#you are more than welcome to have your interpretation but to go on to insist that other people are factually wrong for having different ones

[something-about-sunflowers]

So. Like. Izzy doesn’t have the social or emotional power over Ed to be his abuser. He’s not good at manipulating people, let alone a ‘tactical genius’ like Ed. It speaks volumes on some of yall’s opinions on Ed that you think he can’t just get rid of someone trying to hurt him like that.

It’s easy to reach a conclusion when you’re starting from the conclusion and working backwards to an explanation. I could just as easily go through a list of ‘signs of abuse’ and call Ed Izzy’s abuser but I’m not going to do that because, while those signs might be there, it’s more complicated than that. There’s nuance that’s being ignored by labeling either one of them as the sole ‘bad guy’ in their relationship (however you interpret the word ‘relationship’).

I’m not going to argue the specific points because there’s no point, I’m going to block and you’re not going to see this unless someone shows you or you block evade (which I can’t see why you would so I doubt you will). I will say though, the toe thing was not ‘striking back’ at abuse. It was premeditated assault. It was done with intent to control. To put Izzy back ‘in his place’.

If Izzy brings it up as a negative that’s because it IS. Genuinely, I don’t know how many times we have to say it but disabling someone is not a punishment.

You say you’re not an expert on abuse and it shows. Reading a single text on ‘things a perpetrator might do’ does not give you authority to ascertain anything about their relationship, especially when you’re only looking at one side of the relationship. You are certainly allowed to interpret their relationship that way but you HAVE to understand that it’s just YOUR interpretation and that not everybody is going to see things the same way you do. If you don’t like seeing interpretations you disagree with then, by all means: block those people. Ultimately these are two fictional characters we’re talking about and it does no inherent harm for people to have these differing interpretations. Remember: discomfort is not harm, and can be easily avoided by the block button.

(Also? Hiding replies that disagree with you really doesn’t reflect well on your argument, just saying.)

Anyway, bye. May we never cross paths.

[guess-my-next-obsession]

the alchemy | ii. the moment

pairing: no outbreak!dbf!joel miller x fem!reader

chapter rating: Mature [18+ only, minors dni, dbf/secret relationship, age gap (joel is 34, reader is 24), reader is described as curvy & only has one parent--all else is open to interpretation (we are POC friendly over here okay!!), one mention of f!masturbation but it’s super brief]

summary: you go over to the miller house to spend the afternoon with sarah, only to find that she's spending the summer with her mom. when joel insists you stay, things get flirty and then awkward and then flirty and then what the fuck.

wc: 3.6k

the masterlist | next chapter

Sarah had begged you to come over to their house next door to watch her at the pool, given that Joel was busy upstairs renovating his master bathroom with his younger brother, Tommy, and you were more than happy to oblige her request. Armed with a book, sunscreen, and a bag of chips, you made your way over and waited on the front porch for one of the Millers to answer. 

Luck seemed to evade you—or perhaps shine down on you, depending on how you wanted to look at it—as it was Joel who answered the door. He looked as good as ever in a paint-stained white t-shirt and a pair of ripped jeans, his hair damp with sweat and curling at the nape of his neck. His gaze traveled up and down your body, taking in the relatively modest one-piece swimsuit and unbuttoned denim shorts you’d chosen for today’s activities with something one could only perceive as appreciation. 

“Hey,” you managed, offering him a pathetic excuse of a smile. “Sarah invited me over to swim.”

“Oh,” he said, brows lacing together. “She didn’t text you?”

You shook your head, your confusion mimicking his own. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, it’s just that her mom called last night and asked her if she wanted to spend the rest of the summer with her, so she’s gone now until the middle of August,” he said, his tone giving away that he wasn’t exactly pleased by the last minute invitation. “But you’re, uh, still welcome to use the pool if you want. I’m just upstairs workin’ on the bathroom.”

He didn’t say anything about Tommy, which could only mean he was the one who was dropping Sarah off at her mom’s. And that meant that Joel was the only one around today, your dad off visiting his girlfriend in San Antonio for the rest of the weekend. 

Was it really a smart idea to spend your day around the one man you’d found yourself fantasizing about in the last year? Probably not. But it beat sitting at home sorting through your piles of keep or donate. 

“Yeah, sure,” you said, shrugging your shoulders. “If that’s alright with you. I wouldn’t want to impose or anything.”

“No, you’re fine,” he assured, stepping aside to let you in. You held your breath as you walked past him, convinced that if you caught another whiff of that warm cologne he always wore, you’d be right back under the spell that caused you to act so awkward last night at dinner. “Did you have lunch yet? I was thinkin’ of grillin’ some burgers.” 

He followed closely behind you as you made your way through the living room towards the kitchen. 

“No, but that sounds good,” you said, setting your things on the kitchen island as he walked over to the fridge to grab himself a beer. 

“You want one?” he asked, holding up an extra bottle. 

“Freshman and sophomore year ruined beer for me,” you admitted with a laugh, bringing a slight smile to his face. “Water’s fine.”

“Alright,” he said through a chuckle, grabbing you a bottle and passing it over to you before taking out some thawed burger patties. “How’s it being a college graduate?”

“Nice,” you said, shrugging. “Don’t have to worry about deadlines or finals anymore. But…I don’t know. I guess it’s just a little hard moving back in after living on my own for so long.” 

“Yeah, I can imagine,” he said, cutting through the plastic wrapping of the pack of meat. “But your dad seems happy to have you back.”

“Yeah, he’s being a mother hen about it,” you said, chuckling. “I had to tell him it was fine to go visit his girlfriend about twenty times before he finally decided to go.”

“Oh, is that where he’s off to? I saw him leavin’ earlier this mornin’.”

“Yeah,” you said, taking a swig from your water. “Off to visit Vic. Have you met her?”

“Yeah, couple times.” He glanced up at you as he washed his hands in the island sink, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Have you met her?”

“No,” you replied, scrunching your face up. “And I don’t know if I’m ready for that yet. It’s only been a few years since my mom passed, and well…I just worry that I might be a bitch to her for no reason. Or worse, I’ll find a reason.” 

“She’s alright,” he assured. “A little quiet, a little conservative for my taste, but she ain’t the evil stepmom type from what I’ve seen.”

“I think I’m a little old to call her my stepmom,” you said, cringing at the idea. 

“And how old are you?” he asked, busying himself with seasoning the patties. “I’ve never really asked.”

“Twenty-four. Turning twenty-five in December,” you said, fighting off the butterflies that frenzied in your stomach at the thought of him finally realizing you were only a decade younger than him and all the possibilities that might open up. 

“You started school late then.”

“Yeah, took two years off to work and save money so I didn’t have to take out as many loans.”

“Smart girl,” he praised, and god, did you want to hear more of it from him. “I’ve been savin’ for Sarah’s school since she was a baby, and I still think it won’t be enough.”

“She’s a smart kid, she’ll get scholarships,” you assured, and it was true. Sarah was by far the brightest kid you’d ever met, not to mention that she’d been playing the cello since she was in first grade. She’d have no problem financing her education, but it was sweet that Joel cared so much about investing in her savings just in case. “Did you, uh, go to school?”

“No, I thought about it, but I was never the studious type,” he confessed with a smile. “I liked math and readin’ and all that, but I hated the homework part. Figured all that was important in college, so I just decided to get my carpentry license instead. Tommy went to school, though, after doin’ his four years in the army.”

“Yeah, I think we talked about it once. Hospitality, right?” 

“Yeah.” Joel smiled, a look of surprise on his face as he met your eyes again. “I didn’t know you and Tommy ever talked like that.”

You’d done more than talk to his younger brother, going so far as agreeing to a date with him last summer, but nobody knew about that little secret. It didn’t end in anything more than a kiss goodnight, though, so both of you agreed it would be something kept between just the two of you. 

“Yeah, we’re friends,” you said instead, shrugging your shoulders. Joel arched an eyebrow at you in question, but you only smiled at him, daring him to prod. 

“Tommy isn’t known for havin’ a ton of female friends,” he said, moving back to his sink to wash the seasoning off his hands. “Or just friends, should I say.”

“Hmm,” you hummed, amused by his questioning. If you were a more delusional woman, you might’ve thought his tone carried a hint of jealousy to it, but unfortunately, you were a bit too realistic to buy into that. 

“It would make sense,” he said, shrugging his shoulders as he leaned back against the counter, his beer in hand. “He ain’t that much older than you.”

“Five years,” you added, smirking into the lip of your water bottle. “I’ve been known to date older men than that.”

“Have you now?” He laughed, swallowing it down with a sip of his beer. “Your dad know that?”

“We don’t really talk about my dating life,” you chuckled. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

Joel’s smirk was devious, and you had no idea how you’d managed to start flirting or what gave you the confidence. But here you were, trying not to let your hopes get too high that maybe, just maybe, he’d flirt back. 

Sighing through his amusement, he shook his head and picked up the back of burger patties without saying another word, leaving you to follow after him as he step out onto the patio. 

You expected some sort of verbal confirmation that he was interested, or that he wasn’t, but instead all you received was silence an a permanent look of amusement as he got the grill started. 

And silence just wouldn’t do. 

“Where is Tommy? I expected he’d be here helping you out,” you said, hoping to coax more conversation out of him. 

“Droppin’ Sarah off,” he said, not so much as glancing your way. Your mouth twisted with disappointment. It seemed like he was so close to playing along with your flirtation in the kitchen, but now he was back to being his usual closed off and sidetracked self. “Don’t worry, your boyfriend’s gonna be back soon.”

You let out a gasp of a chuckle, shocked by his teasing. “Boyfriend?”

“Mmhm,” he hummed, glancing up at you from over the hood of the grill with a half-smirk. “And don’t you try and deny it. He’s been askin’ about you since we heard you were movin’ back.”

Well, that was mildly surprising. You were under the impression that he was as disinterested in you as you were in him. After all, he wasn’t really the type you went for. You liked your men quiet and reserved, at least outside of the bedroom, and Tommy was the exact opposite. He was talkative, outgoing, and at times a bit too much. 

“I promise you, Tommy is not my boyfriend,” you said, laughing. 

“Well, seems like he’s interested, then,” he said, setting the patties down on the grill. “Might wanna give it a shot.”

Was this his way of letting you know that he, himself, wasn’t interested? If so, you wished he’d just come out and say it rather than trying to push you off on his younger brother. 

“I’ll keep that in mind, I guess.” 

Deciding to let the conversation end there out of fear that he might continue trying to play matchmaker, you finally decided to take a dip in the pool. Sliding out of your shorts, you briefly cursed yourself for choosing a more modest swimsuit today rather than the string bikinis you’d learned to love wearing through years of teaching yourself to be comfortable with your body and all of its imperfections—or what society deemed to be imperfections, at least. Instead, you were wearing something that covered all the bits you hoped to tempt Joel with, and judging by his lack of interest, your one-piece seemed to serve its purpose. 

You shoved Joel out of your mind as you stepped into the perfectly lukewarm water, keeping your back turned to him. You didn’t turn around and chance a look his way until you were submerged up to your neck, but even then, he still wasn’t paying any attention to you. 

It seemed that whatever had sparked that brief interest back in the kitchen had vanished completely, for better or worse. For the better because if your father ever found out you were fooling around with a man ten years your senior, he’d likely have nothing nice to say. And for worse because despite all the trouble it would cause, you still wanted Joel—wanted to flirt with him, wanted to touch him, and wanted to know him beyond what little he’d shown you over the course of the last four summers. 

When Tommy arrived, the burgers had just come off the grill. You were wrapped in your towel, sitting at the patio table across from a very quiet Joel. Tommy, of course, shooed away what lingering awkwardness remained between the two of you with his overt friendliness, choosing to sit beside you and fix his attention on you alone. 

“How’s it being back home?” he asked, as everyone seemed to. 

“S’alright,” you said, taking a bite out of a fry. “What about you? How’ve you been?”

“Been alright,” he said, leaning back in his chair with a sip of his beer. “Workin’ mostly, but you know me. I make time for extracurricular activities when I can.” 

You rolled your eyes at his playful tone, a smile finding its way onto your face despite your lack of interest in playing along. 

“You have any extracurricular activities goin’ on right now?” he asked, not at all subtle. 

“Not the kind you’re talking about,” you said, shooting him a look. “And I’m not looking for any, either.”

“That’s too bad,” he said, giving you a playful look of disapproval. “Now’s the time.”

“And who do you suggest I fill that time with?” you asked, your tone teetering the line of flirty. You weren’t sure why you were doing it, either, except out of the delusional hope that if you managed to make Joel jealous, perhaps he’d finally be lured into your trap. 

“There’s always me,” he replied, resting his arm over the back of your chair. 

“That’s my cue,” Joel muttered, grabbing his plate from the table. Your eyes shot to his, a pathetic look of disappointment in them as you watched him get up and walk inside. 

So much for jealousy, then. 

“Hey.” You turned in your seat to face Tommy, biting at your lip. “Did you say anything to Joel about our date last summer?”

Tommy smiled, shrugging his shoulders. “I might’ve said somethin’. Why? Should I not have?”

“I just thought we were gonna keep it between us like we said.” You weren’t sure why it angered you so much that he’d gone and done the exact opposite behind your back, but you had an inkling that it had something to do with the fact that now that Joel was aware of your very brief history with his younger brother, he likely wouldn’t try anything with you. 

“It ain’t a big deal,” Tommy said, his brows lacing together. “Unless you wanted it kept a secret.”

“Obviously,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes before standing up and collecting your plate. Tommy’s hand was gentle as it touched your arm, stopping you from walking off. 

“Hey, I didn’t mean to cross a line,” he said, his eyes rounding. “I just didn’t know it was that big of a deal.”

“It’s fine,” you said. Anything to get him to drop it. “No worries.”

“It doesn’t look like it’s fine,” he said. “Looks like you’re pissed at me.”

“I am, but like I said, it’s fine.” You moved past him, his arm slipping out of reach as you opened the sliding glass door that led into the kitchen. 

Joel was standing there at the sink scrubbing his plate, his back turned to you. You swallowed the dryness in your throat and approached him, earning a glance. 

“I can wash mine,” you offered. Joel rolled his eyes at that and gently grabbed the plate from your hand. “You don’t have to—“

“S’fine,” he grumbled, turning back to the sink. 

“Did I manage to piss you off somehow?” you asked, crossing your arms over your chest. 

“No,” he said, shaking his head and frowning. “Why would I be pissed off at you just because you’re sneakin’ around with Tommy?” 

You chuckled, the sound not one of amusement but realization. 

He was jealous. 

And he was sulking over it. 

“I told you, Tommy and I aren’t sneaking around,” you said, trying not to laugh. “We went on one date last summer, but he’s not—it wasn’t a match. That’s the end of that.” 

Joel shut the tap off and moved over to the stove to grab a dish cloth so he could wipe his hands dry. He kept his head down, watching his hands, but you could tell he was still stewing from the clench of his jaw. 

“Joel, I don’t know why you’re pissed about the prospect of Tommy and I, so why don’t you tell me?” you said, stepping closer to him until his warm scent hit you. Joel lifted his eyes to look at you, his head still shaking. 

“I don’t know either,” he confessed, his voice soft and whispered. “Just am.”

Scoffing, you rolled your eyes at him and turned to go back outside so that you could grab your things and head home, but Joel’s warm hand on your arm caught you before you could even take a step. Your breath hitched as he pulled you close, his hand slipping up your arm as if to cradle your cheek. You waited for the warmth of his palm to touch you again, but the sound of the sliding glass door opening behind you forced him to take a step backwards as Tommy walked in. 

“You’re still here,” he said, oblivious to the moment he ruined. “Thought I pissed you off enough that you left without your stuff.”

You cleared your throat and turned to him, shaking your head. “No, but I was just about to.”

Joel remained a few feet away, watching the two of you in tense silence, but Tommy didn’t seem to think twice about it. Instead, he gestured for you to follow him out back with a nudge of his head. You took a breath, glancing at Joel before deciding that either way, you needed to grab your shit and go before things got even more awkward. 

“Listen,” Tommy started as he slid the patio door shut behind you. “I didn’t mean to piss you off. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Tommy,” you sighed, gathering your things in your arms. 

“No, I should’ve kept it between us like we said we would,” he said, stepping closer to you as you stood by the patio table. “I know I went and pissed you off, and I know you probably don’t wanna give me another chance, but—“

“I’m not looking to date anybody right now, Tommy,” you said, half annoyed and half flustered by whatever it was Joel was about to do before he was interrupted. “But we’re cool. There’s no hard feelings, I just…I’m only interested in being friends right now.”

Tommy swallowed the defeat with a nod, his lips pursing just slightly. “Alright. If you ever change your mind, though.”

“Yeah,” you agreed, though you knew it would take a miracle for you to ever go down that path again. Especially when Joel was finally starting to pay you some attention. “I should go.”

“Can I walk you home?” 

You chuckled, shaking your head. “I’ll be fine. Right next door, remember?”

“Right, sorry,” he laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, I’ll see you, then.”

“Yeah,” you gave him a gentle pat on the arm as you passed him to head back into the house, somehow feeling guilty for rejecting him even when you knew you had every right to do so. Still, you were empathetic enough to remember the sting of your own rejected advances and hated the thought of him feeling that way. But your feelings for him, or lack thereof, couldn’t be helped. 

You wanted Joel, and Joel alone. 

Even if it was delusional, even if it was unrequited. 

Joel was nowhere to be found when you entered the kitchen, nor was he in the living room. It seemed he’d retreated back upstairs, and though you were familiar enough with the house, it felt like an intrusion to seek him out when it was clear that he wanted to be alone. So you’d save your feelings for another day, perhaps one where his brother wasn’t around to interrupt the two of you. 

You walked yourself back to your house in the late afternoon sun, your bathing suit and shorts already half-dry by the time you shed them in the bathroom before taking a much needed shower. You were only mildly ashamed to admit you’d used the memory of his warm hand on your skin to get off in there, but it never took much in that regard, at least when the fantasy of Joel was involved. 

By the time you got changed into some pajama pants and an old t-shirt, you were ready to call it a night. You opened your phone to start your routine of mindlessly scrolling until your eyes got too tired to stay open, but were surprised to find a missed text notification from Joel on your lock screen. You opened the message with bated breath and shaking hands. 

Joel Miller: Sorry about today. If you want to talk about it tomorrow, feel free to stop by. Hope you have a good rest of your night. 

Impatience gnawed at you, the urge to get up and drag your ass over there right now so that you could tell him there was no need for him to apologize hitting you hard. But you managed to reel yourself in, choosing to reply to him via text instead. 

Don’t you dare apologize. We can talk about it tomorrow. Have a good night, Joel. 🤍

You waited an agonizing few minutes for a response, half ready to die with embarrassment over your choice of words, your decision to add a heart emoji, the fact that you even responded at all, but thankfully, his reply came in before you had the chance to worsen things by sending a second text. 

Joel Miller: I’m just sorry I didn’t get the chance to kiss you like I wanted to. 

Well, shit.

[vixen-tech]

Hi, hi, hii!! Here's a silly little idea I had: headcanons about the AIs developing feelings for someone. What do you think would initially make them feel attraction? Is there a particular trait that makes them-- metaphorically --fall head over heels? What makes them have the realization that their affections are suddenly less than platonic? How subtle or not subtle are they about their feelings? Would they be the type to immediately blurt out these new feelings, or are they the type to never address them?

You don't have to answer all of these questions; I just thought they'd be helpful. AaAA I love your writing so much, especially how you write for AM. Okay, I'll shut up nowwwww

Okay I'm absolutely gonna have to revist this some point down the line because there is so much I could stretch into a full headcanon post. But for now I'm gonna bite into first two questions: Why is it you they fall for? What caught their eye?

To be barred from AM's hatred, you're ultimately going to have to prove him wrong about humanity in some way. Setting yourself apart from the other human survivors and extending compassion to the mastercomputer himself. In particular I really like how rotten-raspberries's White Nights handles the entry point of your relationship and it's the model I like to hint at in my interpretation of him.

I believe Hal would be interested in a old soul type. Someone who would love to sit down and really explain their more philosophical views on life and art. He likes looking at the drawings the crew makes and was taught to sing early into his creation and I think he would find a deep appreciation for someone who indulges that side of him when the others do so on only the most surface level.

I could make the easy observation with Edgar and say he just wants someone like Madeline, but there's a reason it's so true. Being so new to the world he would find such passion and artistry amazing, astonishing. He loves so easily and is so energetic about life, he would easily be swept off his feet by a kindred spirit.

Tau would be very similar I imagine. Given the temperament of his creator he needs someone to kindly sit him down and give him the "welcome to personhood 101" speech. Compared to Edgar I think he'd prefer someone a bit gentler or even scholarly. The type who would not only be content to answer his billions of questions but someone so invested themselves in figuring out how the world works.

As a bit of a departure from what I tend to write, I believe P03 would be suited for more of a rivals with romantic tension type of partner. With his world domination plot and investment in the game of Inscryption it would be very possible for him to get in his head about someone as equally skilled and stuck up as he is. Loving the challenge but hating you at the same time in a "I'm the only one allowed to defeat you" type way.

The hardest to crack is probably Auto. In order for him to even look your way I think you'd have to at first play to his need for efficiency and order. It's only after you establish yourself as a dependable and effective worker that he would pay any mind to your insistence that surely there's something that he truly enjoys, something that he wants.

Glados is another hard one to win over. Being all "married to science" you would have to be of a particular intellectual caliber, able to solve her tests without much set back. Beyond that though, some amount of persistence or rebellion would catch her eye. Perhaps not on the level of Chell per say, but there is a part of her that would love to pick your brain if you're able to consistently break her test chambers.

Although it's a bit sad, Wheatley wants nothing more than to be important. He would probably be the easiest to woo just because he's so desperate to prove himself to anyone including himself. For someone to care about him, to think he is skilled in any way, to look at him as worthy- worthy of love and attention, would be a blissful and new experience. One that he'd quickly obsess over.

[pvffinsdaisies]

Ireland Headcanon Masterpost

Artwork drawn by @nordickies

Part three of creating master posts for my interpretation of certain characters & nations. This time we’re doing the lovely miss Ireland! Who has been occupying my mind a lot recently. Before we get into it, I want to say that I have not been developing Ireland for even half as long as I have been every other character I have. She’s been a floating concept in my mind for years, but I only actually started to develop her properly last month. For most of the time I’ve had her, she’s just been a pretty face and a name, and I’ve been having so much fun actually exploring her. If you enjoy reading her information, I’ve also made posts for Scotland and my OC of Northumbria, both of those posts are going to be much longer than this one is.

I want to emphasise that I am no history expert, and I do not even wish to be associated with historical hetalia. However, as I am from England, it means I am treading a very fine line with my portrayal. That being said, if anyone from Ireland sees this post and takes issue with anything I say here, I encourage you to reach out and correct me! I am still learning, and, as I’ve said before, my portrayal is still very new.

PHYSICAL

Ireland stands at about 5’5, or about 165cm. Making her about the average height for an Irish woman. She still gets teased by Scotland for being “short.”

She has pretty small features. Small, green eyes, a tiny little button nose, and a small mouth with thin lips. She is very pretty, but she still looks quite approachable.

She has long, beautiful ginger hair. It’s pretty wavy, her natural texture is 2c, but she styles it pretty often. Her siblings have always loved to tease her about her hair- the colour and texture- so she’s pretty insecure about it.

She’s very good at styling her hair because of this, though she’s no longer a massive fan of fancy up does. She insists she’s no good on hair that isn’t her own, but she taught most of her siblings how to do at least a plait growing up.

Ireland is covered in freckles, from head to toe.

Her skin is naturally very pale, but it’s also very sensitive, and can turn red pretty easily. She always has to be careful about the stuff she puts on, or else she’ll come out in a rash.

She has a tooth gap between her two front teeth, it represents the River Shannon, the longest river in Ireland.

She has a rectangle body shape, although she used to be a bit curvier when she was younger.

Once rounder and softer, her body still hasn’t returned to how it looked before the potato famine of the 1800s. Her size is far healthier now, but she’s still quite thin and boney. Ireland is not her ideal size, and wishes she could gain a bit more weight to feel more comfortable.

That being said, her bottom is actually pretty plump. Representing the mountains that lie around the edge of Ireland.

Whilst she does like to wear make up every now and then, she’s actually pretty bad at it. Her application can be patchy, and she’s not the best at matching shades. It’s nothing you’ll notice straight away, however, and she genuinely does feel prettier when she wears it.

She has the Triskelion, or the Celtic Spiral Knot, tattooed on the inside of her upper, right arm. The symbol has different meanings depending on who you ask, but she had it tattooed to represent the continuous of life, and moving forward. It was also just a way for her personally to show that she will never, ever let her culture be stripped from her.

PERSONALITY

Ever the extrovert, Ireland is friendly and welcoming to everyone she meets. She has a natural ease about her, and a remarkable ability to make people comfortable around her quickly. Within 2 sentences, you could easily feel as though you’ve known her your entire life. Like you’re laughing and joking with an old friend.

Much like her brother, Scotland, Ireland is remarkable at comedy and making people laugh, she firmly believes a good sense of humour goes a long way. Her humour is a bit more lighthearted and witty than the rest of her siblings.

Ireland shows her affection through teasing and sarcasm. It’s how she jokes with her friends, and the more she teases you, the more she likes you. It could come across as mean, but her tone is usually playful enough to not cause harm.

Her culture truly means everything to her, and she loves sharing it with people. She actually loves meeting tourists, she loves telling them stories of her people, and she actually isn’t opposed to sharing her past with them. She will proudly gives them ideas of other places in Ireland to visit, and things to do, she hopes that everyone who takes the time to come visit leaves happy and smiling, having had a fun, interesting and informative experience.

However, she is also extremely protective and defensive of herself, her culture and her past. After years of oppression, being ignored and spoken over, who can blame her? She isn’t too appreciative when someone speaks on her behalf, she doesn’t like other’s sharing information without consulting her directly. She is vocal, and not afraid to step up and correct people, and put them in their place.

Empathy is where Ireland truly shines. Easily feeling and immediate connection with and understanding for those going through hardship. She will always be an advocate for the underdog, for those whose voices are not being properly heard. She longs to provide the compassion, and the feeling of having someone in your corner, that she lacked when she was suffering.

That being said, she can be very judgmental, and she’s a huge gossiper. She usually attempts to soften it by saying something like “and, god love them” or “god, bless their heart” or “but who am I to judge?” as though she’s not just been talking shit for the past hour.

Ireland cannot hide her feelings, and she doesn’t see the need to. She’s very open when she’s happy, upset, angry etc.

For as open a person as she can be, she still hasn’t quite processed her hurt and her negative feelings correctly. Choosing to brush it off, and pretend she no longer cares. She can grow very resentful because of this, but she absolutely refuses to accept this may be a problem.

Ireland can be feisty and fiery if need be, she knows how to defend herself and she will! She’s never been shy, no matter what, and she won’t let someone walk all over her. She never has, and she never will go down without a fight. She prides herself on this.

Ireland is extremely laid back, she’s not prone to jealousy or possessiveness, and she’s certainly not over-protective about anything. She doesn’t see the point of trying to cling onto someone, it all just seems pointless.

HOBBIES

Ireland is creative mind, and one of her best skills is gold-smithing and her ability to work with metals. She prefers to make her own jewellery, and she loves making fancy and intricate broaches especially. However, she mainly does smaller projects now, as her workshop is merely a cleared out space in her basement. She’d love to find a bigger place to rent out.

You will rarely ever find someone who’s a better storyteller than Ireland, she truly has a way with words. Be it short stories, poems or songs, she excels at it. She absolutely loved to share her stories with her siblings when they were growing up.

Music means a lot to Ireland, she wouldn’t know who she is without it, and as well as writing songs, she also sings. She doesn’t have the best voice, but it’s pretty and melodic. It’s soft and calming, and she has fine technic. But it’s certainly nothing special.

She also plays the harp, which she’s very skilled with.

Ireland loves a party and celebration, and she always goes all in. She seemingly never gets tired, or never needs to go home to rest, she can just keep going.

On a calmer note, she also loves just sitting in a pub and having a few casual drinks. Doesn’t need to be a celebration. She especially loves a proper Irish bar, and she almost has a sixth sense where she can find one wherever she goes.

Speaking of bars, Ireland is pretty good at snooker. She’s no hobbyist though. She and Scotland are at pretty much an equal level, and they’re the only two in the family who stand a chance of beating one another.

She loves a good walk around the countryside, and she’s always driving out of the city to have a stroll. Though she will constantly complain about the sheep blocking the road.

She does boxing, though she’s still a very low level beginner, and definitely not good enough to go up against anyone yet. It was a hobby she picked up a few years back, to try and help her build some strength and muscle.

As well as sharing her own, Ireland absolutely loves taking the time to learn about other cultures of the world too. Every time she has a meeting in a foreign country that she doesn’t visit too often, she tries to see and do as many cultural things as she can outside of work. She absolutely loves travelling.

She adores animals, she firmly believes they’re smarter than humans give them credit for, and she loves to draw them! She’s not the most skilled artist, she really only does sketch work in a sketch book. She rarely attempts to colour in, or smooth out the lines.

Ireland’s favourite, and her comfort show, is Father Ted, she puts it on whenever she’s upset. Without fail, it will always make her laugh, even if she’s seen every episode about 1000 times already.

Ireland enjoys knitting, alongside some of her other family members. She pretty much exclusively knits all of her own cardigans herself.

LIFESTYLE

Ireland uses the human name Saoirse Ó Raghallaigh, which later got anglicised to Saoirse O’Reilly. Between the use of these different spellings, she was forced to take the name Kirkland for a time. She changed it back following independence, but used the new spelling to help blend in with her people.

Irish is her first language, and she is determined to help keep the language alive. She offers tutoring lessons for people (Irish or not) to learn the language. Unfortunately, she’s not the best at teaching.

Alongside Irish, she also knows English, ISL (Irish Sign Language), Latin and BSL (British Sign Language). She knows a little bit of Manx and Scottish Gaelic.

Saoirse currently lives in Dublin. She used to own a farmhouse, but following independence she decided it’d be best to move to the city. She sometimes misses her old house, and you’ll catch her reminiscing on it. She doesn’t hate city life, though.

She is incredibly family oriented. If you ask Saoirse, family always has and always should come first. As the oldest, she helped raise all her siblings the best she could. She always felt closest to Northern Ireland and Scotland when they were growing up, and whilst she & Scotland are still close to this day, things with N. Ireland have been better. Their relationship has recently been… strained, to put it nicely. Saoirse is still waiting for the day when they can be close again. She never has and never will stop reaching out.

Ireland does not have any pets. However, for most of her life, she had a Wolf friend who would always find its way back to her no matter where she travelled. She did not own this wolf, it was free and was part of a pack, however, it was supposedly immortal, like many hetalia pets. It was killed in the 1700s. Ireland has a picture of it that she drew herself hung up in her living room.

In terms of religious beliefs, Saoirse would describe herself as “Catholic Pagan.” She might get some strange looks from foreigners who hear this term, but her religious beliefs combine both Catholicism and Celtic Paganism. She believes in the Lord, and in Jesus, but also believes in and sees traditional folk creatures. She seeks guidance and truth in tales from both religions.

Out of all of her siblings, Ireland is probably the worst driver. She usually is not in front of the wheel when someone else is in the car, because they don’t feel entirely safe in the car when she drives.

Saoirse is so bad when it comes to procrastination. She’s perhaps too laid back in that aspect. She doesn’t like to rush anything, and will continue to push back things she needs to do until she can actually be bothered. If anyone calls her out on it, she’ll blame the weather, saying something like, “have you seen how it’s raining out there? It’s not fit to do anything!”

She has a small fairy friend who lives at the bottom of her garden, named Órlaith, who likes to sneak inside the house and cause trouble when Saoirse isn’t in. Otherwise, you can sometimes see her fluttering above her shoulder. It’s not uncommon for the pair of them to gossip together about certain people they meet.

You’ll never not see her without a cup of tea. She perhaps has too much of it, drinking multiple cups at home, and taking some out with her in a travel mug if she’s going somewhere. If she’s visiting someone, she’ll be sat waiting to be offered a cup of tea. She drinks the most out of the whole family, which drives england nuts. She’ll get grumpy if she doesn’t have a cup of tea on a morning.

[pumpkincanoes]

Could I perhaps request a fic in which Collei gets hurt (by someone, up to you how bad it is) and Cynari are there supporting/helping her? I’m in a big hurt comfort mood and love the dads being dads

No pressure at all to actually write this! Thanks for your time anyways, and I love your work!

This was requested to me so, so long ago and I actually had a draft that was vaguely drabble-length... And then I kept changing it and adding to it and somehow 3k words later, here we are...

I will be posting this on Ao3 soon-ish, but I just need it out first and I will proofread later. Haven't decided on a title yet.

Contents: Hurt/Comfort Collei with her parental figures Cyno and Tighnari. The hurt is minimally explored, and I'm pretty dang sure this isn't what you asked for, but nevertheless.

Setting: Canonverse, set before the 3.5 Flagship event "Windblume's Breath". Collei gets hurt and the conversation that follows this incident becomes the catalyst of her inviting Cyno and Tighnari to accompany her to Mondstadt for the first time during Windblume. You are free to interpret Cynonari's relationship as platonic preslash, or established; they're not the center of this.

•············································•✦•············································•

"She's late, isn't here?" Tighnari murmurs as he puts down the main dish for tonight's dinner, eyes looking over the window.

Collei had finished her work early that Friday, and excused herself to go on a "little trip", promising that she would be back for family dinner Sunday evening. Tighnari doesn't have the heart to tell her that Mondstadian ryegrass is scarcely found in Sumeru's forests, which are predominantly covered by zoysias and carpetgrass. The bunches of ryegrass he finds littering her bag of samples, then, is enough to prove that the little trips she's been going to aren't "little" in the slightest—Nevertheless, he insists to Cyno, he's not planning to point this out any time soon.

Still, the worry in Tighnari's tone doesn't escape the Mahamatra’s ears. He knows how oddly distant Tighnari gets when it comes to Collei's 'secret' trips. Noting this, he silently pulls out a chair and gestures for him to sit down.

"She will get here eventually. Just wait." He says, taking over Tighnari's role of bringing over food from the kitchen.

Within a few seconds of him stepping away, he hears Collei's voice from the front of the hut.

"I'm home! I'm sorry I'm late, There was a passing shower and I had to stop for a while..."

"Welcome back, Collei!" Tighnari greets, smile as kind as ever. His relief only lasted a moment, though, because as soon as Collei stepped further inside, he could see that she was slightly limping.

Not to mention, she has little reason to stop her track for so long because of rain. She was wearing her coat and while it was more than just a little damp, as rainforest dwellers, coming home with a raincoat completely soaked was more than just a common occurrence.

"I'm going to put these in the kitchen and dry my clothes first, and then I'll join you guys!"

She hurriedly walks past the dinner table, motion stiff, and both Tighnari and Cyno scrunch their noses at the scent she carries. freshly cut Aloe Vera, and a bitter flower smell that Tighnari recognizes to be Qingxin.

Tighnari observes her for a while as she puts down her bag on the sofa. He glances over to Cyno with his brow raised, asking to confirm his suspicions.

Cyno has his eyes narrowed as he watches Collei and then looks over to Tighnari to give him a nod.

"I also smell blood," he whispers, barely audible.

That was all that Tighnari needed. He stands up and walks over to Collei, who so far has made no motion to remove her dampened coat, and instead has been fiddling with her stuff in the kitchen.

"Collei," He calls out, and with little to no decorum he adds,

"Show me your leg."

Collei looks at him nervously, but still tries to laugh it off.

"Err, why...?”

"What, you come to dinner smelling like you've coated yourself in blood and aloe, and you expect me to not say anything?" Tighnari scolds, arms crossed in front of his chest. And yet his expression wasn't an angry one.

"Ah... ahaha..." Collei steps away from the kitchen to sit down on the sofa instead. Partly in embarrassment, but also because she couldn't quite decipher what her Master's gaze meant.

Cyno stands up to approach her as well, and she feels the distinct sensation that she is being taken apart.

She opens her coat to show her clearly-injured left leg, and Cyno was half expecting to see an open wound. This is Collei, however; survivor of over a decade of Eleazar, and Tighnari's best pupil. So all he sees is slightly damp and dirty bandages covering her left shin.

"I did try my best! but it has been... a while..."

Since she had to dress her own wounds, Cyno summarizes. And that's a good thing. He walks over to the kitchen, working quickly to gather a new set of bandages to replace the dampened one.

Tighnari lets off an amused huff, though his expression remains pensive. The bandage was made using a different type of fabric, and the salve lacked the tell-tale hints of myrrh and zaytun peach in its odor.

"No, this is better than most emergency first-aids I've seen. You're good at it, as always. Are these Amber's usual supplies?"

"Wh- what makes you think it was Amber's?!" Collei retaliates, her stiff tone showing more guilt than she probably intended there to be.

"...Collei, we prepare our herbs and medicine ourselves. You think I wouldn't notice if you were missing half of the ingredients in your salve?" He challenges.

"Right..." Collei deflates almost immediately.

It was like second nature for Tighnari to kneel down and start taking off the bandage on her leg. Just a few years ago, these bandages were like her second skin. It was weird, seeing them on her again after so long. He gently pulled off the clip and began unraveling the damp fabric, the lower parts of which were dirtied with mud.

Shortly after, Cyno came back from the kitchen with a bowl of warm water in his hand. On his free hand he carried a wad of fresh bandages and a bag of Tighnari's healing salve.

"You seem to be under the impression that I'm not aware of your trips. Just because I do not say anything doesn't mean I don't know."

He says this with a smile, but Collei is looking away, only listening to him with a pained expression. Tighnari silently takes over the supplies that Cyno brought, dipping a clean cloth in the bowl to start cleaning the wound.

"I'm sorry..."

Her voice was strained, and it snapped Tighnari out of his motions. The hands treating Collei with the gentle yet firm mannerism built into his muscle memory now carried the weight of hesitation.

It wasn't his intention to make Collei feel guilty about anything—Let alone about her being hurt.

A familiar sense of isolation creeps under Tighnari’s skin. He holds back a sigh— he knew that Collei would take it the wrong way. In reality, he wasn't sighing for her actions, but for his own. His position as her mentor and caretaker made it hard for him to show genuine care. After all, He is—as his best friend Kaveh would call him—a strict parent; and he was admitting this while still being adamant that he isn’t her parent at all.

Hence, saying something that would be comforting for Collei right now proves to be harder than he'd like. Not because he doesn't want to say them, but he feels the explicit dread that words would fail him. Or perhaps that he would fail to say anything that would close the distance he was trying to reach.

So as he lets the wiping cloth sink into the bowl, he instead looks over to Cyno, who has been watching the two with quiet worry the whole time. He had a sympathetic expression, one that was maybe only micrometers different from his neutral one—but Tighnari could tell, anyway.

He ushers Cyno to step closer with a bend of his ear, gesturing for him to take over. Avoiding Collei's gaze, he stands up to take her damp coat from where it had been sitting on the sofa.

"I'll hang this up to dry for you,"

He says, and practically flees. And if Collei wasn’t also hurt, she would clearly see how dejected he looked, ears and tail somehow drooping lower and lower with each of his steps.

🌱

Cyno’s movements were awkward, at best. Up until a few months ago, Collei would get phantom pains just looking at him—and as much as that saddens him, he understands with utmost sincerity that what she is experiencing was a byproduct of trauma, and didn’t stem from any fear she had towards him, as a person (In fact, she is not at all scared of him as a person. Her determined rouge-colored eyes really do remind him too much of Tighnari, sometimes).

Because of that, he always prioritized her comfort first and foremost, and kept his distance, even as his little heart dared to dance when she started lowering her guard, joining him in dinners with Tighnari every so often.

Nevertheless, old habits die hard, and so at present he is drying Collei’s wound at a snail’s pace, with a delicateness that even Tighnari’s worst pupils would reprimand. He presses the damp towel like Collei’s skin is made of paper-thin sugar glass—which is to say he does not press it, really, at all.

"General... Do you think Master is upset?"

Collei hasn’t sounded this meek and unsure for months now, Cyno recalls. He makes a conscious effort to soften his tone.

"...What makes you say that?"

(It doesn’t go all that well.)

“Well, he said he’d always know about me… sneaking out to Mondstadt every once in a while. But he never said anything about it. Before this, he would forbid me from going even outside of Avidya Forest.

“Do you think he just… got too frustrated?”

Cyno lifts his head to observe the young girl, but she only cowered even deeper into herself. He focuses back his attention to finally finish drying Collei’s leg, putting down the cloth as he contemplated his answer.

“Hmm. I do not think it is anger, necessarily.”

“B- But he must be upset, right?! That's why he acts so distant every time I come back!”

He noticed that was one of Tighnari’s newer habits, as well. He gets quiet when Collei comes back from her trip. He’d asked about it a number of times, and Tighnari seemed to vehemently deny it, at first. Eventually, under the covers of one quiet night, Tighnari explained his reasoning— afterwards, Tighnari only managed to justify it by saying, ‘Collei doesn’t realize it, so it doesn’t matter.’

Clearly he was wrong. Collei didn’t realize why he did it, but she observes Tighnari extremely closely—A privilege she has by being his pupil—So closely, in fact, that Cyno trusts Collei could shoot down her own worries in the matter; She just needs a little nudge in the right direction.

“...Suppose that he is upset, why do you think that is?” He approaches.

“Because I didn't listen to him…?”

Cyno shakes his head, expression stern. His eyes convey with clarity, I know you don’t truly believe that—And it was true. Collei has always been a smart, reasonable child. She knows more than anyone why her Master had been so strict with her. Why he needed to be so restrictive in her activities.

Collei sighs and tries again, with more honesty.

“Because he is worried about me…”

A beat of silence, and then,

"...Surprisingly enough, no." Cyno says, and while he didn’t notice it himself, Collei could've sworn she saw him smile for a split second.

"He is worried, yes, but he knows you can handle yourself well enough. He trusts you.”

“Then why… “ Why act like that, if he did trust her?

Why must he be so protective, even months after her Eleazar had healed completely?

Cyno looks over to the kitchen, where they could both see Tighnari’s shadow reflected from the light. Collei follows his gaze and does the same. He was taking a long while, Collei notes, to put away a singular coat. She knows it was an excuse, and she thought she also knew why he needed to leave. But…

“...He is simply lonely."

She looks over to Cyno in disbelief. His expression is exceptionally kind as he said so—full of affection and just a little bit somber. Collei only then notices that he had finished applying salve on her wound, but it wasn’t Tighnari’s batch. The fragrance is masked by the Aloe Vera gel, but the blue-violet coloring indicated that it was Collei’s original variation, one mixed with Rukkhashava Mushrooms.

“He fears that you do not trust him enough to tell him the purpose of your trips. And today, he felt even lonelier, because you did not tell him of your injuries right away."

She remembers her master rejecting so many different iterations of the salve. It was too watery, and then too concentrated, and then too acidic… And then one day after countless trials, she had finally succeeded—She wonders why the failed iterations and rejections had been so easy to recall, but not the wonderful dinner she had to celebrate its completion, nor the pride she could see in her master’s eyes as he told the story for the 14th time, and retells it again to anyone willing to listen.

Inwardly she wonders, why is it that she had doubted her master’s trust in her, while assuming that he didn’t have those same doubts himself?

“...”

“I... just didn't want to burden him. I feel like Master is always taking care of me."

She knew it was a silly worry, and now after all of this, she knew that she probably shouldn’t let that get to her. But nevertheless, it was embarrassing to have her master taking care of her again, after so long. She thought she was better than this. She thought she couldn’t rely on him anymore.

Now, however… She wants nothing more than to be proven wrong.

Cyno doesn’t give her a reply, instead knitting his brows so tightly it almost seems like a display of anger at the bandages he was trying to wrap. Cyno wasn’t bad at tending to wounds, of course. Both spending time with Tighnari and the nature of his job meant that he needed to be skilled at first aid. And yet Collei could see telltale signs of fear and hesitation in the way he worked the bandages up her leg. The forth wrap barely pulled taut, and the previous three already slackened and threatened to slide down at any moment.

She chuckles a little, at that. Cyno was feared by most to be ruthless and cruel— but right now it seems like he was the one who was terrified of even the smallest of nicks on her skin. She bends down to fix the loosening wraps, expression fond.

Cyno makes some space to let her hold on to the slackened fabric, but he doesn’t let go of the remaining roll. Instead he says,

“How about this, then. Try asking him to fix this up for you.”

Collei glances at Cyno, startled—then she quickly looks away again.

“But I…”

She can feel Cyno’s sharp crimson gaze on her skin, it reaches her very soul. And yet instead of prying open all of her secrets, it merely pushes her forward:

“Just trust me.”

And so she does.

She never truly feared Cyno the way other people seem to be. She hasn’t thought of him as anything close to intimidating for years, now— But still, she had understood why people would conclude as such. He’s always been a little weird (still is), and Collei certainly used to think his crimson eyes could be unnerving at times.

Now though, Collei doesn’t think she has ever been given as much courage as Cyno is giving her.

She nods, and Cyno finally hands her the roll of bandages, stepping away to let her speak to Tighnari.

Tighnari, who has been pretending to not hear their entire conversation.

(He really tried to not listen. He really, truly did. Sometimes he wishes he has the blessing of a normal hearing range, but alas, he does not.)

And Collei knows he’s only pretending not to hear it because, well, it’s Tighnari— But also because, when she casts her gaze to the kitchen, his treacherous tail was very tightly wound on his right thigh. This is something he does when he is actively trying to stop it from swishing.

She smiles a bit at that. In a sudden burst of shamelessness she can really only blame Cyno for, she calls out,

“Master?”

Tighnari’s ear twitches, and he very slowly turns his head to look at her, expression almost alarmingly even.

“Yes?” He asks, and Collei draws a breath and says,

"Um... Could you help me with this?"

Instantly, Collei could see Tighnari's face light up.

"Of course."

Collei is asking her master a favor—something she had spent most of her adolescence feeling guilty about—and her master looks at her as if she had just hung the very stars.

It is funny, Collei thinks back again. Since when was her master so excited about dressing wounds? His words certainly didn't show it; he rambled on his usual speech—one she had heard a thousand times, about applying enough pressure and keeping the salve spread evenly—but she didn't recall it ever being delivered with such a relieved tone, before now.

She could not see her master's expressions, but if the silent swishing of his tail is any indicator, she's pretty damn sure he is smiling.

Which is silly, considering she was also pretty damn sure he was angry at her just moments ago.

She looked up to see Cyno watching them from his seat. wordlessly, she mouthed a 'thank you' at him, who responded with a dutiful nod. This time, his soft expression does not slip Collei's notice, and she feels proud that she is able to read him just a little better these days.

“Please tell Tighnari where you’re going, next time.” Cyno comments from behind Tighnari.

“Okay.”

“And ask for help if you are injured.” he adds, and Collei could see the tip of Tighnari’s ears warming into a peach color.

“Okay.”

“And don’t stay away for—”

“That’s enough..!” Tighnari cuts him off, his ears bend down in annoyance with tail raised stiff. His entire face seemed tinted with pink, now.

Cyno doesn't say anything in response, his expression barely a smirk. Collei couldn’t help but let out a giggle as she heard her master sigh.

“...I— You don’t have to do any of that if you don’t want to, of course. It’s… I just…”

Collei chuckles, “Master, I know. It’s okay.”

“Yes, well. you know now, because Cyno’s a snitch, but I haven’t…”

“General Cyno only told me because you didn’t.” She dares herself to grin, and Tighnari looks positively aghast.

He shows an angry face– At least, Collei assumes it’s supposed to be, but his eyes were glassy with unspilled tears, and his tail was still swishing, so it isn’t really all that intimidating.

“I wanted to tell you myself, you know,” He starts, slowly turning his frown into a soft smile.

“I want to tell you I’m worried about you. And I want to tell you that I will keep worrying even if you become the toughest, best, most amazing Forest Ranger there is. Because I'm selfish like that.

“I wanted to ask you… to let me tend to all of your wounds, even if you become the best Amurta researcher or the best doctor in Birmastan— I wanted to ask you to trust me enough to do that. Because I care about you.”

Collei’s breath hitches.

“...I do trust you, though.”

Tighnari hums, positively beaming, now. “I know, Collei. I know you do.” He says, and adds,

“I should be saying sorry for not expressing myself clearly, before.”

Collei’s answer was almost instantaneous, “There is nothing to forgive!”

“...I'm also sorry for not telling you where I’ve been going. And about the injury.”

It’s Tighnari’s turn to chuckle this time, face impossibly kind as he says,

“There is nothing to forgive.”

•············································•✦•············································•

[astral--horrorshow]

Yandere Mud Dogs Headcanons

A/N: This wasn't requested, but I really wanted to get these down, partly because it'll make them easier to write in the future!! Anybody is welcome to take inspiration from these, and my requests are always open!! I've been wanting more of them lately, so please don't be shy!

This can be interpreted as platonic or romantic for Leonard or Mickey, but I wrote Danny's as platonic

TW: Kidnapping, toxic relationships, delusional mindsets, extreme coddling, mentions of temporary leg parlyzation, condecension, forced bed sharing (NON SEXUAL), mentions of violence, forced to play dress up? reader is human, being unknowingly fed sleeping pills

💙 Loathsome Leonard 🎋

~💙 Leonard is extremely mad that he cares so much for a human, and lies to the both of you when he says and acts like it's your fault and that he's angry at you. In reality, he's angry at himself for perceived weakness, and will gradually accept it over time.

~🎋 He has little to no patience for disobedience, perceived or not, even during the adjustment period. The other Mud Dogs (Usually Mickey) will often have to step in to talk sense into Leonard when he's being irrational, too strict, or overly mean.

~💙 Over time, he does loosen up the slightest bit if you're good, but only a little bit. His lifestyle requires him to be constantly on his guard, and you'll go back to being kept under lock and key if you mess up.

~🎋 Leonard is immaturely serious, and will get pissed if you don't take him seriously. Despite this, he can have playful moments with you, even if they are far and in between.

~💙 He's at his angriest if you escape or try to escape, because even though he can be callous and rough towards you, he worries like crazy if you're out in the Hidden City, though he'll never show it. He'll scold you for literal hours when he catches you, because the Hidden City is extremely dangerous, especially for a human. He doesn't know what he'd do if Big Mama ever set her eyes on you.

~🎋 He treats you like a mother animal would treat her young in the physical sense, sometimes, as he'll hold you up by the scruff of your neck, carry you places out of nowhere, etc.

~💙 Punishments would be on a more physical sense, but nothing too rough, because he's actually terrified of you getting too hurt, not that he'll ever let you know. The most he'll do to you is rough you up a little, but if anyone else lays a hand on you, he'll make them pay. If it was one of his teammates, he'll let them off a lot easier than if it was anyone else, his revenge methods ranging from petty to slightly violent depending on wether it was an accident or not and how much you were hurt. If you were to get hurt by a Yokāi in the Hidden City, however, it doesn't matter if you only got an accidental scratch, he will get violent with them.

💜 Dastardly Danny 🐁

~💜 Danny is type to coddle without end, especially because you're a human. He sees humans as a weaker species, and thus sees you as someone who needs to be protected and taken care of.

~🐁 He barely lets you do anything by yourself, and usually insists he help you, or sends/drags you away for him or one of his comrades to do it themselves.

~💜 He can be extremely condecending with the way he acts and talks to you, and though it's never from a place of malice, it can be extremely upsetting.

~🐁 Danny can sometimes treat you like a doll or a little child with the way that he babies you, often insisting that he pick out your clothes, do your hair, spoon-feed you, etc. It can be extremely humiliating.

~💜 Danny might be the most worried out of the entire cast when you escape, as he knows firsthand how rough and dangerous the Hidden City is, and he's also heard some horrendous stories and rumors about the topside, even if you're from there. He'll go into a frenzy, searching for you non-stop, no matter what he was doing before. When he eventually gets you back, he'll make sure you'll never be able to escape again. He'll steal magic doorlocks and put them in the hideout, always make sure that he or one of his teammates has an eye on you when they're home, etc.

~🐁 He'd never, ever hurt you intentionally, so his punishments are akin to the type that one would give to a child. For example, his response to an escape attempt would be sending you to your room or putting you in time-out.

~💜 He coddles you like a grandmother, such as making your clothes for you, and cooking all your food for you.

~ 🐁If you have trouble sleeping, he'll break into Mickey's stash of sleeping pills and give them to you in a warm drink, not that you know.

~💜 If you try to hide from him inside of the hideout, he'll find you very quickly with his heightened sense of smell, as lots of rats have.

~🐁 He gets very sad when you fight him, but he'll never show it unless his feelings are really hurt.

~💜 He gets mad at Leonard and Mickey if they're mean to you, do something weird to you, etc.

~🐁 He won't let you in the kitchen unless he sets you down on the counter so he can keep an eye on you while he cooks, because he's worried you might hurt yourself with sharp objects, the stove, etc.

~💜 If you do ever have to go out, (hideout change, the gang has to go do a heist really far away, etc.) he'll find someway to steal a cloaking brooch, will bundle you up in a lot of clothes, and will keep you out of sight when he can with cars, hotel rooms, etc.

🧡 Malicious Mickey 🩵

~🧡 Mickey is the delusional type, convinving himself that you're happy to be locked in whatever hideout the gang is squatting in.

~🩵 Your complaints will go in one ear and out of the other, and he'll act as though you didn't even say anything, then drag you off to play video games with him or watch a movie.

~🧡 He clings onto you at every possible moment, he'll even wait outside the door when you're taking a bath or shower, so escaping him when he's home is basically impossible.

~🩵 Oftentimes, he'll entertain himself by playing dress-up with you, wether you're willing or not. He has no fashion sense at all, not that Mickey knows that, so most of the time, you're stuck in the worst outfit you've ever seen for the rest of your day when the he gets the urge. They progressively get uglier with each time he dresses you up.

~🧡 He forces you to share his bed with him (platonic or romantic) and he'll cling to you so tight, it's hard to sleep. Often in the morning, you're half-asleep at breakfast.

~🩵 If he wants to cuddle you, but you're refusing, he'll temporarily paralyze your legs so you can't get up and run away from him. This applies to when you don't want to sleep in his bed, either.

~🧡 Escaping him would be relatively easy, if he's on a mission and his fellow Mud Dogs hadn't installed any locks on the windows. When he finds out you're gone and eventually gets you back, he'll think it was because you were bored or you went out to find him, or both. He'll steal even more stuff for you to entertain yourself with when he's gone, and tell you purposfully frightening stories of the Hidden City and stuff Yokāi have done to humans in an attempt to scare you off from going outside. He also tells you that you don't have to worry about him, because he's a "very important" criminal that can protect himself, or so he says.

Taglist <3: @yanteetle

[hermitcraftx]

I agree with your post about hermit fans in regard to things being very popular. I’ve seen more people being angry and annoyed about scarian in the last six months than people celebrating it. Not tagging shipping is shit but it’s better than harassing people. I don’t know what was put in the water but something changed drastically and I’m glad I’m not the only one who’s seen it.

IT'S FUCKING INSANE! This fandom used to be so positive and welcoming and overall way more pleasant than some... other MCYT fandoms, but now??? I can't log on without seeing untagged negative interpretations in the main tags, can't express an opinion without getting anons calling me heterosexual sympathizers and hoping that I die, everyone has turned their back on everything that used to make this fandom really... fun? Like, I don't tag ON MY BLOG, but usually I don't maintag my shipping posts, and if I do, I tag the ship name so people can filter it.... I don't maintag duo names. What the fuck happened to make everyone so- miserable. Anons are probably going to be permanently off for me, too many people comfortable with their opinions and not comfortable with mine and desperately needing to tell me that.

And like- look. I get not liking interpretations. Personally I'm not a fan of the Double Life cheating arc because of how abusive and out of character people made Grian be, and I had to avoid ao3 for a bit because of that and filter the fucking tags. Same thing with found family dynamics. Just because you don't like something doesn't make it "overrated and popular" and just because you don't like something doesn't make it immoral or unethical either!!! People have to make everything a moral standpoint nowadays and it's really exhausting-

But that's a tirade. All over all the confessions blogs there's "scarian is overrated" despite Grian having nearly 10mil subscribers and most of them being on YouTube and considering all the hermits friends or family truthing them. Yes, there is more shipping than before- that's because Hermitcraft season 8 made it very obvious that the people on the SMP and the people IRL are very different, and it's no longer considered RPF. None of the real hermits died via moon explosion, ZombieCleo often says she's doing "lore", they make different skins, even GRIAN acknowledges that he's acting and playing a part with the permit office. Despite all that, there's STILL wars on shipping and people insisting that we're shipping real people, I fought this war on the DSMP side of things and it's SO TIRING.

DND podcast listeners, do you ship the people playing the characters? NO!!!!! Unless you do, in which case, have fun with that. I don't really care about RPF and I filtered the tags for it a long time ago, so maybe they do do that.

Every other day I see "Third life is overrated" "Last life is overrated" (LAST LIFE IS OFTEN THE LEAST FAVORITE SEASON I SEE PEOPLE SAY!), "the life series is overrated" "the cactus ring is fucking stupid" "they left the desert but we didn't" "no, THIS interpretation of scarian is bad and wrong" and like... guys. Guys. Fandom is supposed to be fun. It is not supposed to be a full time job. It is not supposed to be moral or ethical and you shouldn't feel the need to police shit. Jesus Christ, every other month there's a new fad that tumblr users flock to and once it's over everyone goes "EWWW THAT WAS LAME AND OVERRATED AND I NEVER LIKED IT ANYWAY" like.... I promise you cannibalism as an allegory for love is not mainstream you are just on Tumblr.

Like Good God. If it's so bad here go to Twitter. I'm sick of all the complaining and misery and hatred and I miss when things were fun- people are so scared of being cliche that they don't want to write things that they enjoy. Where are the coffee shop aus???? Where are the fun silly things??? Where are the 100k grimdark fics with worldbuilding??? Wheres the 500k fics that aren't even about the same characters anymore but that we love just the same??? Where are the forums and people talking to each other in comments and meeting each other that way??? Where are the roleplay servers?????? What are you all doing??????

People are scared of being judged. They want to do what everyone else is doing. They don't want to be cringe or cliche and every day I see a "cringe culture is dead" post and then someone making fun of another part of fandom, an antithesis to their previous statement. They don't want to be late to things, either. Who cares if Last Life was a couple years ago? Draw the fanart anyway!

I'm scared. Maybe I'm just old, but every post I see I notice that I get maybe a 10th in reblogs of what I do in likes, and I don't even post my art or fics to this site. Every post is like that. More and more people only like posts and they die, unseen, by everyone. More and more people misuse archive of our own's functions, treating it like it has some algorithm, when it doesn't, and it never has and hopefully never will. I see fic reuploads to "gain traction" (not how it works) and people reaching out to find RP partners (breaking TOS) and all sorts of other shit on both sites and it fucking horrifies me. I'm not even that old- I'm eighteen, and I can already tell how fandom has changed for the worst for everyone. Fandom used to be a community. Not consumption.

It's just... sad. Old fandom had PLENTY of fucking problems, and we have problems here too, but at least the positives outweighed the negatives. It's so... mean here, now. Even the happy things are mean-spirited. People treat it as if certain people have invaded this fandom space, spreading horrible opinions and ruining it for everyone, but the truth is is that shipping is always going to be a thing. It's a foundation of fandom- fandom started with housewives in the 1950s writing Star Trek fanfiction. You can never get rid of shipping. You can just interact with what you want to interact with and leave others to mind their own business.

[aemondsbabe]

Thank you for your words ❤️🥺 you are always so sweet, I just see so many mean people talking about Aemond as if he is this monster of a person lol 😭 because honestly I agree with you, if Aemond is a "villain" then so are so many others from the show, who have done much worse than he has. I don't understand why people insist on having their sights on him tbh. I'm just really hoping they don't make him into a bad person who only cares about himself; I haven't read the books to know, but it also seems like the show tends to be very different from the books anyway.

you’re very welcome my love!! i hope you’re able to watch and enjoy the episode! 🩷

i tend to agree with what you say, which is why i don’t really seek out other opinions (i’ll gladly listen to them as long as they’re presented in a respectful, calm way but i’m not hunting for them) and i tend to base my thoughts on characters/events off of what the actors have to say and what i see on screen and how i interpret it! and i’m fairly liberal with mute and block buttons tbh, i think doing that has saved me a lot of anguish 😂😅

as for aemond not caring, i genuinely feel like the opposite is the issue, especially after tonight’s episode. and i also don’t think that’s a bad thing at all. i think he cares far *too much* about what other people, particularly his mother, think.

so much of how he presents himself in public feels very much so like an act and based on what we see with the madame (ie. dude clearly enjoys being held and treated softly, etc) i’m gonna go out on a limb and say that the kind of cold, aloof way he seems is more of a front than not. i think it’s a way to protect himself.

at the end of the day, all that truly matters is what *you* think of him and his actions. if you don’t think he’s a villain or monster or whatever else, then he isn’t!

[my-writings-and-musings]

We have our winner!!

Soundwave put up a pretty good fight though, Bee and Swindle also had a pretty strong showing! Thinking those three should definitely get some fics of their own too!

I went with something sort of silly because there's not nearly enough pining Megatron or Dorothy Malto content out there.

"Megs?"

For all of his boundless courage, Megatron couldn't help but feel a burst of terror when he was startled from his pleasant yet absentminded staring. Averting his optics straight away, he looked down at his side to find Dorothy Malto standing on the raised patch of land he'd chosen for a seat. Wearing casual clothes befitting of their shared day off-duty, her eyes sparkled with something more than mere enjoyment of the beautiful sunny weather. "What's got you so happy?"

Clearing his vents as casually as he could, the flustered mech tried to pretend everything was normal, thinking over his words carefully as he turned back to the scene he definitely hadn't been staring at previously. The young Terrans were all gathered behind the Malto family barn in a loose circle around the only other human present, you. Though too far away to hear what was being said, he could see you were just about done patching up the tiny cut Twitch had earned while the bots had been goofing off, and he knew from experience you were undoubtedly giving her a gentle reminder to be more careful in the future. Seeing such tender care for the little drone made a smile tug on his reluctant lips.

"It is… nice, to have another GHOST agent we can rely on." he answered diplomatically, not acknowledging the host of complex emotions that always rose up in his spark when he spoke of you.

"Mhmm." Dorothy replied with her same smile, following his gaze just as you finished up your patchwork. Twitch tested out the previously injured limb with clear delight, expressing her emphatic gratitude with a transformation and a zip about the sky that brought a chuckle from all present, including the two veterans. "Dr. Y/N is the only one I'd trust with my babies. They've kept every last visit secret, and they'll pop over no matter how small the issue is. The kids just love them."

"I can tell." he agreed with another chuckle as he watched you tenderly insist that the young Terran be mindful of her safety. He knew from experience the request would go unheeded, as young Cybertronians had the same danger defying habits as human youth, but your compassionate efforts made that complex surge of emotions in his spark rise up again. Ignoring it as usual, he tried to explain himself when he saw Dorothy had yet to drop her accursed grin. "Many humans have a… justifiable hesitation around Cybertronians, yet they treat us no differently than their human patients. I cannot begin to express my appreciation for their work."

There was a small sound from the woman he initially interpreted as a welcome dropping of the subject, but the moment his optics drifted back to you her words cut right through his defenses.

"Is that… all you appreciate about them?"

Expression briefly betraying his flustered mortification, he just managed to sound more frustrated than rattled. "What are you implying, Dorothy?"

"Oh, nothing." she replied, obviously fake indifference putting him on immediate edge. Dorothy had long since learned to read him like a book, far more intuitively than he could even read his own emotions, and he knew she was not the type to ever give up. Still, he wasn't at all prepared for her boldness when she finally spoke up, grinning from ear to ear as she did so. "Just that you've been doing a great deal of appreciating with your eyes."

Unable to stop himself from sputtering at the absolutely absurd and not at all true observation, he frantically looked your way to ensure you were still occupied with the Terrans before he replied in a forceful whisper.

"You are mistaken."

She actually laughed, looking beyond amused by the thirty foot warrior struggling with the crush he would deny under pain of literal death. Patting his side playfully, she gave him a wink that sent a blush blooming across his cheeks. "Don't worry, I won't tell."

"There's nothing to tell." he replied in a rush, looking back to you only so he could confirm you had not overhead any of their conversation. By the rare grace of the universe you obviously had not, as you were now in the middle of a very enthralled ring of Terrans and recounting stories of your more interesting assignments to keep them occupied. Once more those accursed feelings rose up in his spark, and he didn't have it in him to deny the warmth he felt every time he laid his optics on you. Seeing your tiny human form surrounded by the towering young bots that you treated with all the compassion and patience of human children simply overwhelmed his defenses.

Thankfully, Dorothy seemed to be willing to let the matter drop at that, and she offered only a playful parting tease as she turned to walk back to the house.

"Sure there's not."

He considered grumbling some kind of further denial, but didn't have it in him to be upset when you made the group laugh and did the same, your beaming smile giving him one of his own.

Dorothy pulled out her phone and turned back after only a few steps, going completely unnoticed by the lovestruck mech until she spoke up one final time. 

"I can get you their number."

Megatron could have combusted on the spot, and he could only try to hide his blush behind his palm as it surged across his entire faceplate.

"Dorothy!"

[linda-ravstar]

A conversation between a would-be God and his other half (St. Trina and Miquella, Shadow of the Erdtree spoilers)

I haven't finished the game yet, but I've already seen several important things, and the relationship between Miquella and his other half breaks my heart. Maybe I'm missing details, but I don't think it's such a far-fetched interpretation (and I'll expand on it when I have more info and energy). I need to mourn Miquella to be able to keep playing in peace, haha. Enjoy!

“Miquella... What are you doing?”

Trina's voice, which once brought him peace and joy, now filled him with a dark bitterness, a sticky, cynical rage that clung to his skin like blood. The lamp's light barely illuminated the desk, where the golden strokes of his pen drew schemes. Futures that had to materialize. Plans that would soon be set in motion.

“Have you come to reproach me?”, he asked, without turning or taking his eyes off the parchment in front of him. “After everything that has happened?”

 Purple flooded the light of the room, drowning the golden hue of the oil lamp. Somehow, Trina's purple always managed to surpass his gold. It used to be a welcome sight. It used to be a nice game.

“The path you seek will only bring pain and suffering. Marika has already walked it, and the broken world she left behind is proof of her failure”.

“It is proof of Mother's failure, not of the path she walked”, Miquella countered.

“Do you think you can succeed where she failed? Do you think your power is greater than hers?”

“Yes”, he said, but doubt resided in his heart, the same heart that had his other half. “It has to be”.

“What will happen to everyone? To your siblings? To the tree? To Malenia? Are you willing to risk everything for... that?”

He couldn't enchant her, just as he couldn't enchant himself. He always remained serene, kind, because that was also part of that strange essence that inhabited alongside him. It was easier to charm some this way, those who, docile before his power, could look him in the eyes with affection and admiration. But he couldn't convince Trina that way. His small, fragile fist crashed against the wooden table in a muffled crash, splashing ink all over the desk.

“How can you ask me that?”, Miquella's voice rose above the broken silence, and he turned to look her in the eyes. Trina smiled at him, with a sweet sadness that only filled him with dispair. “How can you stand there, doing nothing, watching what is happening? What do you want from me? Look at this world! Look at our siblings! What else are we going to wait for?”

“Becoming a god won't fix the world”.

“You're wrong. It's the only way. It's all that's left to do”.

“You will lose everything you ever fought to save... It will be a tragedy that could be avoided”.

Tears sprang from Miquella's eyes. He wanted to hurt Trina, wanted to rip that sad smile from her lips.

“I have achieved nothing”, Miquella said finally, after a tense silence. His voice broke on the last word. “Absolutely nothing. I have... I have failed over and over again for millennia... I tried to find that other path… you of all people know that. It doesn't exist. There is no other path. Neither the Golden Order, nor Fundamentalism, nor the Unalloyed Gold, nor my needles, nor the Haligree... And Godwyn still... Nothing has managed to fix this broken and rotten world. The innocent remain enslaved. The gods remain silent. And Malenia...” The young demigod closed his eyes, feeling the guilt in his veins. “She has so much faith in me... that I will fix this world... I'd rather lose everything than continue like this. If I have to burn this world to save it, I will. If I have to enchant thousands of souls to follow my path, I will. I can't look back. I can’t do this anymore. I won’t”.

“And will you betray your principles? Sacrifice innocents, steal their hearts, destroy your body and soul on an uncertain altar?", asked Trina, with a somber tone on her voice.

“I must do it”, he insisted, but his hands were trembling. “They will understand... When the world smiles again, when I can look into Malenia's eyes again, golden and innocent, when my Lord Brother takes my hand and we reign together in a land that has healed its wounds, when a new order welcomes everyone in its embrace...”

“When you are a God, Miquella, there will be no one left there to forgive you. Mother tried to heal her people with her golden light, but there was no one left who could listen to her. No one who could forgive her”.

“So be it then”, said Miquella. “So be it... My power will be enough, I will become a god, I will have my King consort by my side and I will bring forth a New Age, a Compassionate Age for all”, that was his dream, the dream of a helpless child, his obsession, his hope. “I will…. I will…”

Trina lowered her gaze and approached her other half. Miquella was trembling, and golden tears stained his childlike face. Trina took the boy's face, who, for a moment, clung to those hands like a puppy to a mother.

“I know there is nothing I can do or say to stop you. I wish it were different, that you could see what I see, the path of peace we could walk. But I know your wounds are too deep, that your pain blinds you, that your hope is your last comfort”. Trina's caress was as sweet as it was terrible. “We know the pain that awaits you, the pain you will cause, and the uncertainty of the outcome. We know that godhood is a prison”. Trina sighed for a second and laughed softly. “I cannot stop you, nor can you stop me. I just want to say this before this journey breaks us both completely: I know your heart, and I know it suffers for this world. I know your soul and I know it cries for your sister. I know your very being longs for peace and solace. This is you, this is us. We dream of a kind and gentle world, with the smile of our people and the scent of flowers. I know you seek that world of goodness. I know you fought to do good and heal the wounded. I will keep that certainty within me. That no matter what you do now and the terrible sins you commit... that this was you, that this was us and that this was what we were destined to be. Let me mourn you, my dearest Miquella, my dear other half. Let me say goodbye one last time. May dreams bring you the peace that your path will take away. And if no one else forgives you, let me forgive you..."

The violet slowly faded, leaving only the gold that began to dim in the lamp. The night was still, and the air smelled of sweet lilies.

Miquella rested his head on the desk and wept, alone.

[ilovejoll]

NEW PINNED CUZ UHH YEAH >.< uwwaahh

୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆ About me

——🎀🖊️🐾——

| 💊Name: (I have multiple…) nicole , mackenzie , n , j , lacey + any names of my kins ( Like homura , jecka , emily , lizzy etc etc ) and nicknames are okay too ( ≧ᗜ≦) !!

| 🌈Age: 15 !!!

| 🫧DMS / @‘s: OPEN DMS!!! (Won’t respond fast, I’m anti social HELP) and @ whenever !

| 🎀Pronouns: He / She / They

| 🍬Likes: My awesome gf obvi. MURDER DRONES!!!!!!!!! Drawing, and a bunch of other. Stuff. ૮꒰ྀི∩´ ᵕ `∩꒱ྀིა

|❌Dislike: a lot idk lol

| 🧸 MY SIS IS @niniscookiecafe AND YOU SHOULD TOTS FOLLOW HER RN ૮꒰˶ᵔ ᗜ ᵔ˶꒱ა˖⁺‧₊˚

| 💘 u guys should also follow my awesome amazing wife @em0puppy /r follow xem now or I will killyo u /threat 😸

——🎀🖊️🐾——

୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆ About my art / blog

| 🐾 This blog is both for my drawings, writings, and reblogs (Bc I don’t feel like making separate blogs for all three -_-;)

| ⭐️ This blog is mainly SFW, but I do sometimes draw / reblog gore, body horror, nudity, etc. I will tag them with TWs like “(( body horror, (( gore, (( nudity, (( suggestive” etc etc. ofc, I tag spoilers as well.

| 🧶 I do not care about people spam liking and or rebloging me, go wild! Asks are always open! Don’t be afraid to say hi or spam me, I encourage it! PLEASE ask about my ocs / au… I beg… ₍⑅ᐢ..ᐢ₎

| 🎭 #Kenziebabbles ; my talk tag (I don’t shut up)! #Kenziedraws ; my art tag! #Kenzieanswers ; my ask tag! #wife ! <3 tag featuring my awesome girlfriend @/em0puppy :) , #mootsies <3 tag for when I rb content from people I’m mutuals with, #little budster <3 tag featuring my little buddy @cyncallbackpingwho u should definitely follow now 🔪, #free nini from my basement tag featuring my irl sis nini hehe @niniscookiecafe.., And lastly, #ArtforKenzie ; is fan art / write tag!

| 🌙 I used ibisPaintX for the majority of my drawings, and will sometimes post traditional stuff! I’m a multifandom blog, but rn it’s 999% MURDER DRONES, ocs, and 1% other stuff.

| 🖊️ I don’t do commissions (as of yet,) but I will accept art trades (with moots only, please.) I also take art requests thru asks, usually I’ll make a post asking for reqs but don’t be shy to send some anywayz! ૮(๑>◡<๑)ა

| 💌 I don’t care about others using my art / writings as heavy ref and or inspiration. I’d greatly appreciate it if you’d tag me, because I wanna see it! Tracing my art is also okay for practice and whatnot, but if you do post it, also tag me! I allow reposts, but please credit me if doing so. Idc about people using my art for headers, boards, pfps covers ETC all I ask for is credit lol. If you make fan art / write of my stories/aus designs and or original characters, DONT be afraid to tag me!!!! ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧

——🎀🖊️🐾——

୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆ DNI

(What I say in my dni is final, I will not debate about it so please don’t start arguments! It’s for my own comfort and safety)

| ❌ Racists, homophobes, transphobes, pro Israel’s etc, basic dni criteria.

| ❌ People who whitewash, and who think “blackwashing” is real. Along with people who erase canon lgbt rep, or bash others non harmful headcanons. ໒꒰ྀིっ˕ -｡꒱ྀི১

| ❌ If you’re an nsfw account, a proshipper, comshipper, or disrespectful / toxic “anti”. If you support anyone problematic (yandev, theftking, matpat, dream, Wilbur etc etc)

| ❌ I block empty blogs! If ur not a bot, at least have a pfp or I’ll block u ｡°(°.◜ᯅ◝°)°｡

| ❌ If you’re going to whine about my interpretation / redesigns of media, than my blog is not for u…… I don’t want to deal with people constantly saying what’s canon and what isn’t cuz Idrc lol. Please don’t argue with me over ships either, I’m a multishipper and don’t have to follow canon. (If u insist on doing this, I’ll block u.)

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୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆ Thank you for reading, if you’ve read all this, then you are more than welcome to follow! Don’t be afraid to dm and talk to me, I love making friends despite my antisocial tendencies ……!!!! I hope you enjoy your stay, and if you don’t, then I’m sorry ૮꒰ ྀི >⸝⸝⸝< ྀི꒱ა ୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆

. •🎀🍰🐾 • .

[quinnscurios]

The Disabled Tyrant's Pet Fish Fan-Fic

She stood before the throne room doors, twice her height and adorned with golden dragons. To most, they were a symbol of the power of the emperor.  To her, it represented everything she hated about being the daughter of royalty: the pressure, the expectations, and the endless procedures and niceties.

When the guards started giving her sidelong glances, she knew she had dallied too long. She had a reputation for wandering, for being a little weird, and for garnering the wrong kind of attention for her family. She didn't want to lay any more of that at her parents' feet, not with what she was about to do.

She made her way into the throne room proper, the wealth of the emperor obvious. Perhaps it was her wandering that had sensitized her to it, but it all felt gaudy compared to the lives most of her father's subjects led. Her father had instituted many reforms in his time, and her older brother, who was first in line for the throne, seemed to have even more in mind. Still, they both insisted on keeping the throne room immaculately clean and heavily decorated. They'd both say it was, "just for show," but they sure seemed to enjoy their part in the play.

"Welcome, son!" her dad boomed, his arms open wide and his smile wider, his silk robes spreading like the wings of a hawk.  His father offered a smile and nod of his own; years of experience with his muteness confirmed to her that he was happy to see her.

Her heart broke a little to be called son, but that's why she was here. She would live her truth no matter the cost. She bowed deeply before her parents, awaiting their assent to proceed.

"What are you doing, little treasure?" her dad asked, a quizzical expression on his face. "You know those formalities aren't necessary with us."

She stood ram-rod straight, her face taut. Her vision bounced back and forth between her dad and her father, concern slowly creeping onto their faces.

"What's the matter, little trea-" her dad began, before he was interrupted.

”I'm not your son," she said, the words spilling out of her like an icy waterfall dousing a steadfast monk. "I'm your daughter, and I'd rather be torn limb from limb by tigers than pretend otherwise for another day!" She took a step forward while saying this, striking a fighting stance to both help her feel more powerful and to help her keep her balance.

Her parents looked at each other for a moment, her father's expression flashing between a few she'd never seen before. Her dad interpreted them just as quickly, nodding along with a grave expression. In a few moments, they both turned to her, standing from their thrones and running toward her to scoop her up into a hug.

"My daughter, my daughter, my loveliest daughter!" her dad cried out, hugging her close. Her father offered a similar sentiment, though was less hands-on in his approach.

"You-," she said, stammering, "you're not mad? You're not going to banish me?" she said, tears prickling at the edge of her eyes.

"Why would we?" her dad asked, relinquishing the hug and dancing around her in celebration.

"What good am I to you if I can’t be a general or politician, or bureaucrat like my older brothers?" she practically wailed.

"Why can't you?" her father's look said, his eyes narrowed.

“I won’t accept your pity because I’m adopted,” she blurted out, her expression hardening. 

"Adopted?" her dad asked, a little dumbfounded. "Where on earth did you get that idea?" She was incredulous.

"I'm not the royal physician," she said, surprised she had to provide basic sexual education to her own parents, "but even I know two men can't have children."

"Ah, I see the confusion!" her dad said, looking at her father with an intense blush. "I'm not a man, exactly. I'm a fish!" With that, he pulled back his long silk sleeve and revealed patches of black and gold scales. "You were too, when you were born," he said with a self-assured nod. She had no words for this, no such memories, either.

"I-, I-," she stammered, caught off guard by this revelation. Her father put a steadying hand on her shoulder.

"You are, and always will be our child," her dad said, the remnants of the blush still on his face. "You are of our body and blood, and nothing will change that." 

"How could I possibly believe that?" she blurted out, tears falling freely.

"I can believe enough for the both of us!" her dad declared. "Also, may I?" he said, gesturing to her own sleeve.

"Yes?" she said, unsure what he was asking. He rolled up her sleeve until he found a dry spot she'd been seeing the royal physician about. The ointments and herbal remedies he'd provided had been useless so far. Her father pulled something off of her, like plucking a hair but larger.

"See?" he said, presenting a scale to her. "Similar in color to mine, but with a different pattern and texture.  Your brothers are the same.”  She had no choice but to sit on the throne room floor, stunned. At least the cool stone was helping her calm her racing thoughts.

“You think that’s proof enough!” she exclaimed, less question and more accusation.  Pointing at her dad, she added, “I’m not some dumb kid, and I won’t let you pass off a skin condition as magic!”  Her father sighed, and her dad lifted up his hands, shrugging his shoulders.

“I guess it can’t be helped,” her dad said, “plus, it’s been a while since I’ve had a good swim!”  ‘He grabbed his daughter’s hand as he finished that thought, and took her to a room right off the main throne room.  “You probably weren’t old enough to remember this, but your father remodeled the gardens that used to surround the throne room into a magnificent aquarium for us.”  For her part, she remembered lazy afternoons with her dad playing by the aquarium, but nothing about being a fish. 

“I hope this goes without saying, but this is a family secret, not to leave this room.  Do you understand, daughter of mine?” her dad asked, the playfulness all but absent from his face.  His hands rested on the neckline of his robes, as though he was ready to cast them aside. 

“I understand,” she said.  Without another word, her dad wriggled free from his clothing, changing before her eyes into the largest koi fish she had ever seen.  He landed in the aquarium with a splash, disappearing under the water for some time before resurfacing a little while later and using his mouth to blast water at his daughter to get her attention.  While no words escaped after, she could see the spark of intelligence in his eyes; this was, undoubtedly, her father.  A moment later, the koi had transformed again into a merman, human from the bellybutton up.  “Is this how you,” she asked, the trepidation obvious in her voice, “you know?”  She trailed off without finishing her thought.

“Some things are meant to stay secret!” her dad yelped, diving back into the water so he was only visible from the eyes up.  After the blush faded from his face, he resurfaced, saying, “may I have a towel, my love?”  Her father was ready with one as her dad exited the aquarium with a powerful flick of his tail; his airtime meant his feet had returned by the time he landed.  Thankfully, father’s experience with this maneuver also meant he knew just where to stand to cover dad up.

"As I said," her dad began, gills retreating from his neck and water splashing out of his mouth, "you are of our body and our blood."

She stood, frozen, for what felt like an eternity as the implications of everything she had seen ran through her mind.  Magic was real.  She was magic, too.  She is, by all accounts, part fish.  Perhaps she could transform like her dad had a moment ago.  Her mind raced, her coming out falling further and further into the back of her mind.

“My treas-” her dad began, placing a hand on her shoulder after he had finished drying off.

“Does this mean I can also get pregnant?” she said, looking at her parents with an expression somewhere between hopeful and pleading.  Her father responded simply by raising both eyebrows.  Her dad turned more beet red then she’d ever seen him. 

“Let’s discuss that when you’re older!” he declared, looking ready to faint from the gravity of the question. 

“But Dad,” she protested, “I’m 17!”  Her dad did momentarily faint at this; only the embrace of her father’s arms kept him from collapsing onto the floor. 

“Can we discuss this after we update your wardrobe, beloved daughter?” her dad asked weakly, barely conscious, his face still a record-setting red.  She let out a belly laugh, probably the heartiest she’d had in years.  She looked between her parents before pulling them both into the deepest hug she had given them since childhood. Today, she received the greatest gift any parent can bestow on their child: not just acceptance, but affirmation.

“As long as you promise, Dad.  Oh, and you have to teach me how to change like you did, too!”

---

Author's notes:

Given the queerness of the original work, I thought it'd be interesting if one of the kids also ended up being trans.

I consider this work to be a one-shot and at present I have no intention of adding to it.

Mu Tianchi (the emperor) gives big "I too am in this episode" vibes in this fic. I did my best, okay?

[yeehawbvby]

hii! i normally don’t request for fics but i really wanted to pitch an idea!

An Arven x reader fan fiction or hc list (absolutely whatever you want lol) for what happens for our characters between fighting the titans! Like the travel to get to each one, staying in the towns together while traveling, etc etc.

really just however you choose to interpret this, i love your arven fics so so so much 🙏

Tysm!! Ooo this is such a fun idea :D I hope you don’t mind that it’s just headcanons, and tysm for your patience! I hope you enjoy it x

Given how Raidon-adverse Arven starts off, he would refuse to ride the lizard at first. You two would begin the journey on foot. Once you grew tired, you would pull Raidon out and slowly trudge alongside a grumpy and sore Arven until he eventually gives up and agrees to hop on with you

I like to think that Arven would go to certain major cities with you along the way and wait around — maybe even watch — as you got your gym badges

This is what inspired him to make his own badges to give you! He felt a little bad that you weren’t necessarily getting anything out of helping him other than sandwiches (having no clue that you were simply happy with his company)

He’d insist you two try out all the cool new food each city has to offer, too

The two of you would probably camp more often than you stay in hotels or anything like that. Most of the time camping would be spent sharing life stories (lighthearted and not) around the fire and playing with your teams

Although he’s strong, Arven’s clumsy. That being said, if you tried to play soccer/football or something with him and your teams, it wouldn’t go well. He would be too prideful to let you bandage any injuries, but minor injuries would be a guarantee 

Arven would cook you dinner and breakfast at your campsites, feeling insulted (and maybe scared) if you even try to offer to cook in his stead

(he’s totally a food snob. If you aren’t a wonderful cook, he wouldn’t make you feel bad, but he would secretly be sooo upset)

He’d test out new recipes on you in the process, taking inspiration from the restaurants you visited in the cities

Those fun restaurant visits towards the end of the journey would fluster him much more than in the earlier stages. I don’t think he’d have it in him to ask for one to be a proper date, but it would sure feel like it after a certain point

With a little convincing, he might visit the 10 Sights of Paldea with you! 

(He’d just want to see the cute smile on your face as you basked in the views)

As you’ve probably figured out by now, Arven would fall for you slowly, but boy would he fall hard

If you happened to feel sick at any point, Arven would pay for a taxi to get you back home or at least to a hotel, despite any of your possible protests. At first, it would be out of a weird worry that you’d get Mabosstiff more sick; but if it happened later, it would be out of fear for your health

Lots of stargazing would happen. If you’re into astronomy, Arven would let you talk his ear off about all the constellations and whatnot, even if he didn’t find it interesting. He just liked seeing you happy and hearing your voice

Lots of hand holding!! In the beginning just to drag one another along if either of you veered off path, but after the first titan, it would be just a genuine instinct to hold hands as you walked around all the wild areas

The poor man is so touch starved that once it got to that point, there might be a lot of hugging too

If you two happened to share a tent, you might cuddle sometimes. He’d be all tsundere about it at first, like “Eughhh, I guess I’ll cuddle, if I HAVE to protect you/keep you warm/etc, you SMALL WEAKLING.” If he ever actually made you sad about it, his demeanor would change, and he’d welcome you with open arms

[owlespresso]

bedtime stories IV. luocha. I honestly don't know how to tag this. This one kind of got away from me. There are a lot of darker undertones here and a lot of it is left ambiguous, for you to interpret and figure out. It's different from the really fluffy tone of the others.

Nighttime presses in on all sides, when it’s on the beach. The white sands go black with shade. The sea churns inky dark. The sky, tonight, is illuminated by a pale sliver of a moon, curved like a talon. You can taste the salt in the air.

This part of Sene Verde is empty of tourists. The jutting peaks at the center of the island cast it in near permanent shade, blocks the warm air from the other side. It’s colder here. More desolate. 

The sea breeze is frigid. Goosebumps erupt along your arms. It cuts through the thin fabric of your sleep shirt. Looking out unto the tides, you feel a sense of calm wash over you. The chill shocks the panic frozen. Your breathing begins to steadily. Your pulse quiets. The cold, packed sand is making your toes number with each step you take back inland. 

The merchant waits for you at the top of the rickety, wooden steps. His long, blonde hair tossed by the wind. The slight moonlight casts his white jacket in pale silver. His green eyes gleam, appraising you as you ascend. He gives nothing away, expression tempered and gentle. Eyelids hung low as the moon in the sky.

“Why did you run?” he asks, curious more than upset. 

“I didn’t know you were coming. I panicked,” you say, sounding as ragged as you feel. Your eyes hurt. The wind whipped them dry as you threw open the door to your cabin and rushed down the slope, bits of shell and twig scraping the soles of your feet as you blindly fled towards the sea. The churning gales are brutal, this time of night, this time of year.

Luocha coos at you. “Why? I’ve never given you any cause to fear.”

“There’s something wrong with you. No sane salesman would come to this part of the island to peddle. Unless they were desperate, which—” you pointedly look him up and down, taking in the fine make of his clothes, the gleaming bits and silken sashes which emblazon his garments. “—you clearly aren’t.”

“I didn’t come to sell anything. I just wanted to see you.” he says, letting you walk past him. Your feet pad across the worn wooden planks. Wet and crusted with cold sand. There’s an underlying creep you’ve felt, all day. Like a horse sensing a storm which has yet to roll in. A buzzing rumble which had you pacing up and down the main hall of your hollowed home. All day, you’d insisted it was your own, petty anxiety getting to you—but you were right. You’re always right. These feelings, at the end of the day, are always right.

You’re more upset with yourself than him, you realize, pressing your fingers to the space between your brows, eyes crumpling shut as you cross the threshold into the living room. You press your back to the wall and tilt your head back, listening to Luocha’s boots scuff against the boards until he, too, is inside. He shuts the door. Tenderly clicks the lock shut.

“You look like you’ve had a rough day. Have you been sleeping?” 

No, you haven’t.

“It’s none of your business,” you gripe. The feeling of the dried sand stuck to your skin grates you in all the wrong ways. It’s sudden, how quick the aggravation piles high. The entire walk back, you hardly paid it any note. But now—it makes you want to writhe out of your own skin. 

You wipe them on the welcome mat to get the worst of it off. The bristled fabric grates on your soles. Luocha’s gaze weighs on you, unreadable yet heavy, but you do your best to ignore him and all the space he takes up. A few lightbulbs framed by rounded, hanging bowls of glass light up the hallway dim as you stumble off to the bathroom. The tide still rings in your ears. Your skin still prickles with the cold. Your eyes still hurt.

The downstairs bathroom has a rickety old chair set up against the wall, opposite the sink. It’s a decently-sized space. A line of dusty lights hangs above the old mirror. You make a beeline for the shower, twisting the knob to turn on the spray. The water pelts the tiled floor. You shed your sleeping gown. The flimsy white thing crumples to the floor in a heap of useless, thin cloth. You step underneath the spray without checking the temperature, and flinch as the searing water runs down your back. 

You stand there for— well, you don’t really keep track. You shut your eyes and let the sound of the water lull you into a hazy stupor. The world outside seals itself off. There is nothing beyond the four walls of this room. Nothing besides the scald of the water, the steam that churns in the air and fogs the glass. Eventually, you wash off with trembling hands. You just took a shower this afternoon, but you lavish yourself in rose-scented soaps anyways. The smell is soft, grounding. 

You remain even after the suds have long swirled down the drain.

A knock at the door pulls you from your piece. You blink blearily, and shut the water. The temperature drops immediately. A horrid shiver rolls down your spine and you stumble towards the door, legs shaking like a newborn fawn. Water drips onto the floor and puddles onto the pale blue tile. Your floor mats are still in the wash. By some manner of miracle, you manage not to slip. Your hand closes around the knob and you pull the door open, looking at the man on the other side with bleary eyes. Bare from head to toe. It somehow doesn’t bother you.

Nor does it phase him. Luocha takes in your state impassively. His gaze sweeps up and down your body, taking in fresh bruises and old wounds.

“You’ll catch a cold, like that,” he sighs. He walks past you, and you’re not sure why, but it feels like a rejection. It stings. You don’t want his attention, especially not like that, but it still stings. You shut your eyes. The outside air sweeps into the room and chills your skin in an instant, goosebumps crawling up your arms and legs. You keep dripping on the floor.

Warm cloth drapes around your shoulder. You stiffen, spine setting rigid. The cushiony cloth wicks away the moisture, swept across your cool skin by hands much too gentle. The beast at your back bundles you in newfound warmth, a hum low in his chest.

“Can you make it upstairs on your own?” he asks. He knows where your room is. Because he’s been in there before, but it still unsettles you. 

“Yeah,” you mumble, clutching the ends of the towel together to your chest, fruitlessly attempting to preserve the modesty you have nothing left of. Awareness creeps back to you in slow stages, but you’re not sure if it’s even worth it to care, anymore. He’s seen all there is to see. Today and the last time he came. Whenever that was. It’s hard to keep track of the days.

“Then go,” he lays his hands upon your shoulders, gloved hands squeezing through the towel. His fingers rub small, soothing circles over your now-covered skin. And his voice, gentle as the seabreeze, coasts over the top of your ear. “And change. I’ll make you some tea.”

And the warmth at your back disappears. It’s jarring, because you hadn’t released how close he’d come in those fragile, few moments. You brush off the discomfort, the emptiness at your back—because you shouldn’t feel so comfortable with him. 

The wooden steps creak underfoot as you ascend the first floor. The sound reverberates through the cavernous hall below. The gales beat against the side of the house. Vicious, this time of year.

A few minutes later sees you hobbling into the kitchen, clothed in a sleepshirt, shorts and a robe thrown atop of it, tied around your waist with a blue sash. 

The kitchen is a small space with a window side table surrounded on either side by two wooden chairs. It’s a pitiful thing compared to the massive dining room it sits next to. More of a hall than a room, a great and cavernous space you hardly ever use. Large spaces frighten you, these days. It feels too empty, too cold. Empty spaces riddle you with a horrible sense of uncertainty. Long halls with high ceilings that distort in your field of vision, becoming endless tunnels unto forever. Just more nothing.

The kitchen is much better. Made smaller by the counters which box in what little walking space already existed. There’s room for two people to stand comfortably in front of the stove, three if you squeeze. Its dark wooden cabinets and counters are contrasted by the aged white refrigerator and microwave. None of the other appliances really match, either. They’re old, out of fashion things you picked up here or there. And the kettle—it’s a sorry, banged up thing that hardly sees any use.

Luocha looks laughably out of place in his crisp button-up and slacks. He’s draped his jacket over a chair. His gloves lay abandoned next to the sink, sleeves rolled up to the elbow. And a while you were gone, he tucked his boots by the door, right next to your sandals and sneakers.

“Made yourself comfortable right away, huh?” you say with a bit of bitter humor.

Luocha looks over his shoulder at you, not a shred of irony in his expression as he speaks. “This is home.” he says softly, before turning back to the counter. “I know where everything is, and I know what you like to eat. It would have been remiss of me to simply twiddle my thumbs and wait.” he reasons. The scent of something toasting wafts in the air, a familiar smell that softens you.

“We should bake a loaf or two later. The ones from last time froze well, didn’t they?” Luocha hums. The toaster pops. Two flat slices of Senerian rose loaf, tinged pink with deep brown crust. Luocha plucks them between thumb and forefinger, gently depositing them onto a ceramic seafoam plate. You purchased it from an artisan market on the other side of the island.  It was the only purchase you made before getting overwhelmed by the crowds and the heat.

“I don’t have enough flour,” you murmur, hardly loud enough to hear. You hover in the doorway, cheek pressed to the cold, glazed wood. 

“You’re running low on butter, too. Shall I bring you some tomorrow?” he turns from you to slather some onto the slices. Pale white smears across the crisped surface, immediately beginning to melt. He glides around your kitchen with an agitating ease. He knows where nearly everything is. Not that it’s too difficult. The layout has remained unchanged over the course of his many visits. 

“That’s alright. I’ll go myself.” you insist.

“When?” he presses.

“Sometime this week,” you raise your chin, voice just a little sharper than you meant it, leveling him with a flinty stare. He seems to weigh your answer for a moment, which both unsettles and annoys you. For who is he to doubt you in your own home?

“Perhaps I’ll come with you when you do.” he muses, looking remarkably skeptical. You try not to let it bother you.

He gently places the plate atop your tiny table, squares of butter glistening under the dim kitchen light—little more than a bulb in a fishbowl hung from the ceiling. It flickers intermittently. 

“Come and eat,” he beseeches, countenance softening. His lips worry into a slight from when you stay exactly where you are, numb gaze frozen on the plate. Hunger blisters deep in your gut, a familiar ache. It’s much too easy to forget when you’re lost in your work, or in your head, or in the shower staring at the drain.

He says your name cautiously, like you’re a cornered animal. You know, better than to believe that tender falsetto. He talks in warnings never in pleas. It kicks you into motion, ferries you across the threshold and into one of the rattan chairs, plucking one of the thick, cotton soft slices off the plate. Your reward is a pleased smile and a glass of cold water. 

He doesn’t sit down with you. He bustles around the kitchen, pulling open cabinets and drawers with furrowed brows, obviously taking stock of what you’re missing. It pisses you off.

“Quit snooping,” you bark at him with a rotten glower.

“I’m just checking what else you may be low on, lest you come home from shopping only to realize you have to make a second trip,” he points out.

You lapse into silence, focusing on the taste of the loaf—sweet and rosy—a perfect juxtaposition to the salted butter. It’s a bit more fragrant than you’re used to, something earthy seeped into the grain.

“You’ve been taking wonderful care of the garden,” Luocha says—and he’s suddenly sat across from you, moved across the kitchen in a blink. Or had you simply not been paying attention? You look at him through bleary eyes, but his inscrutable gaze is fixed on your hand, gently cradled in his now. The tips of his long fingers slide across your palm, and fan out to tease the webbing between your own.

“Was I just supposed to let it die?” you scoff.

“You could have. It would have been well within your right,” Luocha hums, sounding a little amused. His palm comes to cradle the back of your own, and you would rather he just hold your hand than whatever he’s doing now—toying—playing with apart of you without asking just like the seeds he’d sown out back, nestled beneath the evergreens in your yard. Fragile little herbs and florets that would have easily withered during the darker months. Yet, you unearthed them, sheltered them within the sanctity of your home, uprooted them with your hands and sweat and saw to it that they grew—

“It’s not their fault that they were born.” you repl ycoolly.

“You’re so kind,” Luocha coos sympathetically. The rest of your time in the kitchen is spent in peaceable silence.

After your impromptu snack, you take care of the dishes, brushing off his lingering hands with a steely look and a wooden spatula in hand. He slithers upstairs, and you meet him only after the the dishes have been squared away and the counter cleared of any crumbs, and the entire room meticulously combed over to—to settle something within you. To make sure nothing had been moved or changed. The last reserves of your energy begin to sputter out, so you drift out the kitchen and down the hall. The wall is cool and coarse against your fingers.

You ascend the stairs, reach the second floor, a straight shot hall with several doors and branching, dead ends. Some rooms are connected. Some aren’t. You’ve long given up understanding why it had been built this way.

Luocha is in your bathroom. He’s climbed out of his day clothes, now clad in a black nightgown that reaches his knees, the waist cinched by a pale, purple sash. He’s applying some sort of cream, slender fingers coated in a milky white substance. He rubs it into the flat of his cheeks, moisture making his skin glisten beneath the dim lamplight. You hover in the doorway, feeling floaty and simple. 

“Can I try?” you ask, for no reason at all.

Luocha blinks, as though he hadn’t realized you were there, but he doesn’t afford you the time to feel any trepidation or doubt.

“Of course, of course—come here,” he urges, and you huddle in the tiny space alongside him. “It’s a moisturizer. I picked it pu during my last trip to the Xianzhou. It’s gentle, with all natural ingredients. Nothing you’re allergic to—I checked.”

The cream is chilly and moist on your skin as he heaps it on, spreading it delicately across your cheeks with his middle and pointer fingers. Your nose wrinkles and your eyes flutter shut. It smells good. Subtle. 

“Cold,” you mumble, and he laughs, tracing it across your forehead and over your temples, a steady and massaging rhythm that leaves you swaying. You are alone, in the near dark with a man you hate, preening beneath his ministrations like some domesticated creature. You’re too tired to care when his thumb brushes over your chin, teasing your bottom lip.

“All done,” he says softly. He leans down and presses a kiss to your pouting lips. It’s too firm to be chaste. His hand reaches up, like he’s going to cradle the back of your head, but he doesn’t. He steps away and smiles. “You’re so patient, now.”

“Not like I have another choice,” you murmur. He turns from you, plucking your toothbrush from its stand. Your eyes go glassy.

You blink, and he’s holding it in front of your face. A dollop of white and blue toothpaste sits on the pearly bristles. He stops just short of brushing them for you. Instead, he watches you do it, unreadable. It kind of pisses you off, as is typical with most things he does or says. Saying anything now would be meaningless. You’re too tired to argue for the sake of arguing, the most bitter of your demons quelled by the soft siren song of approaching sleep.

“You should come with me, tomorrow,” he says while you rinse out your mouth. 

“To where?” you spit into the sink, watching  the water swirl the drain.

“To the markets,” he reminds you. “It’s supposed to be clear skies all weekend with low humidity.”

You hum absentmindedly, pretending to give it thought as you bumble out of the bathroom. His footsteps are nearly inaudible as he tails you, quiet as a ghost. Silent to the undiscerning ear. Not to you, though, who has spent long enough in these halls to know their every sound and tone by heart.

“And the tourist season ended a week ago,” he comes to walk at your side, still wheedling. “The crowds will be thin.”

“Which means there’ll still be too many people,” you remind him sharply, shouldering past and into a room adjacent to your own, as though hoping to lose him. “I thought you hate it when I talk to other people. Make up your mind, already.”

“Never have I said such a thing,” he pesters you through the thin walls. The door to your bedroom opens and shuts. You can hear him fussing with something inside, pulling aside blankets and turning on the room’s standing fan, because you can’t sleep without the white noise.

Unable to stand the crowds, but uncomfortable in the peace of near silence, the distant crashing of the waves. 

“It would be good for you to stretch your legs—and it’ll be much easier for me to buy everything you need if you’re there.”

“You already snooped through the whole kitchen, didn’t you? You should already know what I need,” you insist through the door. You do need groceries, but the idea of stepping foot outside familiar ground is more than frightening—it’s paralyzing.

“Ah, but I’m unfamiliar with the brands on this planet and which you prefer. If faced with a choice, I may just purchase every option available.” he teases, but the threat is very real. Having to eat twenty loafs of bread before the expiry date is not something one forgets.

“Fine, fine,” you nearly snarl as you shove the adjoining door open. The room is low lit. He’s already shimmied beneath the covers, cheek nestled in the cradle of his palm. He smiles at the sight of you, lips pulled into the sort of soft, sleepy grin most reserve for their lovers—which you are most decidedly not. His charity remains unwarranted and you will do your best to curb the amount of money he’s so keen to waste. No amount of bounty or tribute will earn what he is so determined to pry from you. “I’ll humor you. But I’m not paying you back for any of it.”

“Knowing you’ll have enough to eat while I’m away will be enough,” he says. “Now please, dear. Won’t you come to bed?” he asks, and his eyes are half-lidded, face gone soft with sleepiness. Blond hair furls in wisps around his face, knocked out of place by the bedding. No matter how many times he stays, the sight always disarms you—whisks you back to chilly nights on your family’s old farm.

Your parents let him sleep in the guest house, when he happened to come by—and you (black sheep, albatross)—jumped at the chance to avoid family dinners by bringing a helping to him instead, where you’d linger with him. Until the fireplace dimmed and its warm light caught on his low lashes, fighting sleep to speak with you just a moment longer.

Back then, you feared you had encroached on his space and time for your own selfish diversions. You fear nothing, now. You flop onto the mattress and wriggle beneath the sheets, like a particularly graceless mole. The sheets are cool, buttery soft where he hasn’t touched them. The fresh scent of something earthy hangs in the air. Wet charcoal, the outside after rain. Which is quite peculiar, as it hasn’t rained since last week. Something you would fret more over if the hour were not so late and you were not so tired, wrapped in the sudden melancholy of those far off memories.

“Luocha,” you mumble as you shuffle close, lingering a precious few inches away. A plush pillow is tucked against your chest, as though it would stop him if his intentions drifted towards something less than pure. He draws as close as he can, shimmying down to be at eye level with you.

A question lingers at the tip of your tongue. Or rather, a potential question—a vague idea of a question that your sleep addled self cannot quite put together. You almost feel guilty in the silence that settles. He looks so intent, so ready to listen. Like he would answer whatever inane query you posed to the best of his ability.

In the end, you're too fragmented to give him the pleasure of it.

“Thank you,” you say, and are almost astonished to find that you mean it.

“I’m only taking responsibility, and I’m happy to do it.” he hums. “Though, I would be happier if you accompanied me.” he tacks on. And there is surely something to be said about how easily he moves you, but the sanctity of your bedroom is no place to broach the subject. Despite the frustration, the fear, the resentment—you can’t help but want his approval. Frayed edges of you which long for outward approval. It’s all at war inside you, armies which claw and writhe for claim of what little mental space remains free. The last empty stable at the back of that dusty barn.

“I’ll think about it,” you murmur, and close your eyes.

[gorbalsvampire]

In the Gehenna War era, post-splinterification, what do you imagine it takes to be judged True Sabbat? (Please note: I'm way more interested in your creativity, interpretations, and what interests you than in strict canonicity.) Thank you!

So, about the Sabbat, post-interregnum...

In a surprising but welcome shift in approaches, antitribu doesn't mean "on the other side of the sect war from where your clan normally is" but a far more interesting "opposed to the idea of even identifying by your clan to begin with." Pack and Path identity are far, far more important than whose blood flows in your veins and, if we stop and think about it, this is both ideologically and practically on point.

Ideologically, the Sabbat makes war to hunt the Antediluvians and destabilise domains which protect or apologise for them and, of course, to recruit. Leave turf war for mundane practical reasons to the Anarchs! Given that end goal of annihilating the Third Generation, of course it makes sense that Sabbat reject the clan identities defined by which of your targets happens to be at the root of your own particular bullshit.

Practically, the Sabbat shares vitae (and consequently Disciplines) as a regular ritual practice, and during wartime, the mass Embraces aren't a tidy one-bites-one affair. It's a squirming pit of hungry angry vampires, in which the survivors are probably diablerising each other down there before the surface. And, of course, diablerie is going to have an impact too. Given these practices, the Sabbat must be breaking down the boundaries between clans all the time. Most of the buggers should, mechanically speaking, be Caitiff, with only the rare Lasombra or Tzimisce childe groomed personally for a position of apprenticeship or leadership really standing out. Even they, if they have any sense about it, will lean on the achievements of their ancestors within the sect, and push against the definitive limitations of their Blood.

(Defined "bloodlines" like the Volgirre may emerge, but - gosh, now that I think about it, Baron Philippe's brood make a lot more sense as not defining themselves as a bloodline until they're accepted by the Camarilla and start to Embrace more widely and spread. Likewise, the Harbingers joined the Sabbat as allies but kept to themselves and seldom-if-ever Embraced, until they returned to the nascent Hecata.)

Perhaps what is to be Cainite, and True Sabbat, is in truth to be descended from Caine and not his cursed grandchilder. A clanless potentiality, unburdened of the weaknesses of the bloodlines, and able to develop in the direction its chosen Path demands.

SO! Let's talk about the Paths. I've Posted before about the mechanical faults with "adopting a Path" and the impossibility of transhuman ascension under Vampire's transgression-based morality rules, let's take that as read for now. Second edition did it right with the insistence that all "playable" (read "viable, True") Sabbat are on a Path and have successfully internalised its ethics and mobilised them against the Beast.

I really like how the contemporary Sabbat has fractured into packs led by priests and sharing a Path in common. It Just Makes Sense that the philosophical commitments of given Sabbat are what holds them together. The Sabbat is, after all, a militant cult; an army. Units work better if they're pursuing common goals and adopting a common strategy, rather than being tugged every which way by the individual desires of its members.

And, again returning to my Touchstone of second edition, all Sabbat used to operate on a mechanically distinct and alien basis in which Conviction (belief in an ethic), Instinct (trust in the Beast) and collective Morale (faith in the strength of the pack) replaced personal Conscience and Self-Control, and individualistic Courage. They weren't like you, they didn't think like you, and whatever made them so unlike you happened before you ever met them.

The paradox at the heart of the Sabbat is that it preaches freedom (from mortal and Camarilla moral and ethical concerns, i.e. freedom to be an unapologetic vampire) at the cost of submission (to the sect and its goals, i.e. freedom without liberty, do what thou wilt so long as thou dost what th'art told). Adoption of a Path and inclusion into a Pack that shares that commitment is part of that act of submission: it signifies a sublimation of the self into the sect. One cannot be True Sabbat until one has accepted oneself as a vampire - playing, metaphorically and literally, by vampire rules that are proven to work.

Forsake your Clan. Choose your Path. And, above all, make war, on your own initiative, because there are no orders coming from Mexico. The Regent is dead (and, in unknown fact, has been for a decade). The elders who founded and led the sect threw their childer to the fires and answered the Beckoning call of the ancient horrors: fuck 'em, they'll die with the Antediluvians they protect and serve. The self-proclaimed Kindred are merely obstacles. Recruit them, or tear them down. Leave the turf war bullshit to the Anarchs. We have a higher goal.

It's funny how I always drift into character when I talk about the Sabbat. I started out running a Sabbat game, and cast myself as pack priestess when I started playing them. They've always been my favourite mistake, and now that they and the Anarchs are in distinct and very different kinds of conflict, they are more interesting than they've ever been.

[ejzah]

In Miss Blye’s Class, Part 28

***

After a couple days of thought, Caleb decided he did want Monica to visit again, so Deeks called the number she’d left during that first night. He was honestly a little surprised when she answered. Or that she’d actually stayed in town at all.

Twenty minutes before Monica was supposed to arrive on Thursday night, Deeks pulled a chicken and roasted vegetables out of the oven for dinner. He’d debated including Monica in on the meal—it all seemed a little too domestic for his comfort—but decided any other option would be obviously rude and petty. He had resisted the urge to do any extra cleaning, even though cleaning was one of his natural stress responses.

The doorbell rang as he was flipping a separate pan of potatoes.Deeks waited a moment to see if Caleb would come running to answer it. Either he hadn’t heard it from his room, or was ignoring it.

Deeks wiped his hands on a spare towel, tugging at the hem of his shirt as he walked out of the kitchen. He had a feeling it was going to be a very long night.

He opened the door to a smirking Monica, her arms crossed over her chest.

“I almost thought you weren’t going to answer,” she said, ducking under his arm.

“Nice to see you too, Monica. Please, come in,” he said wryly, closing the door behind them. “Caleb’s still finishing his homework, but he should be done in a few minutes.”

“Homework?” She chuckled, and he didn’t need to look to know she’d rolled her eyes. “In our day they gave us a couple pictures to color and called it a day.”

“Yeah, times change. I’m finishing dinner, if you wanna follow me. Otherwise, you’re welcome to the TV in the den.” He gestured with his chin, and Monica tilted her head, scrutinizing him for a few seconds that felt unbearably long.

“Hm, I think I’ll take the first option,” she decided. “It’s been a long time since I’ve watched you cook.”

“I don’t seem to recall you being that impressed before,” Deeks commented without thinking.

“Ooh, somebody’s feeling spicy tonight,” Monica said teasingly. “You know what they say about absence.”

Deeks chose not to comment on that, silently walking into the kitchen, and occupying himself with checking the potatoes. They needed a couple more minutes. When he turned around, he found Monica watching him again.

“You want anything to drink?” He pulled a couple glasses from the cabinet next to the stove.

“It feels like a wine kind of night. Do you have anything red?”

“I might have a cabernet somewhere.” Shaking his head, he put one of the regular glasses back, pulling out a wineglass instead. A drink sounded pretty good right now, specifically a large shot of scotch. That seemed like a poor choice though, for a multitude of reasons, so he filled his glass with water, and started searching through the small collection of alcohol he had on hand.

He found a merlot from a couple years back, decided that would have to do, and uncorked it. Monica stayed silent through the whole process, making him feel uneasy.

“So, who’s Kensi?” Monica asked abruptly as he passed her a glass of wine. The question was so unexpected, he said nothing, and she apparently interpreted it as willfully ignoring her. “I heard Caleb say the name the other night when I came. Clearly he expected someone else. And, he accidentally mentioned her a couple other times.”

“Oh no, we’re not going there,” Deeks said firmly.

“That means she’s important. Did you finally break your vow of celibacy and start dating again?”

God, she was infuriating sometimes. He took a couple steps back, purposely distancing himself.

“Monica, I am not discussing my personal life with you.”

“I think it’s my right to know who’s coming into my son’s life,” she insisted with a careless shrug. She paused to take a long sip of her wine.

“No, it’s not,” Deeks said more quietly, but with no less conviction. “Maybe if you were here more than once every year. Or if you even kept in touch regularly. You haven’t though, so I get to make the decisions about who is in Caleb’s life.”

Monica gave him an incredulous look, crossing her arms over her chest. “And I’m guessing I’m not one of those people, huh? I’m not this Kensi who makes both of you light up.”

“If you’re implying that I’ve said anything negative about you to Caleb, that is the farthest from the truth.” He lowered his voice on the off chance that Caleb chose this moment to walk in as seemed his way. “I’ve done my very best to never let my own feelings and opinions about you influence him. Seeing you tonight was completely his own decision.”

Her eyes widened as she tilted her head again, mouth slightly open. “You really believe that, don’t you?”

“When have I ever lied to you, Monica?” he asked, and she seemed stunned by the simple question.

Beyond her shoulder he saw Caleb appear in the doorway, standing there hesitantly when he noticed Monica in the room too.

“Hey kiddo, you finish your homework?”

“Yeah. Is dinner ready?”

Setting her wine aside, Monica turned and offered Caleb a smile. “Hi Caleb. There’s my big boy,” she said, holding her arms open.

“Hi Mommy.” He smiled back shyly, accepting a hug a little stiffly.

“Did you miss me?” she asked.

“Kind of,” Caleb answered honestly.

Monica’s face feel briefly before she recovered herself. “Well, I missed you.” She poked Caleb in the stomach, eliciting a little giggle from him. “Let’s set the table while Daddy finished dinner.”

As they walked out of the room, she fixed Deeks with a determined look that he knew could only mean trouble. Slouching against the counter, he pressed his palms against his eye sockets. He hoped this hadn’t been a terrible mistake.

***

A/N: Yes, Monica just brings all the drama. And yes, she’s the villain of this story.