try not to let it disappointment me too much.”

It is all you can do to consider him – broad shoulders stretching that jacket of his and bright eyes sparkling with mischief, the tilt of his smile and the invitation of his outstretched hand – before you are sighing in a rather dramatic show of resignation that barely shields the actual delight written on your face. “Very well,” you acquiesce, taking his hand and giving his fingers a gentle squeeze. “Let us be the object of idle gossip tomorrow. Let tongues wag. I will be gone in a week anyhow and that will be the end of it. For tonight, at least, we shall have a bit of fun.”

______

Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks @athalien @sherala007 @skvatnavle @thatpinkshirt @jaime1110 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @goodgriefitsawildworld @greeneyedblondie44 @littlemousedroid @harriedandharassed @churchill356 @ajathegreats-blog @haylzcyon @beardsanddetectives @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @adancedivasmom @madiebear @tanzthompson @emilianamason @bigsdinger @xocalliexo @pedr0swh0r3 @avaleineandafryingpan @charlyrmv @avidreader73 @iceclaw101 @loveslide @elegantduckturtle @becsworld @julesonrecord @its-nebuleuse @itsrubberbisquit @mikeyswifie @guelyury @lizzie-cakes @for-a-longlongtime @vabeachazn @purplerain04 @weho2kcmo

Alan Tags: @nrthernsong @inept-the-magnificent @trulybetty @justcallmebirdie @jefferson-in-the-tardis @thesluttylittleknee @munsonownsmyass @laurfilijames @hudson-bay-girl @ruflirtingwithme @rhoorl @scorpio-marionette @absurdthirst

My Masterlist!

[littlelightfish]

The hearts don't mean he is in love with no one. The problem with English is how vague of the word love is in his meaning. It envolves different kinds of caring in one single word. But I'll try to express here what I mean.

He cares, as a person, about everyone. This is a basic level of love that he haves towards everybody. He doesn't want anyone to actually die, that's what I mean. He doesn't necesarily cares about someone, but he loves them enough to not want them to die.

He starts befriending someone and gets to know it. He starts liking things about them and disliking others. He starts loving this people in another way, we'll call it liking. This is more a get-to-know phase he doesn't always like. The less he knows, the less reasons to get attached get attached he has. I think this are the kind of love the hearts show in the image. He has to make sure to keep a balance between how much he loves and how much he let's himself be loved. He doesn't want to have misunderstandings. He is in constant fear of "what if I made them love me more and they care more?"

And then it comes the deeply care that love is in the non-romantic way. This care a (good) parent has for his babies. The love that makes people suffer emotionally in an absolute different way from what it could be a heartbreak or a misunderstanding between friends. If something happens to the loved one, the pain is unbearable. It's one of the worst things rhat can happen. And Chilchuck knows this, he is father of three daughters, and his wife left him. She left, he knows the pain it is to come home and find it empty when there should be someone. He knows the guilt it comes with failing those loved ones. The shame. He doesn't like being this vulnerable. This love makes him suffer like no other does. So he is very very carefull of how much he allows himself to care about someone so he won't get to love like this.

He draws a line between work and private life because his private life envolves love and deep care, and he doesn't want to love nor care like this for people who's job is to constantly risk their lifes. He doesn't want to feel the anguish, he doesn't want to feel the loneliness it will come after the unenviable separation of the party.

He tries his best to not get attached to people. To not let people get attached to him. But he fails. He fails and falls downstairs with a whole drum set.

He can't help but to care about this people. He can't help but to love this people he's been living with the past few weeks in the risking of their lifes. He tells himself he's doing this for money and that he doesn't care, but he does.

Those hearts don't mean anything other than him caring about them. He cares about Senshi. He cares about Marcille. He cares about Laios. About Itsuzumi. About Namari. He cares in a way that hurts. He loves this people. He doesn't want to even imagine a world in where they are gone, or suffering, or in problems. They're his friends, they're something he, unwillingly, accepts as family.

He cares about Falin and Mickbell because he doesn't want them dead. He doesn't feel any anguish toward if they do or not get hurt after they're out of his sight. Sure, he cares, but he can live without thinking about them the rest of his days. It doesn't happen like that with Laios. He can't just simply let Laios go and follow Fallin just after he recover consciousness from a punch in the gut. Was it Mickbell, he would let him if he really didn't wanted. But Laios didn't wanted to sit and wait, and he had to care. He had to verbalize to himself that he cared. He had to let them know, so they would act accordingly. So they won't get themselves killed like idiots.

He doesn't want others to fall in romantic love with him. He doesn't feel romantic love towards anyone either. He isn't the man for this kind of love. He is, in fact, afraid of it. He doesn't want to fall in love, because he's still in love with his wife. She left him because he was negligent. But since when has this become the definitive stop for love? Chilchuck knows his wife is angry at him, and she has all the reason to be so! His husband, the one she loved and cared for, gets himself in dangerous situations, treats his body poorly and almost never is home. She loves him, and it hurts her to love like this, so she leaves. Like this she won't have to look at him get himself mistreated like he does. She would have the pull in her's stomach that tells her that he could be in great danger, that she could become a widow, but she tries to calm it with his daughter's mail to him. He could never. He can't imagine a world in wich they cease to exist. A world without his wife, even if she distanced herself, without his daughters, would be a world worthless of living. He knows this. Because he cares and he loves in such a deep level that he is scared of loving anyone else like this. To become so vulnerable to emotion. This vulnerable to something bad happening.

The fact that he is so afraid of loosing his wife, even after she left him, says a lot. He still cares about her. He is still in love with her. He wants to go back to what it was before, but he can't and he know its his fault. And he respects his wife's distance because he loves her. Now, he doesn't love her in the movie way, he isnt in love like a teenager would to his first girlfriend, he doesn't want to kiss her, or hug her, or be by her side at all moments of the day. He loves her. He cares about her deeply, deeply enough that he doesn't need to be by her side to care, to love. He also respects her. He can survive without her because he knows she's better with his daughter. For sure he wants to hug, kiss and be by the side of this person he loves, it would be ideal, but he can survive without thinking about it too much. It's just like with his daughters. They're all adults that now live far from him. And he is ok with it now. He sends mail and recieves mail, and even if he misses greatly, he can manage not to think about it. Because he knows she is allright. Because he knows he fucked up. He doesn't know where he fuked up, but for his wife to leave him, at least he knows he did. They never talked about it, because they both seem to have a problem in expressing themselves. She fell into a bad mood and then she disappeared. The amount of pain he must have felt it's... let's say it's quite big.

He keeps his guard up. He doesn't want to love deeply anyone. He doesn't want to feel the emptiness, the hurt, that comes after someone so dear leaves. He knows for a fact he'll be leaving this people. He knows that they could die. If he loves, it will hurt in a way nothing else hurts. He will miss. He doesn't like missing people he cares like this. This is why he doesn't want to love. This is why he doesn't want to be loved. This is why those hearts that are almost full are his main source of concern. This is why he makes the effort to keep this feelings at bay, to love only in the friendly way and with extreme caution.

But he can't controll his own love. And he ends up caring more and more about these people. He slowly makes him a part of the dangerous love zone that family means. He is afraid to confuse someone about his feelings towards them, so he still tries to maintain distance with his abusive remarks, but this only works so far. He loves and is loved. And because of this he will suffer.

I... I extended myself a bit I see...

[alchemicon]

Am i the only one that feels weird when people describe dazai as a womanizer, say he fucked the nurse etc? Like to me he is so gay coded that i just can't take his whole flirting with women thing seriously. It feels part of his clown persona and not a sincere representation of his character at all. I know that irl dazai was a womanizer, but bsd takes inspiration from the lives of the authors and twists the events to craft entirely new characters (eg dazai was the one who admired akutagawa irl not the other way around). And one important thing is how none of his relationships with women have any substance. He's shown to respect them sure, but emotionally his relations to them are completely empty. He admires their beauty, but it is with men that he always has deeper emotional connections with (his life was literally changed by chuuya and oda, because of his relationship with them) I think people who genuinely consider him a womanizer, fall for his act, his clown mask if you will.

[licorishh]

Genshin characters age headcanons masterlist (updated)

Yeah. I could give you many reasons why I believe some of the more debatable/"controversial" ones are very sensible and Good based on just freaking paying attention to context given in the game but for now I'll just compile a basic list. If you'd like to hear my reasoning for some of these you're welcome to ask as long as you're polite about it.

List under the cut.

Aether/Lumine: 19

Amber: 18

Kaeya: 22

Lisa: 33

Barbara: 17

Razor: 16

Xiangling: 16

Beidou: 29

Xingqiu: 15

Fischl: 19

Ningguang: 31

Bennett: 18

Noelle: 18

Chongyun: 16

Sucrose: 20

Jean: 21

Diluc: 22

Qiqi: 6-8 (Hard to tell given she's a zombie and talks and acts differently from normal)

Mona: 20

Keqing: 21

Venti: 20 (biologically)

Klee: 7-ish?

Diona: She's so hard because she literally runs a business and acts like an adult but she's super short. I have no idea.

Tartaglia: 21

Xinyan: 19

Zhongli: 37

Albedo: 21

Ganyu: 23

Xiao: 20

Hu Tao: 18

Rosaria: 23

Yanfei: 21

Eula: 24

Kazuha: 20

Ayaka: 18

Sayu: 9- or 10-ish maybe?

Yoimiya: 18

Kujou Sara: 24

Raiden: 28 (biologically)

Kokomi: 18

Thoma: 20

Gorou: 18

Itto: 26

Yun Jin: 19

Shenhe: 23

Yae Miko: 30

Ayato: 26

Yelan: 24

Shinobu: 20

Heizou: 21

Collei: 16

Tighnari: 22

Dori: Super hard to tell, because again, she lives alone and runs a business by herself despite using the short girl model.

Candace: 24

Cyno: 23

Nilou: 21

Nahida: 7-9

Layla: 18-19 (she seems to maybe be in her first year of college - definitely in college, I'm just guessing the year here)

Faruzan: 24 (I know she's like a hundred years older but she was stuck and didn't age and I'm talking biologically still)

Scaramouche: 21 (biologically)

Yaoyao: 7-ish?

Alhaitham: 26

Dehya: 25

Mika: 17

Kaveh: 27

Baizhu: 34

Kirara: 20

Lynette: 20

Lyney: 20

Freminet: 17 (Don't know how much younger he is than his siblings, just guessing based on context and the way he talks and acts)

Furina: 21 (biologically)

Neuvillette: 36 (biologically)

Wriothesley: 32

Navia: 26

Clorinde: 27

Sigewinne: Basically impossible to know as she's a Melusine and not a human

Charlotte: 21

Signora: 29

Dottore: 33

Arlecchino: 31

Dainsleif: 22 (biologically)

[lab-gr0wn-lambs]

Oh jesus wait! Only now that something might finally be starting with Carol and Daryl did I suddenly think.. what if Daryl was aroace tho. and now I'm just-

[astro-b-o-y-d]

Ford: Looks like the food's too hot. I can't eat it.

Fiddleford: You're too hot and I'd still eat you.

Stan, slamming his fists on the table: ONE DINNER. I just wanted ONE!!! DINNER!!!!

[yuriyuruandyuraart]

DIBS ON MARRYING DEMON CROSS

-juni @jun1per-t33th

"good luck with that kiddo, i called dibs on them before they even turned into a demon lol"

[angeltism]

me when trouble understanding tone (i am autistic)

[weedle-testaburger]

ok i had to do one more ultra-specific british train meme. i'm sorry

[royalarchivist]

Luzu: How old are you, Sapo Peta?

Sapo Peta: I am 450 years old.

Luzu: And yet you don’t think it's shameful to come and hit on Quackity?

[ceofjohnlennon]

The fact that John Lennon was feeling shy by Joni Mitchell flirting with him is living in my mind for free.

[quirkle2]

Wars Headcanons? (If you want?)

WOOOOOOOOO

bit of a weird one but wars will eat pretty much Anything, actually. you'd assume since he's a city boy and just seems kinda fancy and well-to-do in general that he'd like the ,,,Richer side of the menu. and while he Has had some of the most expensive meals u can find during dinners w the queen and other Big Figures, he's also had some of the cheapest and grossest foods imaginable. he's been in the army for years, and the food there isn't amazing i've heard GVEAGIYUV if it's edible, he's willing to eat it. he surprises quite a few of the chain w that one when he's perfectly willing to eat bugs without so much as a grimace at the idea

when wars is reading his silly little books with his silly little glasses on he has a habit of like . humming to react to whatever happened in the book. a character says smth sassy and he goes "mh :|" and it's SO funny for the rest of the chain to hear. he seems to be completely engrossed whenever he reads and doesn't know he's doin that at All and they adore him so bad

wars has a habit of trying to juggle things. yes he's a goon no he doesn't succeed ever

caaaaaaan't recall if i've mentioned this but i like the idea of my wars bein hard of hearing :)! his right ear is mostly burnt off and there's definitely some damage in there. he can only hear a little bit from his right—speech is mostly muffled and quiet—so he relies a lot on his left to hear and lip reading. he Does know a good bit of sign !

wars doesn't actually flirt w people and when other people flirt w Him he is almost Always incredibly uncomfortable. hot take

he's veerrryyyy clingy when he's sleepy. he's affectionate by default but he gets so touchy-feely when he's tired and it's the cutest shit actually . literal grabby hands at people. leanin on the chain and yawning obnoxiously in their ears. he's usually an early riser so he typically goes to bed early too; when the chain stays up to tell stories he's usually one of the first to drift off and ends up w his head in legend's lap. pillow,,,,,,,,,bestie

he can't sweem

wars secretly knows how to tap dance. yes, he's good at it, and yes, he will bring that secret to his grave

i actually think the Only way to get wars to shut up at the dinner table is if ur serving apple pie. if u hand him a slice of apple pie he will be Transfixed by it and will spend every ounce of his energy devouring that goddamn slice and savoring every bite. if u give him a slice of apple pie he'll die for you.

wars is also very clingy when sick . if legend or Somebody isn't hugging him or next to him at all times he gets very pitiful and miserable. human equivalent of what a sad, wet dog looks like . luckily tho legend and the others care abt him very much and they let him fall asleep on them so he can rest comfortably ,,,family :)

[bumblingbabooshka]

'Parturition' is so brave for being the yaoi ship trope episode of Voyager. "Neelix and Tom Paris had a physical.....fight." Also continuing Tom's beautiful habit of loving both infidelity and child abandonment with all his heart. Also, wonderful out of context quote: "I had no right to push that pasta in your lap."

[niuxita21]

One day I’m gonna write a book. Can you imagine? A novel about everything that you and I have gone through? [Mariana laughs] It would be called “Ana and Mariana.” We’re going to be free soon, and we’ll be able to reinvent ourselves. So I’m sure you’re gonna write that book, and it’s gonna be awesome. We’ll see what happens. We have to let things flow, right? I think your novel is gonna be one of those that are pretty dark. Maybe one of those that are so romantic that you can’t put them down?