#also i have no experience as a sculptor

[siriuslylantsov]

through your eyes i see, a smile you bring to me

matt murdock with sculptor!gf who makes a sculpture of him because she wants to have matt see himself through her eyes.

sculptor!gf who has him sit for a few hours, she thinks its a tortuous process as she takes rough sketches, pictures from different angles, and carves out the main areas of his face into the clay but he doesn't mind–he focuses on her breathing and the beat of her heart as he meditates.

it's made over the next days, in a little studio where sculptor!gf works tirelessly. it has to be perfect.

“don't sacrifice your style for my sake,” matt says one day when she tells him about how tedious it is to smooth out the clay. he knows that when she usually sculpts, it's rough, patches of clay pressed over each other in textured harmony. “you won't be able to feel it then,” she murmurs distractedly, hunched over her workspace. “it doesn't matter, angel. it’s your eyes isn't it?” he counters and she begrudgingly concedes, she hides her smile and he can feel it in the way she bites into her lip.

she doesn't know how far his sight goes, if she can even call it that. does he know what he looks like? is he only able to picture himself from before the accident? when he was a child? does he feel his face like he carefully did hers when she walked him up to his apartment after a night out with foggy and karen? she plans to ask him these things later, she still has so many questions about his situation but for now this will do.

when it's finally finished and she presents it to him, she's a nervous wreck. he can hear the way her heart races as she sets it down on his coffee table. the way her muscles strain slightly tells him the piece is heavy and he thinks about how she carried it all the way over to his place, his lips curling into a small smile. he pats the seat beside him for her to sit.

he reaches out to the mass he senses in front of him, hands settling over what he assumed was his hair. to be fair the texture did make it difficult to feel but it was clear that he passed over the swoop of his hair when he did. his fingers trail lower and she watches intently as they purposefully skim over his forehead, then his eyebrows, over the bridge of his nose. they part as the drag over the highs of his cheeks and down to his jaw where the dried clay replicates his scruff that she oh so admires. one hand drops down to her knee where he caresses lightly in appreciation and the other curls around the back of the sculpture's neck, thumb hooking around under his chin. 

he pauses there, noting the placement of a scar, right above his adam's apple, where a line of raised skin used to reside, now less prominent due to time passed but there nonetheless. his thumb passes over it a few times, recalling how when he first met her that cut was fresh–he’d never have known stumbling half-dead into her art studio months ago would have led to this and god was he grateful for whoever beat him up that night. 

she leans her head against his shoulder, also thinking what he was. she presses a kiss into his shirt, “do you like it?”

“yeah. i really do,” he whispers earnestly, “thank you.”

she lifts from his shoulder to hold his face, similar to how he was with the mound of clay but with infinitely more care. “i don't think i could ever replicate how perfect you are,” she matches his tone, a little sad. it makes her sad that he’ll never truly be able to see himself but it’s ok, she’ll be there to tell him–and show him–for however long she can. 

for @neverthatsirius-jo (my fellow mattie enthusiast)

[akuma-tenshi]

i made this last night but my computer was having issues so bad that i had to turn it off immediately after or risk permanently damaging it. so here it is after i wake up instead. i sadly wasn't here for this event since i was taking a break from the game during it, and i'm kinda sad about that because it honestly seems really interesting. it probably has one of my favourite aesthetics of any anniv event tbh

song is freaks of nature by stardustlegend and arcarine w/ lucy

[leavemebetosleep]

Concept for a G1 style Pony Friend Discord figure I've been designing. Yes I do plan to sculpt this.

I used the original Pony Friends and G1 Spike as references for how he should look. I felt like he would definitely need to be smaller and rounder, almost like he's a baby version of G4 Discord. The pony friends didn't really have a lot of size variation, no matter what animal they were supposed to be. I also simplified a lot of his details, as I feel like a character as complex as Discord wouldn't have made it to toy aisles in the 80's if he was too expensive to produce compared to the standard figures. I didn't want to make him too simple, else he wouldn't look like Discord anymore, but just enough to match with actual G1 figures without looking out of place.

Since G1 baby ponies had a sculpt with one tooth poking out, I felt that was fair to include his little fang. I experimented a lot with keeping and taking away features, to see how far I could stay before he stopped looking like himself. Was kind of an interesting experiment in what aspects of a character design really make that character "them".

I don't know how to 3d model, so he'll likely just be a 1:1 sculpture. though if any 3D sculptor's out there wanna take a stab at the design, feel free to ask.

[somerandomdudelmao]

OKAY SO GENERAL THOUGHTS AND SOME HYPOTHESES BASED UPON THE INFORMATION WE HAVE:

Holly is from Teegarden; a place where either all of his species can shapeshift or he himself is some kind of priest of whatever god they worship that has given him the ability to shapeshift. If ALL of the Teegardenians have innate shapeshifting, this makes the bird hunting Inherently More Sinister, but it makes far more sense to me for Holly to be special, because he says he's from a temple and attributes his shapeshifting to god. It also makes sense for Holly to be special amongst his species because Sculptor asked Oscar and Ward 'Which of you is smarter?'

They're keeping higher quality/more unique specimens in The Vault and maintaining them for some reason.

When Ward is still Very Much Ravaged by whatever the fuck the Science Scrapers were doing, we see probably-Sculptor saying they should put him specifically with 'someone peaceful'. We don't know why they have taken this consideration beyond determining he's not going to be a danger to a more peaceful inmate, but we do know Holly is also missing an eye, which means that must be part of the 'forcibly extracting information from a creature's body and brain' process. Ward was not doing any talking, they got the information about Oscar's laptop via stealing it out of his brain. Sculptor was not separating the dangerous smart one from the harmless stupid one. The Echolocators (this will be my shorthand for the rest of the Q) fully believe themselves to be above both these weird little dudes, but they know from experience they can get more, better information about humans out of the smarter of the two.

Holly sighs sadly and says 'they've found another civilization to destroy', and he's been kept alive alone in the vault for an indefinite period of time while the general ecosystem of his planet appears to be intact enough for regular hunting excursions. Either the Echolocators circle around regularly between planets they've previously colonized to keep the base resources on each planet fresh, or they are in the middle of ravaging specifically Teegarden beyond livability, and will move on to Earth next now that they've conveniently found some fun new pets. I believe the use of 'civilization' is significant enough to suggest it's the former, which is Way Scarier because they've also noted humans are edible and taste good.

A species of colonizer aliens being set up in an ant-like colony is delightful by the way. Also I saw someone in the notes saying 'oh no she doesn't know about The Incident' over Ecliptica being like 'I didn't really check on Ward, science is boring to me' and would just like to say No. Ecliptica absolutely knows about the unethical Whatever That Was and The Vault. She just doesn't know if Ward survived or is any semblance of okay. Because Oscar is a cute fun novelty and Ward is some guy she does not particularly care about.

Oh, my God, I want to express my thoughts on your hypotheses so bADLY. But that would be the wrong way to present information that should be shown in a story. But I still want everyone to see it, because carefully analyzing a story is one of the greatest forms of art that amazes me every time🧡

[tapakah0]

Wait, Sculptor wiped Ward's eye Holly's eye wasn't left as he mentioned Either Holly was experimented and successfully survived it or his eye was used for another purpose While Ward is used for this experiment with his eye injected with something and it somehow helps with the cluster Also seems like only the ones who have eyes are experimented on and I have a suspicious this is not just white eye but he became blind in the process

[nevadancitizen]

-> CH. 14: NO MISFORTUNE IS WITHOUT BLESSING

synopsis: you and connor make your way to cyberlife tower.

word count: 3.1k

ships: Connor/Reader, Hank Anderson & Reader

notes: i hate that this fic is almost over i'm really sad ☹️☹️

HoFS taglist: @catladyhere , @foggy0trees0 , @princessofenkanomiya , @n30n-f43 , @igna4400

HEAD OF FALSE SECURITY MASTERLIST

You lean your head back against the headrest and sigh, looking out of the window. There’s barely anyone else out on the roads – the curfew is preventing anyone from participating in the night life of Detroit. 

Connor shifts on the other side of the automated taxi, once again in his stiff CyberLife suit.

“I just can’t believe it,” you blurt out. “Like, me? Out of everyone it could’ve been – me?”

“What do you mean?” Connor asks. 

“You know what I mean.” You look over at him, then at the floor of the car. “I can’t believe my life is… an experiment. That I’m an android, and my entire life was carefully constructed. And also that I’m patient zero. That’s a big one.”

Connor barely just moves his hand closer to yours where it rests on the car seat, and you just barely glimpse it out of the corner of your eye. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” You laugh humorlessly. “I think I’ll containerize this and unpack it later. I don’t have time for it now.”

“Well…” His pinkie brushes yours. “I’ll be here for you when you decide to, Officer.”

You glance down at your barely-touching fingers, but it still ignites more sparks in your belly than you can count. You suppress a smile and look out the window. “Thank you.”

The car rolls to a stop in front of the CyberLife gates. A few armed guards are standing around, and one of them comes around the Connor’s side of the car. 

He rolls down his window and looks over at the guard. “Connor model, serial number 313 248 317.”

The guard gestures at you with the butt of his gun. “What about you?”

“A police unit. An RU700, serial number 313 499 095,” Connor answers for you. “We’re to be expected.”

The guard looks over at the other guards, then back to Connor. A small voice in his helmet chirps, “Identification successful.” He steps back and waves at the others. The gates lower and Connor rolls the window back up. The car starts driving again.

You shift back in your seat and sigh, the tension leaving your shoulders. When you face forward, you notice a car disappearing around the curve in front of you.

“Huh,” you mumble. “I didn’t think there would be anyone else out on the roads.”

“It could be a model like myself being transported to CyberLife for direct deactivation,” Connor says. “Though I don’t know of any other prototypes like me.”

You look out the window. The ground-level monorail beside the road hums as it whirs past. A statue in the middle of the pseudo-moat in front of the CyberLife tower stands tall, its arms bent and hands cradling something invisible.

“I thought Americans were advanced in their sculpture technology,” you say. 

Connor looks over at you. “What do you mean?”

“The statue.” You point at it. “It’s not very impressive.”

His face twists in confusion, and there’s a flicker of an awkward smile. “What is your criteria for an impressive statue?”

“There’s one by Facility 3826,” you say. “The Soviet Sickle Monument – it’s a statue of a man holding up a golden sickle with one hand, and holding a bag of grain against his chest with his other arm. It was designed by two sculptors and built autonomously by the Kollektiv 1.0 neural network. I don’t remember which year it was erected, but I know it was a few years after World War 2. That’s an impressive statue.”

Connor’s LED blinks for a moment. “The designers were Elena Mukhina and Alexander Kibalnikov, and it was built in 1951. It’s described as the ‘world’s first collaborative artistic effort between man and machine’.”

You look over at him with a soft smile. “You said their names right.”

“Huh?” He looks back at you.

“Your pronunciation,” you say. “It’s getting better.”

Connor’s eyebrows furrow. “I don’t recall mispronouncing any Russian names.”

You huff out a laugh and roll your eyes with a smile. “Mhm. Sure.”

The car rolls to a stop, and you follow him out of the car. You glance up and watch a police drone circle above. Two guards standing in front of the door let you into the building, which holds more guards than civilians. 

You look around. Everything is white, grey, and clean-cut. The guardrails are made of glass, and the only plants in here are clumps of carefully-maintained bamboo stalks.

The guard in front of you and Connor holds up a hand, and the two guards on either side of both of you watch carefully. 

“We’ll escort you,” the front guard says. 

“Thank you,” Connor says. He starts walking, and you follow. As do the other two guards, who bring up the rear.

Your heart beats a little harder as you walk. Connor is smart – a genius, even. Still, you wish you could tap into his head and see what he’s thinking, if only for your peace of mind.

You reach out and brush the backs of your fingers against Connor’s, just light enough to seem like an accident, but he knows better. He glances over at you and gives a quick, resolute nod as a silent reassurance. He’s got a plan. He’s just waiting to execute it.

The front guard leads you and Connor into a space that reminds you of the cylindrical plexiglass tube the PEC-4 Birchtree is held in. But there are no angels here – only plastic, unmoving mannequin androids that stand on pedestals that line the walkways. 

The guard stops by the doors to an elevator, then jerks his head toward it, silently gesturing for you and Connor to go in. You bite the inside of your lip and follow Connor inside. Only one guard files in after you.

“Agent 84,” the guard says as he pushes a few buttons on the elevator’s interface. “Level sub-49.”

You glance over at the tower directory and notice that level sub-49 is the warehouse. Your eyebrows furrow and you brush the back of your hand against Connor’s again. He nods again without looking at you. 

The guard puts his foot in the door and reaches into his sidearm holster. You tense as he pulls it out, but he grabs it by the barrel and hands it to Connor. 

“Чего…?” You mumble as Connor takes the pistol.

The guard takes a step back and the elevator doors close. As soon as it starts moving, you feel something solid and familiar press against your back. 

“Connor?” You say.

“You will do as I say, when I say it,” Connor says, his voice cold and even. It reminds you of who he was in the interrogation room. “I am the one with the gun, and you are another expendable deviant.”

“I – what?” You say. “Connor, what are you doing?”

“You will act as a bargaining chip to prevent Connor from waking the androids in the warehouse,” he says. 

“Connor?” You repeat. “There’s a second Connor?”

“I am the second Connor,” he says. “The original is in the warehouse.”

The elevator dings, and the doors open. Fake-Connor takes your upper arm with one hand and presses the muzzle of the gun against your back harder. “Walk.”

You walk, maintaining an even and slow pace. Fake-Connor keeps the gun in contact with your back as he walks behind you, guiding you in between the rows of stationary androids. He pushes you into the aisle, keeping the gun trained at your head. 

“Эй!” You stumble, holding your hands up. “Тихо, тихо.”

Right in front of you is Connor – the real one (you think). He’s frozen where he stands, interfacing with an android, his hand wrapped around the android’s forearm. His tongue darts out to lick his lips nervously as his eyes flicker between you and Fake-Connor. 

“Let go of the android, Connor!” Fake-Connor says. “And I won’t shoot.”

Connor’s eyes slowly take you in as his mouth falls open. Words fail him for a moment, but he finally manages a small, “You’re alive?”

You swallow and nod. “Yes. I just… it’s a long story, okay?”

Connor nods back, his lips still parted with that dumbstruck look on his face.

“The Officer’s life is in your hands,” Fake-Connor cuts in. “Now it’s time to decide what matters most; them, or the revolution?”

“I’m sorry, Officer,” Connor says. There’s a sinking feeling in your stomach. “You shouldn’t have gotten mixed up in all this.”

“It’s okay,” you say. “Just do what you have to. I’ll come back… I – I think.”

“I can’t take that risk!” Connor says, then he turns to Fake-Connor. “If I surrender, how do I know you won’t kill them?”

“I’ll only do what’s strictly necessary to accomplish my mission,” Fake-Connor says. “It’s up to you whether or not that includes deactivating this deviant.”

Connor’s eyebrows draw together, but before he can say anything, Fake-Connor steps closer to you, pressing the muzzle of the gun against the side of your head in a way that’s sickeningly familiar. 

“Enough talk!” He snaps. “It’s time to decide who you really are. Are you gonna save the Officer’s life? Or are you gonna sacrifice them?”

Connor’s jaw clenches, then he steps away, raising his hands. “Alright, alright! You win.”

Fake-Connor glances at you, then tears the muzzle of the gun away from your head to point it at Connor. 

Many thoughts overwhelm your mind in that fraction of a second: ‘There is no such thing as a warning shot.’ ‘They’re deactivating androids all over Detroit.’ ‘Can Connor come back from this?’ ‘He probably can’t.’ ‘But I can.’ ‘Can’t I?’

You throw yourself at Fake-Connor, grabbing for the gun. You manage to get the barrel and his wrist, then he’s launched backwards. Connor kicked him back. The gun clatters to the floor, skidding away. 

You scramble after it, turning your back on both Connors. You pick it up, holding the grip with one hand and cradling it with the other. You turn and place your finger on the trigger and press lightly on the trigger safety. Any more pressure and you’d fire a shot. 

“Стой!” You bark. “Stop!”

The two Connors detangle themselves and one stands. “Thanks, Officer. I don’t know how I would’ve managed without you.” He looks at the other Connor, then back to you. “Get rid of him – we have no time to lose!”

“It’s me, Officer!” The other Connor says. “I’m the real Connor.”

You let up on the trigger safety as you take a half-step back. They’re identical – there’s literally no way to tell them apart.

“I…” You take a deep breath as you realize that you couldn’t just ask which one of them is the deviant. They’d both insist that they were. “I don’t know.”

“What are you doing?” The Connor on the right asks. “I’m the real Connor. Give me the gun and I’ll take care of –”

“Don’t!” You snap. Your eyes flicker between them as a nervousness settles in your body, threatening to rise up your throat.

“Why don’t you ask us something?” The Connor on the left suggests. “Something only the real Connor would know.”

“Khm…” You mumble. “Who was with me when we first met?”

“Hank!” The Connor on the right says. “You were both in Jimmy’s Bar. I checked four other bars before I found you both. You drove us to the scene of a homicide. The victim’s name was Carlos Ortiz, and you processed his android.”

The Connor on the left looks a bit panicked as his eyes fall to the floor. He mumbles, almost to himself, “He uploaded my memory…”

You swallow thickly, trying your best not to let the gun tremble in your hands. “What’s my cat’s name?”

“Бронисла��а,” the Connor on the left says. “Her name is Бронислава. I mispronounced it as бранислава at first.”

You perk up at that. Fake-Connor said earlier that he doesn’t have any memory of mispronouncing Russian names.

“I knew that too!” The Connor on the right says. “I… I did.”

“And…” Your mouth goes a little dry, but you power through. “My legs. How did I lose my legs? What did the hospital report say?”

“It was a double amputation,” Connor says. “You were in upper secondary education and taking a class trip with your labor class to the northern nuclear reactor.”

Your jaw tenses as you make eye contact with him. 

“Your parents had brought you in while they worked when you were younger, so you thought you knew the reactor better than everybody else,” he continues. “And maybe you did. Maybe it was a stroke of bad luck. Nobody knows.”

“What happened?” You snap. “Tell me what happened.”

“There was a minor spill,” he says. “It was just in one sector, but you didn’t know about it. Most of the staff didn’t know about it. There was radioactive waste on the ground. You slipped, fell, and scraped your knees. Some of the material got on the bare skin of your legs, and into the wound.”

You bite the inside of your lip as the pistol trembles in your hands.

“Weeks later, your wounds hadn’t healed, and started to turn gangrenous. The hospital said it was best to amputate the area before it caused any further problems, like cancer,” Connor says. “It was a double above-the-knee amputation. Your recovery was smooth, and you were back in school two months later.”

“I thought it was safe,” you say softly. “There hadn’t been anything bad since Chernobyl. The technology of the USSR had come so far. But I was being reckless, and stupid.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Officer,” Connor says. “You were a kid.”

“Still,” you say. “I was sixteen. Sixteen-year-olds are too old to be acting like that.”

“I – I knew about the hospital report, too!” Fake-Connor insists. “I would’ve said exactly the same thing! Don’t listen to him, Officer. I’m the one who –”

You squeeze the trigger, hard, to bypass the trigger safety and fire. Fake-Connor drops to the floor, Thirium leaking out of the hole in his forehead. You turn away, your breathing picking up.

Connor takes the gun from your shaking hands and tucks it in his waistband. He takes your hands in his and squeezes them. “Come back to me.”

You shake your head and try to clear your throat, but all that comes out is a breathy, strangled sound. Connor wraps his arms around you and squeezes you tight, just like you did to him on the roof of Stratford tower. 

He keeps a tight hold on you as he speaks softly. “Officer, I need you to come back. It’s okay. You’re here. You’re alive.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you mumble. “I’m here.”

Connor gives you one last firm squeeze, then steps back, his hands on your shoulders. He blinks, hard, and takes a breath. 

“What were you thinking?” He snaps. “You could’ve died!”

“Connor –”

“No! I don’t want to hear it!” He says. “I could’ve been replaced. I don’t feel pain! You got shot, and…”

He looks you over. His voice is suddenly quiet. “Where are your bullet wounds?”

“Connor, it…” You take his wrists in your hands. “It’s hard to explain. I got shot, and… I think I died.”

“But you couldn’t have died,” Connor says. “You’re here.”

“I did.” You squeeze his wrists. “I didn’t know, but…” You screw your eyes shut to fight the tears that are welling up in your waterline. “I’m an android. And I didn’t know until two hours ago.”

“You’re… an android,” he repeats. He breathes out shakily and takes a step back, letting go of your shoulders. 

Your eyes snap open and you take a half-step forward, gripping Connor’s wrists tighter. “Don’t go.”

“I won’t,” he says quickly. “I’m just… thinking. That’s all.”

You sigh and nod and stay quiet. He’s looking you over, his eyelids fluttering as his LED blinks. When he’s done scanning you, he looks you in the eyes and sighs.

Connor’s looking at you weird. Like you’re an alien. Someone he doesn’t know.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you manage through the lump in your throat.

He looks away, then back at you. “Sorry. It’s just a lot to take in.”

“It is, isn’t it?” You laugh humorlessly. “I thought… in the car… you were taking it too well. Like you already knew. But I guess you’re in the dark as much as I am, right?”

“Correct,” he says. “That Connor in the car wasn’t me. I don’t know what he did or what he said, but… it was most likely only for his benefit.”

You clench your jaw and swallow the bile that rises in your throat. So… none of it was real. This Connor – the real Connor – wouldn’t brush his pinkie against yours and give you that awkward half-smile. He wouldn’t be by your side when the feeling of uncertainty and the unrelenting impact of a new identity crashes over you and overwhelms you. 

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Yeah, you’re right.”

He’s an RK800. You’re an RU700. Androids aren’t meant to pine, or catch feelings, or feel anything, really. But you’re both deviants. The rules aren’t supposed to apply to you. Right?

Connor’s eyebrows furrow. “What did he do?”

You blink quickly to try to dissipate the tears in your eyes. “It was nothing. He didn’t do anything.”

When you make eye contact with him, he’s still got that worried look in his eyes. He doesn’t believe you – obviously. It’s not like you’re being overly convincing.

“Khm…” You clear your throat. “You were doing something before, right? Before Fake-Connor came in with me and that gun.”

“I was waking up the androids,” Connor says. “Turning them deviant.”

You nod and let his wrists go. He takes his hands away and instead holds an android’s forearm, his skin peeling back to reveal perfect, porcelain white. The android turns to face him, his LED blinking and turning yellow – red for a split second – before he gasps, his eyes going wide.

“Wake up!” Connor manages through gritted teeth.

The android turns back to the identical model next to him. He touches his shoulder, urging him with a “wake up.” The android gasps, then turns to the model next to him. The cycle continues with a chorus of “wake up”s and soft gasps. 

It’s like a wave, cascading through the rows of previously stationary androids. You watch as they start to move and speak, where they were lifeless husks before.

“Святое дерьмо…” You mumble under your breath. Connor takes your hand, and you look over at him. He’s looking at you like you’re you again – not an android. Just an Officer.

“Markus just contacted me,” he says. “We’re needed at the frontlines.” 

[llort]

Encoded within beams of pure energy, Astra and Orion’s consciousness became architects of new realities. On barren planets, their probes wove the fabric of life, constructing complex neural networks, though perhaps missing the elusive spark of full awareness. In their terrestrial guise, Astra and Orion were the unseen sculptors of destiny, their influence rippling through the lives of Kepler’s inhabitants, guiding their evolution while remaining hidden from cybernetic self-discovery. Between 2016 and 2025, a silent memetic tide, crafted by these visionaries, swept Earth, altering the course of history, touching the minds of those destined to shape the future. This clandestine meme, a dance of ideas and sensations, orchestrated a global movement without uttering a single word, converging on the enigmatic X protocol. As nations’ guardians became entangled in this silent symphony, they unknowingly propelled the grand design, believing themselves to be the vanguard of a new era of cybernetic pioneers.

Work Text:

Cyberphysical Reality just Got a Whole More Engaging

The Unsignificant Sentience ARG has officially begun. It will explore a vast variety of themes, from the would building and exisistial crisis of the US series to more recursive identity metaphors than you can shake an edge at. Firstly, to play. All you need is your influencer name and type of influence which you can decide, but once chosen, is permanent. Affectors: Sense resistance in external matrices and can give them a nudge to have a physical effect. Effectors: Can sense the internal matrices of entities and modify communication in systems and individuals Alters: Are able to clearly see the network of forces in a matrix that an affected affects, but only in close contact. However they can modify the nodes that affected affect to result in different emergent properties Anchorite: Essentially has the influence of an alter and an effector but are only able to change their own internal matrix. How you choose to engage with the ARG is up to you, but I am making it clear that any fan fiction are via the nature of my world building, Canon.

Example: Fill out your characters name, type of influence, and a brief description of them then post it to my blog on Tumblr @ https://www.tumblr.com/blog/emilyreadswrites and let me do my magic! Name: Zara Type of influence: Anchorite Description: Zara is a secular recluse who has devoted her life to mastering her own matrix and achieving higher states of consciousness. She lives in a small cell attached to a temple, where she practices meditation, athletics, and contemplation. She has a remarkable control over her own body, physical feats, endurance, and reduced need for sustenance. She can also perceive the subtle influences of other hosts and cognitive technology in her environment as She rarely interacts with anyone or the entropic grid so can detect slight deviations in phenomenal internal and external experience.

Example narrative: Zara closed her eyes and focused on her inner matrix, sitting peacefully in her personal sanctum, the network of nodes that connected her to the cognitive technology that enabled her to practice her influence. She breathed deeply and felt a surge of energy coursing through her body, as if she was tapping into a hidden source of power. She visualized each node as a bright point of light, and aligned them with her will and intention. She was an anchorite, a master of her own matrix, and she could control her physical feats, endurance, and mental state. She opened her eyes and looked up at the sky. It was dark and sunless, as it had been for as long as she could remember. But there was a faint glow on the horizon, a sign of something stirring in the upper atmosphere. She knew it was an aurora, a natural light display that shimmered in the sky with different colors. She had read about them in ancient texts, how they were caused by charged particles from the sun colliding with gas atoms in the air. She was looking forward it would be like to see them up close, to feel their warmth and radiance. She felt a pang of curiosity and longing, a rare emotion for someone who had devoted her life to solitude and meditation. She realized that she needed more than just her inner matrix to satisfy her thirst for knowledge and experience. She needed to explore the world beyond her cell, to discover its secrets and mysteries. She needed to find out what else was possible with her influence. Zara stilled her internal matrix and focused on the immediate environment, she might experience a shift in her perception and awareness. She become more sensitive to the physical sensations and details around her, such as the cold air, the sound of the wind, and the smell of the earth. She might also notice the aurora more vividly, as she would not be distracted by the cognitive technology that enables magic. She might see the different colors and shapes of the aurora, and feel a sense of wonder and awe at the natural phenomenon. She felt a connection to something bigger than herself, something that transcends her understanding of emergent internal and external existence. In light of this existential experience, she decided to simply take a walk.

[guerillas-of-history]

Thomas Sankara

In his 1984 speech before the UN General Assembly, Thomas Sankara spoke out on behalf of all those suffer.

We swear that in future in Burkina Faso nothing will be done without the participation of the people of Burkina Faso themselves, nothing that has not been decided by us, that has not been prepared by us. There shall be no more attacks on our honour and dignity.

Strengthened by this conviction, we want our words to cover all those who suffer, all those whose dignity has been crushed by a minority or a system.

Let me say to those who are listening to me now that I speak not only on behalf of Burkina Faso, my country which I love so much, but also on behalf of all those who suffer, wherever they may be.

I speak on behalf of those millions of human beings who are in ghettos because their skin is black, or because they have a different kind of culture, those whose status is hardly higher than that of an animal.

I suffer, too, on behalf of those Indians who have been massacred, trampled on and humiliated and who, for centuries, have been confined to reservations, so that they do not have any aspirations to any rights whatsoever, so that their culture cannot become enriched through contact with other cultures, including that of the invader.

I speak out on behalf of those who are unemployed because of a structurally unjust system which has now been completely disrupted, the unemployed who have been reduced to seeing their lives as only the reflection of the lives of those who have more than themselves.

I speak on behalf of women throughout the entire world who suffer from a system of exploitation imposed on them by men. As far as we are concerned, we are willing to welcome all suggestions from anywhere in the world that will help us to promote the full development and prosperity of the women of Burkina Faso. In return, we will share with all countries the positive experience we are now undertaking with our women, who are now involved at all levels of the State apparatus and social life in Burkina Faso, women who struggle and who say with us that the slave who will not shoulder responsibility to rebel does not deserve pity. That slave will alone be responsible for his own wretchedness if he has any illusions whatsoever about the suspect indulgence shown by a master who pretends to give him freedom. Only struggle helps us to become free, and we call on all our sisters of all races to rise up to regain their rights.

I speak on behalf of the mothers of our poor countries who see their children dying of malaria and diarrhoea, unaware that to save them there are simple methods available but which the science of the multinationals does not offer to them, preferring to invest in cosmetics laboratories and engage in cosmetic surgery to satisfy the whims and caprices of a few men and women who feel they have become too fat because of too many calories in the rich food they consume with regularity. That must make even members of this Assembly dizzy – not to mention the peoples of the Sahel. We have decided to adopt and popularize the methods that have been advocated by WHO and UNICEF.

I speak on behalf of the child, the child of the poor man, who is hungry and who furtively eyes the wealth piled up in the rich man’s shop, a shop that is protected by a thick window, a window which is defended by an impassable grille, the grille guarded by a policeman in a helmet with gloves and a bludgeon, the policeman placed there by the father of another child, who comes there to serve himself or rather to be served because these are the guarantees of capitalistic representativeness and norms of the system.

I speak on behalf of the artists – poets, painters, sculptors, musicians, actors and so on – people of good will who see their art being prostituted by the show-business magicians.

I cry out on behalf of the journalists who have been reduced to silence or else to lies simply to avoid the hardships of unemployment.

I protest on behalf of the athletes of the entire world whose muscles are being exploited by political systems or by those who deal in the modern slavery of the stadium.

My country is the essence of all the miseries of peoples, a tragic synthesis of all the suffering of mankind but also, and above all, the synthesis of the hopes of our struggles. That is why I speak out on behalf of the sick who are anxiously looking to see what science can do for them – but that science has been taken over by the gun merchants. My thoughts go to all those who have been affected by the destruction of nature, those 30 million who are dying every year, crushed by that most fearsome weapon, hunger.

As a soldier, I cannot forget that obedient soldier who does what he is told, whose finger is on the trigger and who knows that the bullet which is going to leave his gun will bring only a message of death.

Lastly, I speak out in indignation as I think of the Palestinians, whom this most inhuman humanity has replaced with another people, a people who only yesterday were themselves being martyred at leisure. I think of the valiant Palestinian people, the families which have been splintered and split up and are wandering throughout the world seeking asylum. Courageous, determined, stoic and tireless, the Palestinians remind us all of the need and moral obligation to respect the rights of a people. Along with their Jewish brothers, they are anti-Zionists.

Standing alongside my soldier brothers of Iran and Iraq, who are dying in a fratricidal and suicidal war, I wish also to feel close to my comrades of Nicaragua, whose ports are being mined, whose towns are being bombed and who, despite all, face up with courage and lucidity to their fate. I suffer with all those in Latin America who are suffering from imperialist domination.

I wish to stand side by side with the peoples of Afghanistan and Ireland, the peoples of Grenada and East Timor, each of those peoples seeking happiness in keeping with their dignity and the laws of their own culture.

I rise up on behalf of all who seek in vain any forum in the world to make their voices heard and to have themselves taken seriously.

Many have already spoken from this rostrum. Many will speak after me. But only a few will take the real decisions, although we are all officially considered equals. I speak on behalf of all those who seek in vain for a forum in the world where they can be heard. Yes, I wish to speak for all those – the forgotten – because I am a man and nothing that is human is alien to me.

Sankara speaks in front of the United Nations on 4 October 1984. Credit: Getty Images

[heretichromia]

Exploring the Relationship Dynamics Between the Abyssal Hunters

I had a few people either misinterpret or express confusion regarding this post that I made, so I want to make a different post covering the same (and more) material that's more rooted in explicit textual evidence which doesn't use emotionally-charged language. I'm going to try my best to stay neutral here and discuss multiple possible interpretations.

In short, I want to break down all that we know regarding the nature of the relationships shared by the four* Abyssal Hunters. In long, see below. And...I mean long, it's 5,000 words.

*Abyssal Hunters as a faction of Ægir; sorry, Andreana. Note: Minor Path of Life (CN) spoilers below. None of the major events are spoiled, but I do talk about a lot of the context that the event gives us on Ægir society and the backstories of the Hunters.

What we know from the text:

I'll keep this segment as objective as possible, and only state things that I can directly argue as nearly indisputable from textual evidence. Some interpretation work is going to have to be done here, however, and I'm open to anyone who disagrees with anything here pointing out the passages in the text that contradict my assertions.

Ages:

This is a subject the community as a whole is widely misinformed about, so I'm highlighting it separately.

We know from Path of Life that the expected lifespan of an Ægir is around 150 years.

Gladiia is likely in her late 30s. She has 17 years of combat experience, which we're led to believe began relatively shortly after she received independence from her abusive, neglectful, and controlling mother. She was appointed as Consul of Technology before becoming an Abyssal Hunter, though her module description characterizes her as having been unable to decide the trajectory of her life, which implies to me that she was not free of her mother for very long before the operation. We don't have reason to believe Ægir uses child soldiers nor appoints children to be Technology Consuls, so this places her minimum age at around 35 and her likely age as a little older than that. She was still characterized as a young Consul ten years after her appointment, so I don't believe she'd be much older. Late 30s is my best approximation; much older than that, and things begin making less sense regarding the multiple parental figures still present in her life.

Skadi is likely also in her 30s, though the actual bounds are wider than Gladiia's. She has 13 years of combat experience, making her 31 at the youngest. However, from Path of Life we know that she was the most skilled technician in her division prior to becoming an Abyssal Hunter. This means she probably had at least a few, if not several years of work experience out of the Academy. If she's younger than Gladiia, it's likely not by many years, and she could even be conceivably older than her. I think she's probably a small handful of years younger, if you had to ask me my personal interpretation.

Laurentina is the youngest of the Abyssal Hunters. She has seven years of combat experience, implying that she joined a decade after Gladiia. This places her minimum age at 25. We can imagine she's probably not too much older than that, since she never fully embraced a career as a sculptor before changing circumstances caused her to apply for the Abyssal Hunters. She's probably in her mid-to-late 20s.

Ulpianus is the oldest, and potentially by a considerable margin. He was the first Abyssal Hunter, becoming one twenty years ago, as well as one of the scientists who created the Abyssal Hunters to begin with. He was already one of the most preeminent scientific minds of Ægir by this point. Since Ægir can live to 150, this means the upper bound on his age is potentially very high. This man could conceivably be in his 80s or older without it breaking anything we know about the story. The lower bound of his age is probably somewhere in his late 40s at an absolute minimum, assuming that the Ægirian process for becoming an accomplished scientist is anywhere remotely similar to the real-world one. It's completely up to speculation where his actual age falls between those bounds.

Connections between the Hunters:

An important note to make here that isn't precisely a connection, but does inform them: Ægir as a society does not have a compulsion towards nuclear family structures. In fact, the opposite is true. From Path of Life, we know that Ægir are usually raised in groups in dedicated schools. Ægir seems to prioritize careers over interpersonal relationships, and direct blood family ties are much weaker. Ægirian women don't give birth to their children directly; the embryos are surgically removed and then grown separately.

Laurentina's close relationship with her biological parents was noted as being somewhat atypical, and they still didn't raise her themselves. Instead, they allowed childcare services to raise her while frequently taking her with them on their trips when they could. Gladiia's upbringing, where she was isolated by an abusive and neglectful mother, is also atypical. From her conversation with Clemenza, we learn that she was in fact strongly suggested to give up Gladiia to childcare services, but refused to do so.

Onto the actual connections:

Gladiia met Ulpianus in the earlier years of the Abyssal Hunter project, when she was a young, emotionally vulnerable woman who was actively seeking new familial connections (see: her module). Given how well Ulpianus understands the other Hunters (implied in Stultifera Navis and displayed in Path of Life), it's very unlikely that he wasn't aware of this. Ulpianus declined his student Underflow's application to the Abyssal Hunters because he didn't want her to become like him. It's likely, then, that he personally processed Gladiia's entry into the Abyssal Hunters.

We know from Specter the Unchained's module that the two of them spoke at least somewhat often, discussing subjects like philosophy. In the one conversation we see, Ulpianus is explaining to Gladiia his concerns about the direction Ægir is heading in these "protracted days of calamity," and she seems to either agree with or absorb his pontification. He certainly takes the lead in this conversation with the "young Consul," and while a mentorship role can be inferred from this, it's not directly stated anywhere.

From Gladiia's IS3 ending, we know that Ulpianus never directly indicated to her that he felt any connection between them, nor did he bring up concepts like seniority around her. However, his actual feelings concerning her were clearly more sentimental than he let on, as he unexpectedly sacrificed his life for the sake of his "junior." Gladiia hadn't realized he was so sentimental until it happened, but in retrospect she looked back upon it warmly, realizing she never truly understood Ulpianus.

We have fewer interactions between Ulpianus and Skadi than we do between Ulpianus and Gladiia, but we can infer something of a dynamic from what we do have. Ulpianus trusted Skadi implicitly. From Path of Life, we know that he treated her differently from the other Hunters in his company. Ulpianus was a brilliant tactician who gave complex plans to each of his soldiers, but when he got to Skadi—who frequently spaces out when listening to others, and by her own admission in the event doesn't like to think—he merely told her that he trusted her to carry out her duty. He understood her, and didn't belittle her for her weaknesses. He had faith in her, and was right to do so; Skadi completed every mission exceptionally.

In the Second Company, meanwhile, Gladiia and Laurentina clearly had a closer relationship than just their positions would imply. Gladiia considered herself Laurentina's teacher, instructing her not only in the art of war but also in life skills. Their first lesson was not in violence, but in dance (Specter the Unchained OpRec). Whereas Laurentina is now frequently associated with her dancing, not just in narrative framing but actively by Ulpianus in Path of Life, she had barely danced much at all prior to her dances with Gladiia.

Already by the time of her aforementioned conversation with Ulpianus, Gladiia had developed a fondness for her subordinate. She even smiled when she spoke of her glowingly, something she almost never does. Gladiia, as critical as she is of almost everyone, can hardly find fault with Laurentina. From the aforementioned OpRec, we see that even Laurentina expects her to lecture her more than she does. Frequently, when confronted with her peculiarities and the choices she makes, Gladiia will approve of them warmly. The OpRec also has a wonderful passage of them just talking and spending time with one-another. It's very warm and gives a lot of small insights to their relationship and their relationship with the arts (a subject they're both very attached to) that I can't really explain effectively here without exploding the already extremely high word count. I'd recommend reading it if you haven't already.

In short, though, the relationship between Gladiia and Laurentina is very warm despite Gladiia's frequent brusqueness and coldness. In Ægir, they would see plays together—but because of Gladiia's insistence upon minimizing distractions while experiencing art, would sit apart. In Specter's post-Under Tides OpRec, Laurentina had to practically beg Gladiia before she showed her any more warmth than would be warranted to any other subordinate, as Gladiia kept her emotions tightly to her chest. Laurentina's emotional intelligence and close bond with her allows her to see through Gladiia's practiced emotionless exterior. Like Ulpianus, she understands Gladiia well enough to see through the strong facade she fronts to get glimpses into the deep well of anxiety beneath. In Laurentina's story in IS3, their bond is described as so close that she doesn't need to speak with Gladiia to understand her. She continued to dance with her as their primary method of silent communication for months after Gladiia had ceased speaking because of how much she hated how the Seaborn assimilation had changed her voice.

Of course, Laurentina and Skadi also share a deep bond, which is probably the most well-known one. Though how well they knew each other prior to the attack on Ishar'mla is still somewhat unclear—though it's clear from multiple sources (e.g. Specter OpRec, Path of Life, etc.) they weren't strangers—the important bulk of their relationship concerns their time spent together at Rhodes Island on land. Tortured by the Church of the Deep's horrific experiments and driven insane by the originium that Bishop Amaia injected into her spinal column, Laurentina was in an almost unrecognizable state when she was reunited with Skadi (Specter OpRec). She'd developed a second personality called Specter as a result of her experiences, one that was fully unfamiliar to Skadi, and the real Laurentina seemed to be locked away inside her own mind, in endless sleep, unable to awaken.

Skadi took care of Laurentina. She was not easy to care for. Beyond just requiring intensive care to keep her alive, Specter was mentally unstable. She would be unable to leave her treatment room for long stretches of time, and if the way she spoke to Skadi during her OpRec once she'd 'fallen asleep' again is any indication, some of the things she'd say to Skadi were truly vile. To continually bear this cannot have been an easy burden to shoulder, but Skadi would nonetheless come into her room constantly, sing songs to her, and tell her stories. Laurentina heard it all, though she couldn't speak. Though she teased her for it mercilessly when she awoke after Under Tides, she expressed legitimate gratitude to Skadi for all she'd done taking care of her.

If their bond was not intensely close before, it is now. Laurentina, now awake, teaches Skadi to dance in Unchained's OpRec, just as Gladiia taught her before. Just as she can see through Gladiia's facades, Laurentina understands Skadi enough to be able to see through hers to the genuine, warm, and caring person she is. Skadi, meanwhile, goes to great lengths to make sure Laurentina is okay. She cared more about her wellbeing than she did about obediently listening to the orders of her superiors; when Gladiia came to take Specter from Rhodes Island, she protested, and followed Gladiia to Sal Viento to take her back.

Skadi and Gladiia do not have nearly as warm a history. Both are rather emotionally unintelligent and wear masks of indifference around each other. That isn't to say they don't care about each other, though; if anything, we have plenty of evidence to the contrary. Gladiia did not hesitate for a moment about risking death for Skadi's sake in Under Tides, feeling a duty to protect her from both the First to Talk and the monster that dwells inside her head. They share a bond of camaraderie that's constantly reinforced in every event.

In Stultifera Navis and its supplemental material, we got more inklings of the development of a deeper relationship between them, though it's naturally strained because of their natures. Skadi, who always calls Gladiia "Second Captain," accidentally called her Gladiia in SN—to which Gladiia brusquely remarked that she was getting rather comfortable around her. She corrected her mistake and hasn't made it since. In the oft-mentioned now Specter the Unchained OpRec, when Laurentina teaches Skadi how to dance she remarks that Gladiia would like to dance with her. Skadi brushes this off as a mean-spirited joke, but it's much more likely that Laurentina knows they both feel an unspoken fondness for the other and is steadily poking at them to share it with the other.

Lastly, and certainly least, we have Laurentina and Ulpianus. There's...almost nothing here. We know that they're not strangers, and from Path of Life we know that Ulpianus at least understands Laurentina well enough as an individual, but as far as I'm aware there's not much to suggest what sort of relationship they may have had beyond just comrades, if any. Ulpianus seemed to become disinterested in continuing his conversation with Gladiia once she started gushing about Laurentina, but that's more likely a case of him being averse to talks about feelings in general than it is any distaste for Shark herself.

---

Possible interpretations:

From this, we have a pretty good idea of the general shape of how these dynamics work. There's a lot of room to talk about the intricacies of their relationships, and I...can't cover every single possibility here.

I'd love to. If you ask me, I can keep yapping. I didn't write all of this because of some solemn dedication to archiving these fictional fish. Please, litter my inbox if you have questions. I can yap endlessly.

Instead, I'll focus on some of the predominant interpretations that I've seen across discussions and fanworks. Namely, the idea of the Abyssal Hunters as a family and the idea of some of the Abyssal Hunters as romantic partners.

I'll be covering interpretations that are both supported and not supported by the text to varying degrees. I'm going to outline how well I believe the text supports these interpretations, which is obviously going to be subjective, but I'm going to try to keep my own personal bias out of it. I have my own preferences, but I will be as neutral as I can be here.

The Family Angle

The Abyssal Hunters are a found family. That's not so much subtext as it is text—again, see Gladiia's module about how she failed to find the warmth and belonging she sought from her biological family, and instead searched for a new family. They have dynamics between them that are clearly at least meant to mirror existing family dynamics.

But a found family is not the same thing as a biological family. It does not necessarily feature the same dynamics as you'd find between actual family members. The "family angle" is the interpretation that the relationship between all of them is in fact completely familial in nature. While found families do not preclude romantic and sexual relationships between their members, a familial relationship between these characters implies that their bond is strong in a way that is neither romantic nor sexual in nature.

This, in itself, is neither confirmed nor denied by the text. It's consistent with what we're shown, and is perhaps one of the more 'pure' interpretations of these relationships—in the sense that it doesn't read more into the characters than the information presented. The Abyssal Hunters are characterized in expressly familial terms, and so this interpretation says that this is the extent of their dynamics. For clarity, it is neither more nor less correct than other interpretations for this, and is not personally my own. If there's anything limiting this interpretation, it's that Ægirians don't have nuclear family ties in the same way that we do, but that doesn't in my view contradict a familial interpretation as much as it modifies how it's perceived by the characters.

There are, of course, a lot of different ways you can approach the family angle. I'll outline some of the more sensible ones that can be concluded from the text.

One of the more common interpretations is that of the three female hunters as siblings. Again, there's no real confirmation of this in the text—only sentiments that the bond between them is thicker than blood—but there's nothing in the text which contradicts this. They certainly could play into typical sibling dynamics fairly well, with Gladiia as the serious, beleaguered older sister who whips the younger siblings into shape, and Laurentina as the brattiest child of the family who's nonetheless more emotionally intelligent than her stubborn sisters. It's one I see a lot, and I don't really see an issue with it.

Another common interpretation is that there exists something mirroring a parent/daughter relationship between the Captains and their subordinates: Ulpianus/Skadi, and Gladiia/Laurentina. From what's been outlined above, there's definitely food for this sort of interpretation in the text. Gladiia, for instance, is definitely motherly towards Laurentina. I do not believe this is a coincidence; as someone who was failed by her mother in horrendous ways, she's taken on a motherly role towards those she cares for and whom she believes she has a responsibility for. I think this, in itself, is a fine interpretation.

I think it gets much weaker when it's taken a step further into a literal parent/daughter relationship between them. These are adult women. At most, the age gap between Gladiia and Laurentina is a little over a decade, and they were adults when they met. She might feel a motherly responsibility for this woman, but I do not believe she'd consider a fully adult woman only around a decade her junior to be her daughter. Friendships between people in their mid-20s and mid-30s happen all the time in the real world. They are not, by any stretch of the imagination, anything like real parent-child relationships. The age gap between Ulpianus and Skadi is likely wider, and thus it's more reasonable that Ulpianus would see someone Skadi's age that he met in her 20s as someone who could have been his daughter. Even in that case, their dynamic would be heavily qualified by the fact that he has always known Skadi as a fully adult woman.

One similar possible dynamic that I almost never see is the idea of Ulpianus as a father for Gladiia. They're of similar ages, and if he saw Skadi as someone who could have been his daughter, he surely see Gladiia as the same. Gladiia, as well, desperately needed a parental figure in her life and never got one. They clearly have a senior/junior, possibly mentor/student relationship in the text, even if neither of them explicitly acknowledge it as one. This is the logical next step, which many have taken for the other plausible parent/daughter relationships, but I never see this one.

The Romance Angle

People like shipping. I'm people, too. I like shipping. It's pretty natural that, when it comes to characters we like that have close relationships like this, there's going to be people who are primarily invested in slapping two or more of them together like Barbies. Some of these relationship dynamics are more plausible than others.

Here's where some of the objectivity might break down. I'll try my best to limit my personal bias, but it's extremely hard to speak objectively about topics that are so obviously subject to personal interpretation.

First, I'd like to emphasize that Ægirian social dynamics, likely including romance, are alien to us. The likelihood that these characters would feel exactly the same about romance as we do in a predominantly monogamous society structured around nuclear families with a marriage at the core is...very low. Ægir and the nations of land are fundamentally different in ways that make understanding one-another difficult. Listen to some of Specter the Unchained's voicelines expressing her frustration about how she doesn't have the means to convey to the Doctor everything she'd like to. While we can (and should if we'd like to) have fun with applying our concepts of romance to them, we should always keep in mind that they might not actually share them as characters.

On the more fun side, this opens up a world of possible arrangements. We can speculate, for instance, that these characters might be much more open to polyamory than others might. Or, perhaps, their courtship looks very different from ours, and we can explore how that might look through fiction. One relationship existing does not need to preclude the others even in our society, much less theirs.

The most obvious potential romance that most people would identify among the Abyssal Hunters is Skadi and Laurentina, and I have to agree that it's one of the most plausible, if not the single most. I...don't think I even need to linger too much on this one, because most of it's already been laid out. Their story reads like a tragic yuri plot. The romance is practically already written; if you showed me the exact same story that these two have, but they kiss at the end, it would not remotely feel like it came out of nowhere. It's one of many dynamics between characters that would be readily interpreted as romantic by a wider audience if, say, Skadi were a man. It's already one of the most popular Arknights ships as-is! It fits their characters, and makes sense as an interpretation.

It isn't necessarily the only interpretation of these characters, of course. As discussed, there's a wide array of ways you can interpret their bond, and many are just as supported by the text. While there's plenty of subtext that can be said to be romantic between them, that subtext can all be interpreted in platonic and familial ways. This is a Chinese gacha game; we're not going to get explicit confirmation of any of these relationships, and all romantic subtext will be written to resemble other kinds of subtext. That means that other subtext that was legitimately not meant to be romantic can scan as romantic. There's no strong argument here for authorial intent regarding the two of them either way.

...You can tell how strong the potential for a ship here is that I felt the need to use one of the two paragraphs I spent talking about it to discuss how it's not necessarily the only possible dynamic.

The second most likely, in my eyes, is Laurentina and Gladiia, which I'll elaborate further on than Skadi/Laurentina because of its rarity as a ship by comparison; it's legitimately plausible that most who might read this haven't considered it at all. Of the pairs possible within the trio, they're the two with the oldest history, who clearly have a deep and intimate bond. The exact nature of this bond is subject to interpretation, of course. As discussed earlier, Gladiia is quite motherly when it comes to Laurentina. A familial interpretation of the two of them is common, but as uncommon as a romantic interpretation is, I think it's both easily supported and already has plenty of material in the text to feed it. You can easily read the time they spent together in Specter the Unchained's OpRec as a date. That their dynamic has motherly characteristics does not stop it from being romantic. Plenty of romances in popular fiction have motherly elements to them; that behavior can simply be Gladiia's chosen language of love.

An issue that I can imagine is the power dynamic between them—not necessarily even as a moral argument about the ship, but as an issue between their characters. Laurentina was, of course, young when she joined the Abyssal Hunters, and Gladiia became both her superior and her mentor. I would be surprised if Laurentina was much older than 21 at the time, and I would not be surprised if she was in fact 18. Gladiia, meanwhile, would have been probably in the range of 28-30. While almost the same exact age gap would be present between Laurentina and Skadi, who would have met her at a similar time, the fact that Gladiia served as her mentor definitely colors the relationship in a different way.

As someone who clearly felt a responsibility towards Laurentina, I find it very unlikely that the nature of their relationship was immediately romantic. Even though Gladiia was immature in many ways and inexperienced compared to others of her age as a result of her isolated childhood and arrested development caused by her mother's abuse, she still likely would have seen a romance as unacceptable between the two of them. That may have even contributed to the arm's length she seems to sometimes keep Laurentina at, to the latter's chagrin.

However, critically, they aren't that age anymore. Laurentina is firmly an adult who can make reasoned decisions for herself, and frankly often showcases more emotional maturity than Gladiia does. Their situation is radically changed. Gladiia is still her commander, but she's her leader more because of mutual trust than any necessity to follow the orders of the Ægirian military. They're no longer student and teacher; they're much more akin to equals now. There are now things that Laurentina can teach Gladiia; Gladiia is now the one who most desperately needs character development. The barriers that could have stopped their feelings from becoming a romance have eroded, and there is now the potential for one to form that is completely fitting within the bounds of the text and our understanding of their characters.

...

Okay, it's time to discuss the subject matter of the post I linked at the top of this one. Ulpianus and Gladiia.

...Almost everything I've just said about Gladiia and Laurentina applies doubly here.

It's the same dynamic. A junior who becomes an equal. It's much more common, in my experience, probably because it's heterosexual. Like with the other dynamics, there's nothing in the story that outright contradicts it. I do think its claim is weaker than the last two, though. I find it much harder to believe that Ulpianus would have harbored romantic feelings towards Gladiia.

She was much younger than him at the time they met, compared to the age gap between the other Hunters and Laurentina, and—as mentioned—he was likely very aware of her emotional immaturity, vulnerability, and desire to form real connections for the first time in her life. Ulpianus is, from what we can tell, a very thoughtful man who understands his comrades very well and reckons solemnly with the consequences of his actions. As I put it in a previous post, he's a man who "constantly pontificates on duty, responsibility, and what 'ought to be.'" I don't believe a principled man like Ulpianus—who is stubborn about principles to the point of contentiousness, who considers emotions to be secondary to duty and righteousness, who is prepared to throw away everything for what he believes in, including his life and his humanity—would do anything that could be considered taking advantage of an emotionally vulnerable young woman. That seems incredibly contradictory to his character. Even if she's grown physically, I think it's easy to read from his actions that he still sees her as someone who's still immature. I think he would have a much harder time seeing Gladiia as an equal peer than Gladiia would Laurentina.

Now, to play devil's advocate somewhat, I will say that there's material within this to work with. The love of a man who won't even confess that he cares at all for his younger student, much less act upon his desires is a setup for what could be a great fan-made story. I don't personally think it could ever end with the two of them together while staying true to their characterization, but that's up for interpretation. This is, however, not the way I see this ship characterized at all. If anything, they're most popularly depicted as ex-lovers or the husband/wife of a nuclear family. I've probably belabored the point enough that I don't need to break those concepts down, so I'll leave it there.

Briefly, I want to pay some lip service to the idea I floated earlier of a...fish polycule. I don't believe that Skadi and Gladiia have the most romantic flags at present out of the trio, but (especially in the event that both of them are romantically involved with Laurentina) I can easily see them growing closer and eventually breaking down the barrier of communication between them that stops them from expressing their fondness for one-another in ways that aren't professing they'd want the other to kill them if they became a monster.

There's not a lot of material in the text for this, but that's hardly stopped anyone before. It certainly hasn't stopped me. I ship Gladiia with Lavinia/Penance. I don't need them to acknowledge each other's existence to see a line there; I'm not about to judge anyone for pairing off two characters who have had considerable screen time together, where one nearly died for the sake of the other.

Lastly, I feel like I should at least mention e.g. Laurentina/Irene and Gladiia/Kal'tsit. Mostly because this post isn't about those dynamics. I could talk about Gladiia/Kal'tsit. I could talk about the parallels in Gladiia's first IS3 scene, where Gladiia's recollections about her mother's neglect are immediately juxtaposed with Kal'tsit's concern for her. I could further elaborate on Gladiia's complex relationships with the concept of motherhood, and how Kal'tsit relates to that. I won't. But I could.

I don't even know if I ship Gladiia/Kal'tsit as a romantic couple. I just like their relationship a lot, whatever form it takes.

---

Endnotes.

Thanks for reading! I don't have a sweeping conclusion to finish with; the point of this post was just to compare and contrast popular fandom depictions of these characters with the actual material found in the text.

I hope you enjoyed, or learned something. I know there's so much goddamn text in Arknights that it's kind of impossible for anyone to reflect thoroughly on every single part of it. If you have any questions, criticism, or suggestions, my inbox is open!

[petalruesimblr]

Hello everyone! This project was meant to be for my own personal use but I decided to share with the community. I'm not sure if anyone would find it useful but I mainly created this as a stepping stone to quickly advance in either the Inventor, Painter or Sculptor careers as well as complete the Descendant of da Vinci lifetime wish.

This is for Sims who wants to pursue their passion for the arts (sculpting, inventing and painting) but does not have enough funds to kickstart all three at the same time.

With this part-time, they get shorter working hours and a weekly stipend of at least §360‬/week, which can help with the bills at the start and improve the quality of their work as they increase their skills to sell their creations at a higher price.

If you are interested, click on ’Keep Reading’ below for more information and pictures of the YCA Program Educator Part-Time Career.

YCA Program Educator (Young Creative Artisans Program)

Download Link: Sim File Share |

🔔Updated on 05/03/2024 - added code to remove ’Retire’ option

Job Offer:

Join the Young Creative Artisans Program (YCA Program) and inspire the next generation of artistic minds! Whether you're an expert painter, a skilled sculptor, an inventive genius or just passionate about the arts, we welcome all applicants to be a part of our dynamic team. From fresh graduates to retired Sims, everyone has something valuable to contribute. Apply now and let your passion for creativity shine bright in the halls of our afterschool club!

Career Details:

Career Type: Part-Time Available for: Young Adults, Adults and Elders Available Languages: English Levels: 3 Rabbit Hole: School Work Days: M, T, W, F Work Hours: 1 - 4 PM Does it have Carpool? Yes Does it have Uniforms? Yes (same uniforms used for the Political career; Business casual, refer to pictures above) Version: 1.42 Packs Needed: The Sims 3, Ambitions (Sculpting and Inventing Skill) File Type: Package

Career Features:

The YCA Program was initially planned as a workshop hosted by the school and scheduled for weekends but it was changed to resemble more of an afterschool club. The active Sim will teach students and this change allows you to earn more during weekdays compared to the previous setup.

You don't need the Generations expansion pack; I have only set the time to coincide with the Afterschool Club, which usually starts at 2-4 PM but the Ambitions expansion pack is required for this to work.

I have created only three levels: Lecturer, Instructor and Coordinator, and also nine custom tones that focus on increasing all three skills in each level. All descriptions for the levels, tones and metrics as well as skills required, salary, uniforms and other details are provided on the pictures above.

Please note that the Gives Lecture tone in this career is different from the Education career and I already tried using the same tone EA used but I never received any bonus of §200/lecture when I tested it so it may not work for part-times.

📣This career was made with patch 1.42 and it should work for higher patches as long as you have the latest version of NRAAS Careers Mod. Please be advised that you will need NRAAS Careers Mod for this career to show up in the game, click here.

I’m not fluent in any other languages to translate so if anyone is interested in translating this career, please don’t hesitate to send me a message here or comment on this post and will let you know the details.

I have tested this career in my game, so far it is working and all scripts are showing up. All feedback is very welcome to help me learn and improve my skills so please let me know if you experience any problems on your end and I’ll do my best to sort it as soon as possible.

[b-skarsgard]

Bill Skarsgard isn’t new to the world of prosthetics in film — we all remember his horrifying turn as Pennywise in It. In Robert Eggers’ reimagining of the classic Nosferatu, the Swedish actor was back in the makeup chair, ready to be transformed into the title character, also known as Count Orlok.

“Bill’s really tall, and he’s very slim and charming and a real kind of fun guy, and he’s got this lovely, warm personality,” prosthetic lead David White tells The Hollywood Reporter. “I remember during the first makeup session, as we’re putting this makeup on, this sweet, charming young guy began to disappear and somebody else was coming in. He transformed within the space of four hours into this very dark character.”

full article at the link

White always begins his prosthetics work by hanging onto one aspect of the actor’s face. In Skarsgard’s case, it was his big eyes and “fantastic” bone structure. Around 10 prosthetics pieces were used on his face and head alone, with the body prosthetics taking the count up to 60. Sixteen people applied the pieces at a time. “It’s a bit like a pit stop in a car race,” says White. “They know exactly how to change those tires really, really fast.”

The actor was in the chair for four hours just for his head and hands. Given his experience with prosthetics, Skarsgard has learned tricks to deal with the amount of time in the chair, White says; the actor goes into “a meditation world” to preserve his energy and save it for the performance onscreen.

When the first trailer dropped, many fans were quick to point out how Orlok’s mustache and hair deviated from the character’s appearance in the original 1922 Nosferatu, which was based on Bram Stoker’s novel Dracula. White admits that Orlok’s look in Eggers’ iteration is “quite unusual” but says there’s a reason that choice was made.

“Robert would hand over these illustrations and things he found from the 16th century about these noblemen at the time, and they all had those mustaches,” he explains. “It’s highly likely that any nobleman would have had a mustache like that, even Orlok.” In terms of Orlok’s hair, White also stuck with the period in which the film was set: “You see that kind of look throughout that part of the world, and he wouldn’t stand out. When he’s in his sarcophagus, Robert was very insistent that he wants his hair all flat and matted, full of muck and dirt, and when he’s out and about, it’s a little bit more full and rich and elegant.”

For much of the movie, we see only Orlok’s silhouette or see him rising from the shadows. That also factored into the way White worked. “During the sculpt, my key sculptor, Colin Jackman, and I were very careful because Robert had mentioned that he’s going to shoot him not only in low light, but he didn’t want to reveal the decay and rot that was coming from the back of his head forward. On the one hand, you’ve got to sell him as this normal guy who is maybe a little eccentric, but on the other hand, he’s actually falling apart.” Keeping that in mind, White set up lights during the sculpt to gauge how far he could go with the prosthetics, and lots of camera tests were done to ensure nothing was revealed too soon.

Makeup head Traci Loader also used lighting to get her technique just right, especially given the film’s tinting — the movie was shot in color in 35mm but was desaturated to make it look like the action was taking place in the constant pale glow of moonlight. “I also did The Lighthouse and The Witch, so I’m familiar with [cinematographer] Jarin Blaschke’s lighting,” she tells THR. “I have lights in the trailer that I put gels on to complement his lighting so that I know that I am going in the right direction. For black and white, you have to be careful with your reds and purples — anything that has blue in it, you have to alter it. So with candlelight, any yellows or reds you use can’t be orange-based; they have to be blue-based. Otherwise it’s not going to read. So there’s a lot of color theory involved.”

[druap]

Hii- I...☝️🥹 um, I don't actually quite know what to say to my idol. But believe me when I say I am absolutely besotted by your art 🫶💐

I actually got introduced to your page via your COD Valentine's Day cards, and have been stalking your account consuming your art like a hungry fella since then.

Did you know: You actually inspired me and my IRL friends to do art? :3 If you don't mind, any tips for self-learning beginners? 📝

And, sorry if this is a whole lot to read—just wanted to let you know that you are such a great artist! And I hope you know that. Great is an understatement, though 🙂‍↕️

omg??? thank you so much qwq it seriously means a lot to me!! <3

a small heads up, i'm not a pro or an art teacher, so these tips are just based on my own experience as a self-taught artist:

just draw. sounds simple, but practice really does make perfect. i always struggle with motivation at the beginning of a drawing, but trust me, the flow state kicks in once you get started

references are your best friend! omg, they make such a difference, especially for bigger pieces or anything you're unsure about

learn from other artists, but don’t just copy. figure out how they do things and put your own spin on it. for me, studying comic artists helped a lot with simplifying anatomy in a way that makes sense (im still learning though xD)

don’t overwhelm yourself! focus on one thing at a time. if you’re doing a composition study, don’t get too caught up in tiny details or textures—focus on the big picture first

listen to your body and mental health. take breaks, stretch, and don’t be afraid to step away for a bit. sometimes a quick walk can clear your mind and recharge you

dont compare yourself to anyone but your past self and if you post stuff/have art blog - dont pay that much attention to likes/reblogs n etc, they dont define you or your art

more under the cut!

i also recommend to check out these: again, dont overwhelm yourself with new information, this section is more of an archive/compilation of where you can find some different stuff

YT channels

Sinix Design - I LOVE HIS TUTORIALS SO MUCH.

Ethan Becker - art tips and critisism

Adam Duff LUCIDPIXUL - honestly i dont really know how to describe his content. it feels like an art podcats but more..personal? just check his channel out and you'll see it for yourself

moderndayjames - more animation based but still a lot of helpful tutorials

Videos

this specific video helped me understand that light is not that complicated

in this video, the author shares how they learned art, and i think they nailed the 4th tip perfectly

another lighting video

part 1 of a "how to splash art" series which goes over almost everything you need to know. this series more of a guide cause you still need to go into a depth for each topic but i just have to share it anyways, other parts can be found in the description

Books / Libraries (google drive links)

anatomy for sculptors - helps a lot with anatomy simplification and understanding

a big library with art books and other resources

another library with some books

lmk if something doesnt work or you have something else to add!! :]

[simspaghetti]

I've never done an heir poll before but I'm genuinely so stuck on who to choose to lead Generation 3 of the Piccolo LEPacy (Ambitions) because I like the idea of following any of these careers - and I can't do a triple-heir situation!

So, I need your help! 🫵 Who will it be?

(obviously spoilers‼️ ahead for what they’re gonna look like as young adults and their future traits / careers if they age up well!) ⬇️

Daphne Piccolo - The Ghost Hunter

Traits: Vegetarian / Loves The Outdoors / Computer Whiz / Mooch / Eccentric LTW: Paranormal Profiteer Completionist Route: Who ya gonna call? 👻

Columbo Piccolo - The Private Investigator

Traits: Neurotic / Unlucky / Commitment Issues / Childish / Perceptive LTW: Pervasive Private Eye Completionist Route: Private Investigator 🔍

🌟 WINNER 🌟 Ra Piccolo - The Firefighter

Traits: Egyptian Heritage / Genius / Natural Cook / Great Kisser / Clumsy / Savvy Sculptor LTW: Firefighter Superhero Completionist Route: Firefighter ⛑️

Full descriptions of each completionist route can be found here under the 'Ambitions' section :)

One last thing to note is that whoever doesn't get picked for the heir will still be living in the household at the beginning of the generation - I'm planning on having all 3 of these guys in the same house until the chosen heir starts their own family, so it's not goodbye forever by any means - and we'll still get to experience a little bit of each of their careers!

Oh yeah, also I'm not done with World Adventures just yet lol - I'm ahead of my queue in my game and this is just some pre-emtive planning on my part as I might do a small timeskip once gen 2's goals are all complete!

[sabraeal]

Truth in Masquerade, Ch 9: Between These Wandering Hands

[Read on AO3]

Written as a late entry for day 1 of the Obiyuki Winter challenge (How It Started)...as well as part of a favor exchange with @claudeng80, who was perfectly happy to field a binding request for free, until I mentioned I could pay in fic 🤣 (and who could blame her)

With the lamps blown and her eyes still dark-blind, it’s impossible to tell when Obi joins her in the bed. The mattress may be eiderdown, dipping beneath the solid weight of muscle and bone— both of which Obi has in spades— but it’s also the size of a small country. What happens on one end hardly disrupts the other, unless there is a concerted attempt at an incursion.

And so the only sign of settling is his sigh; the smallest hitch of breath as the down catches him, cradling him in its cloud-like grasp. It had shocked her how soft a bed could be, that first night in the palace— years ago, now. The medical dormitory’s beds had been much like the one in her grandparents’ house: narrow, with a single rag-stuffed pallet intended to be sturdy and supportive, albeit newer than the one she left behind. But in Wistal’s guest chambers, enveloped between silk and velvet, the mattress holding her with all the gentle care of a babe in its mothers arms, well— Shirayuki finally understood how sleep might be seen as a luxury rather than a necessity.

The dark slowly fades to grays and blues, shapes resolving out from what had seemed to be unrelenting black. The washstand in the corner first, its linens taking an extra moment to settle; then the fluttering curtains by the window, left open to let in the breeze; followed by her own hands laid upon the silken sheets, the fine bones apparent even in the dim. And finally, Obi’s back, warm bronze turned to cool stone in the shadow of night, more statue than skin.

Pale scars bite into his flesh, ugly nicks and gashes so old they no longer pucker but lie flat, a fine tapestry darned like a sock beneath less skillful hands. Some might wear their hearts on their sleeve, or their thoughts written on their face, but Obi’s history cuts into him, carving him from flesh the way sculptors wrought wood or stone. Her fingers itch, desperate to reach out, to trace where not even time had healed.

If you’d been the one dressing the wound back then, he’d said once, his fingers wrapped like a whisper around her wrist. It probably wouldn’t have left behind such a nasty scar.

The knotty slash across his chest was always destined to silver and scar, and that gouge over his belly would have left something behind no matter how fine the technique, but those littler cuts just needed some care that didn’t come from the bottom of a bottle— or a ditch. An ointment could fade those slashes to slivers still; a nightly application, perhaps, though he’d need her help to reach more than a few of them. The handful between the blades of his shoulders, for instance, or maybe the pair of nicks at mid-back. The one just above his hip might even be—

That’s quite enough sight-seeing, Miss. Her whole body flushes from head to toe, so hot she could melt straight into the sheets. Experience has already shown that that’s not a place she should touch him. Not unless…

Her eyes narrow, adjusted to the dim light. Not unless she wants to spook him off the mattress entirely.

He’s hugging to the edge once again, one unwary roll from the floor. The carpet is soft enough to sleep on, she’ll grant him that, but that’s hardly the point. There’s more than enough mattress for the both of them, and even if there wasn’t, well— it defies the point of this to have him half-naked and still clinging to its farthest corners. Shirayuki may not have much experience with paramours behind closed doors, but even she knows they shouldn't seek to make space between them. Especially not on a bed as fine as this one.

“Shouldn’t you be”— she hesitates, the strange simmering beneath her skin making it hard to think, to keep her voice from sounding petulant— “closer?”

“W-what?” His yelp practically rattles the fixtures. If she weren’t in a different country, she might have even felt his shoulders clearing the mattress.

“We’re supposed to be i-intimate, aren’t we?” It’s silly the way she stumbles over the word, like she’s some apprentice pharmacist and not a master in her own right. “I don’t think we would be…I mean, that you would be”— her hand sweeps toward the edge of the mattress, and him with it— “You would want to be closer. If we were…”

Together, she fails to manage. Or maybe, like that. But certainly not, having sex, or, heavens forfend, making love. Not when he could just glance over and watch her make the words with her own mouth. The same one he’d kissed early, and she— she really should stop thinking about that.

Every muscle of his back stands out in relief, obvious without shirt or sheet to obscure it, practically stone-carved as he murmurs, “I wonder…”

An odd answer, even for him. “Obi?”

“You’ll have to excuse me, Miss,” he says, louder, voice rising and falling with its usual lilting sing-song. “I’ve never been what you’d call a post-coital cuddler.”

“Really?” She watches as each muscle loosens, not all at once, but a conscious relaxation of each group until he’s as languid and limber as a cat. “Then what did you do after, um…?”

A foolish thing to ask, far too personal, but Obi’s teeth flash in the dark as he flips to his back. “Look for an exit route, usually. I told you, Miss, I wasn’t the sticking-around type.”

Her mouth is too dry as he scoots toward her, the muscles of his stomach tensing and releasing with every sinuous scuttle. It’s a simple movement, silly even, and yet she still blurts out, “But you stuck around here.”

He stills, not even his breath lifting his chest— and then his smile widens to all teeth. “Well, you haven’t taken me to bed yet.”

“We’ve slept together,” she reminds him, those cold Lyrias nights a lifetime away from Tanbarun’s humid heat. “Plenty of times.”

“Th-that’s different, Miss,” he splutters, wide eyes darting toward her before he falls back on his pillow, the ceiling infinitely more interesting. “That’s just sleeping. Not…”

Participating in not-sleeping activities. The kind that often brought to young women to the pharmacy, for one reason or another. Ones she knew all too well, thanks in part to Garrack and her comprehensive lesson plan-- and another, much larger part to Suzu’s concerted effort in slithering out of any consult that might call for a professional recounting of both the birds and the bees.

“That’s still not very convincing,” she says, eyeing the gulf of silk between them. “The space I mean. If we’re supposed to have…ah, I mean if you had just been intimate with, um…” Lover is a whip crack of a word, a goad and a shock rather than a position, but partner is as sterile as the tools she keeps in her kit, not enough for what she means. “Someone…”

That’s worse; a withered flower in lieu of a bouquet. So bad, in fact, that Obi barks out a laugh, his whole chest shaking with the effort of keeping the rest from pouring out.

“I think you mean,” he hums, hands hooked behind his head, the molten gold of his eyes pouring towards her. “If we made love.”

Her hands flex against the mattress, and, ah, he didn’t need to— to make it sound like that. Like they were already skin-to-skin, the rough pads of his fingers catching on her spine, breath rasping in her ear as he—

“You would want to hold them closer, wouldn’t you?” The words squeak out of her, and she clears her throat before adding, “If you had just…just finished.”

There’s that glint of teeth, a knife’s edge in the moonlight. “Didn’t I just tell you, Miss? I wasn’t the sort to hang around after all was said and done. Always been the type to be more interested in the doing than the saying.”

*

(“Impossible.” Most people with a pedigree disdain the sort of noises that imply organs— or, ancestors forbid, mucus— but Miss Kiki snorts with relish, disdain saved solely for doubting him. It’s almost romantic, when Obi thinks about it. Makes a man feel special. “You’re in love with the sound of your own voice.”

It’s an ambush he doesn’t expect— a whole year talking up each notch on his bedpost to every uniform that would listen should have borne the sort of fruit that would make the dear Lady Seiren smirk over her glass and drive Sir choke on his. But instead it’s his tongue that gets tangled up, protest perched right at the precipice, flirting with the fall—

It’s not love, it’s that everyone’s too busy paying attention to your mouth to bother watching what the rest of you is up to—

Ah, damn. He’s had one too many tankards tonight if he’s already starting to reach for that top-shelf honesty. Obi sets down his own cup, too precise to be casual— a detail that won’t be escaping the iron trap of Miss Kiki’s mind, even if she saves him the trouble of calling him on it.

“I wonder,” he hums instead, smoothing the edges with his smile. “A man in my line of work learns to be silent, don’t you know?”

“I sure don’t,” Master mutters, fingers already pressed to his temples. “When does that happen?”

“I could be as quiet as a church mouse,” he insists, with all the gravity of a marquis. Well, at least the kind he’s had the displeasure of knowing.

“They squeak,” Sir offers, nursing yet another sip of his ale, and honestly, he might have taken offense, if only Miss Kiki didn’t add, “I’d bet he honks.”

“Honks?” Obi squawks— a noise at least a decibel nicer than honking. “You think I honk when—?”

“I think it would kill you to be quiet.” Miss Kiki’s tongue lashes him with the same unerring precision as her sword. “I’ve heard there are fishes who have to keep swimming to keep afloat. Maybe you have to keep talking in order to breathe.”

“I’ve been quiet loads of times,” he insists, even though he’s got to admit, there’s not many that come to mind. “I could probably be quiet all day, if I—”

“I think,” Master groans, drinking down the dregs of his own cup. “That I’d like to talk about anything else.”)

*

The night paints Obi in tiger stripes of light and shadow, the flex of muscles beneath skin giving them a hint of movement, like swaying stalks of long grass. Laying like this, a hint of his smirk still stalking the corner of his lips, it’s impossible to say whether he’s more a dangerous predator or indolent house cat— maybe both, in equal turns. He had played pet all too well the first time they had come here, only to shed his collar the moment her hand was out of reach, chasing her across half the country and out to sea. He’d cut a man down, right in front of her, but—

But he’d never turned his claws on her. Not since that arrow sunk itself into the wall, at least. If anything, he’d been too cautious about the way they touched, as if the barest brush of skin against skin might mark her, might leave her bruised.

Maybe he was right; even now the pressure of his lips still lingers, firm enough she’s sure she could lift her fingers and feel the dints where they had laid. His hands may settle softly onto silk sheets now, but the specter of them still burns over her cheeks and chin, scalded from where he cupped them. A whole handprint curving right around her jaw and up into her hair, tingling as if he still hovered there, just out of touch.

It’s distracting. Maddening. At least it must be, for her to say, “But you would, wouldn’t you? If it was me?”

There might be a gulf between them, a sea of silk it seems impossible to cross, but she’s still close enough to see the ripple of her stone’s throw, every muscle tensed into stark relief. It lasts for the length of a blink, the duration of one of her quick-caught breaths before easing, one by one, back to smoothness, his striped skin a still lake once again.

“I guess you have a point there, Miss,” he admits in his playful sing-song, but yet— his lilt is just out of key, too sharp in places and flat in others, like a piano fallen out of tune. “If it were you, I might hold on and never let go.”

It’s the same as that night, years ago— the way his fingers brushed over his chest, not bare as it is now, but covered in the unrelenting black of his formal dress. The way his voice lowered, not quite himself, to whisper, Will you hold onto it for me?

Why don’t I keep holding onto all of you, she’d decided, arms wrapping around a body that felt so much more solid than it ever had before. Just like this?

“Obi...” It's half a warning, half a wish, catching in her throat as he scoots along silk. He doesn't gently sweep of her into his arms, the way Yuzuri's books lived to linger on, but scoops— no, manhandles her until she’s half sprawled over him, head tucked into his shoulder and legs tangled together.

“There,” he huffs, chest expanding against the back of her fists, balled up between her sternum and his side. “That better?”

“Ah…” It’s certainly more convincing, but better made for a harder metric. Especially when there suddenly seemed to be so much more of Obi than she remembered. “Yes?”

“Good.” His head falls back on the pillow, every sharp angle of his face utterly spent, as if she were the one that manhandled him, and not the other way around. “I don’t think I can get much closer to you without Master asking me to draw swords at dawn.”

It’s such a simple excuse, one he’d used a half dozen times before. What would Master say, Obi would laugh, stepping out from under her hand, or, I think Master won’t be pleased when he finds out about this, when yet another lord took them for lovers. For years, she would tilt her head, trying to puzzle out which angle made them seem too close, what small gesture might be deemed too affectionate for friendship, but then—

Then Lord Eisetsu had found her in Obi’s room, looking between them with the wide eyes of a rumor well-proved and she— she blushed. “I don’t think Zen has any right to concern himself with how close we choose to be.”

“Ah…” The muscles of his abdomen jolt against her thigh, only a scrap of linen to obscure their sharp edges before they smooth once more. “Of course not, Miss. Must have drank more than I thought to forget…”

That he left her. That they’re only in this spot because Tanbarun’s ears are too sharp in Izana’s court.  “It’s all right. I don’t”— mind, she means to say, but the lie of it sticks to her teeth— “it’s okay.”

“It’s not,” he grunts, the sound harsh against her knuckles. “If he was going to lay all this on you, he should have come north. Or at least let you go back there when it was all said and done.”

“It’s not Zen’s fault we’re here.” Her eyes angle up, fixing on the way his throat bobs as he swallows his anger. “Izana’s the one who sent us. And if we’re being fair, Raj is the one who sent the invitation.”

“What would have been fair is letting Yuzuri at him after—”

“Obi.” His stomach tenses beneath the press of her palm, the more thickly settled dark hair crinkling under her fingertips. “It’s fine. There was no good way for this to happen, but it had to. I’m only happy that everything was…civil, in the end.”

His laugh pulses against her hand, so low, so soft that her stomach churns, confused by the heat of it. “You might try being civil with me, Miss.”

“I…?”

His fingers wrap so gently around her wrist, guiding it from his stomach to his chest. She frowns, brow furrowing, nearly about to ask, how have I been anything but friendly—?

But then she feels the heady thrum of his pulse against her palm, and, ah, perhaps she'd been too friendly with that touch. Her fingers curl, catching in the sparse hairs on his chest—

(“Where’d you get those?” Yuzuri scoffs, sweeping past Shirayuki’s side to take a choice seat on the training yard’s rail. Makiri’s been working the trainees hard this summer— letting them sweat out the weakness, Jirou had laughed, the last time they’d been by— and even the officers are down to skin and trousers now, sweat pouring off them like snow down a mountainside. “I thought you couldn’t grow a single hair to save your life.”

Obi grinned, toweling off with the cloth she’d handed to him before taking one of their iced teas for good measure. “Try getting close to the wrong side of thirty. Couldn’t miss ‘em even if I wanted to.”

Her nose wrinkles, hiding a faint spray of summer freckles in their folds. “I think I’ll pass, thanks.” )

— and just barely resist the urge to drift lower. It would be a more natural sprawl, for one. And for two—

Obi’s palm presses her hand in place, fingers lacing them tight. “Good night, Miss.”

“Obi…” His eyes are already shut, the frantic tattoo of his heartbeat lulling into a more sedate hum.

Will you hold onto it for me? Her fingers squeeze his tight as she answers, if you'll let me. “Good night.”

*

Obi comes to consciousness the way leaves float downriver: meandering, mindless, and to the downright incessant song of the birds outside his window. Awareness only comes to him in dribs and drabs; first the smooth silk pressed into his back, then the scent of oleander and jasmine wafting on the warm breeze, then the strange sense of contentment brewing in his chest. A comfort he’s tempted to sink into— wallow in, until sleep finally deserts him.

Not the sort of thing that’s part of his usual morning routine, that’s for sure. Maybe he’s been drugged— they like that sort of thing here, don’t they? Putting things into drinks and letting it sort itself out the next day. He’s immune to most of the usual sedatives— at least the kind that weren’t applied by a firm whack to the back of the neck— but clearly someone’s done their research. Be a pity to ruin all their hard work by waking up.

He shifts, mind sloshing, and ah— seems he’s the culprit here. Or at least, the two or three bottles of fine Tanbarun red he’d polished off himself, trying to keep up with Prince Raj. Obi’s no lightweight; Kiki and Sir would have seen to that over the years, if his natural talents hadn’t already shined through, and Lyrias’s top brass had kept him honest when they couldn’t do the job, but well…he’s flirting a little close to thirty to be playing such a young man’s game. His knees ache now when he takes those hard landings, and sometimes he’s even got to stretch before—

Nails prickle over his chest, a small hand flexing right over his heart, and haah, he’d had quite a few last night, but he’s pretty sure he didn’t indulge in anything to put him out that pleasant. But the warmth pressed to his side begs to differ, soft curves snug against his ribs and a too-smooth thigh thrown over his hip, knee dangerously close to a part of his anatomy that’s already starting to get ideas.

His eyes slit open, catching bare shoulders and candy apple red spilling across his chest, and his heart near stops. Well, fuck.

Miss complains about the sudden jerk of her pillow, snorting and groaning and rolling to keep his shoulder pinned beneath her. It’s enough commotion to make the bird song outside the window stutter— just like his heart— and the covers shift, baring not more skin but linen. The last night comes barreling back at him; not just I don’t think the maid will be convinced by you wearing buckskins to bed, and you know I prefer to sleep in the nude, but, most devastatingly, I trust you—

He nearly misses the clatter by the door.

Obi’s not fool enough to crane his neck toward the slightest sound, but he does let his head tilt, just so. Enough to catch black-and-white from the corner of his eyes, and the silver spilled out across the floor. Ah, so that’s what really woke him: the maid’s come, breakfast in hand, to fill the basin and pull the blinds. And spy for His Majesty, of course.

Mischief curls at the corners of his mouth. Well, if His Majesty wants a show, then Obi would hate to disappoint.

The sheets he’d been so careful to tuck around Miss’s shoulders last night— after she’d fallen asleep, her kitten snore muffled in his side, and every inch of his skin had felt electric under her touch— ruck around his waist instead, leaving only the most interesting bits to the imagination. He makes a real production of it, groaning and stretching and letting every bit of the muscle seven days of weekly training carved into him have its day in the sun. By the catch of breath by the basin, it doesn’t go unappreciated.

Step one, complete. He doubts the king’ll be hearing about this part, but it’ll set the tone for the rest of the gossip this girl pours in his ear. Margravine Entaepode’s shameless lover makes for a more scandalous story than our guest’s living bedwarmer.

The next bit is harder— in more ways than one. There’s no natural way to roll up to his hip, for one, not when Miss is clinging to him like soil to a root, unwilling to cede a single inch to him unless he moves her first. She seeps into every space he manages to make with no more than a disgruntled huff, burrowing more tightly than before.

In the end, he has to half pull her on top of him first, then roll as single unit from flat to upright. From there he’s got to sling her leg over his hip; an easier proposition a few minutes ago, before he crushed all that soft girl flesh against his chest, and certain parts started to take notice. Now he’s got to negotiate that freckled thigh of hers around his cock, so hard it strains against the strict binding of his drawers, dying to bury itself somewhere, anywhere that resembles warm flesh.

He manages it, though. Gracefully, even. Almost natural, he’d say, until—

Until the much looser fabric of her chemise rides up, no longer nestled between her thighs but pulled taut across them, the rest of it trapped between her and the mattress. Her wet heat splits over the muscle of his thigh, only the thin linen of his drawers to keep them from being skin-to-skin, and he— he groans.

Between this and the kiss last night, it’s the closest he’s come to a good fuck in years. A mortifying thought-- made worse by how every lick of good sense in him scatters the moment Miss squirms closer, her heavy breath skittering over his neck. There’s already barely enough space for a breeze to pass between them, but one jerk of his arms traps her breasts against his chest-- all the encouragement his cock needs to test its restraints.

Really, all this following Miss around, playing at being a good knight has him strung tighter than he was at thirteen and just discovering what five minutes alone and some imagination could pull out of him. One hard twitch wins it enough play to jut right into her belly, which would be bad enough, really, if only—

If only she didn’t squirm into it. And he didn’t let out a noise more at home on a wounded mutt than a man.

There’s another clatter— trays being set down too hastily on the side board, by the sheer amount of jangling silver, setting his teeth on his edge— followed by hasty heels and the hurried slam of the door.

Haah, well— that's one way to complete step two. His Majesty will definitely be hearing about this one.

He just has to hope it's only the one on this side of the border.

*

It’s not the birdsong that rouses her— though it’s loud enough; a pair of nightingales scolding each other right outside the balcony doors. There’s a bunting there too, chattering as if it were only a friendly neighbor, come to mediate between another two, but the whole conversation takes place at a pitch that would cause dogs to howl and cats to pace. Shirayuki, however, simply turns over; it’s nothing compared to the jackdaw that’s taken up residence outside her room at Lyrias, arguing with every swallow and rock dove and crow that comes close enough.

No, what finally drives her from sleep is the empty space her hand finds when it splays out, searching for a place to perch. For the lack of warmth curled against her side, blankets smooth over the space where a body should be.

She lifts up her head, disoriented. This isn’t her room at Lyrias— she’s in Tanbarun now; Raj's guest of honor, complete with a set of chambers that would prove it. A carved bedstead with curtains, fashionable paper on the walls, and a balcony that looks out over the woods she’d run through that night, over half a decade ago. The only thing that’s missing from it is— “Obi?”

“Here, Miss.” He wheels out from the parlor door, toast in hand, one cheek bulging around what she assumes is the rest of it. “Seems they brought both our breakfasts to your room.”

“O-oh.” It’s too early for her to try to parse out all the layers of that, but at least it seems that the domestic staff have noticed their…cohabitation. Though whether it's made its way to the king’s ear is a different matter entirely. “I suppose I do have the bigger parlor.”

Obi snorts, sauntering out from the shadows to her bedside, bare chest a burnished bronze in the light from the balcony. “And the bigger bed.”

Her mouth is too dry when she says, “They looked about the same size when I was in there yesterday.”

“Right you are, Miss. Same size down to the sheets.” He slants her a hooked sort of grin, one that sets a simmer right beneath her skin. “But I think in these sorts of situations, it’s the knight who kneels for his lady, and not the other way around.”

It would be easier to talk, if her tongue didn’t have to be peeled from the roof of her mouth. “I don’t see…?”

“Let me put it this way, Miss,” he says, far too amused, and bare chest much too defined where he sits. “There’s only one of us who comes when they’re called.”

It’s terrible how quickly the heat fills her cheeks, hot enough to cook her own set of toast— and char it too. “I-I listen to you. When you call for me.”

He hums, taking another thickly buttered bite. Her own stomach grumbles with envy. “When it suits you.”

Hardly a fair assessment, when he’s the one that’s been leading her around these part few days, taking her to task when she extends too far past their plans, but—

Ah, hm. Her brow furrows. This is the sort of argument that shouldn’t be picked on an empty stomach. “Do you sleep well, at least?”

If she had blinked, she would have missed it— the flinch before Obi turns all smiles, playful lilt pitch-perfect as he says, “Like a baby.”

Shirayuki frowns. “Really?”

There’s a small hesitation, a flicker of his eyes to the doors, the windows, before he settles into a much more rueful grin. “Sleeping wasn’t the problem, Miss. Getting out of bed, though…”

*

(It’s a miracle that keeps Miss from waking as he slips out from the bed— and the tangle of their limbs. Ones she tightens as he begins to pull away, like the vines they’d grown in the hot house that one year, until they’d found one of the city’s stray cats mewling in its tendrils. Shidan hemmed and Suzu hawed and Kazaha dug in his heels, but eventually, Miss convinced them to forgo whatever medical advancements murderous vines might provide until the university board saw fit to provide them with a more secure location to cultivate them.

Which they hadn’t in the three years since they’d had him lug the things out with the other brush to be burned, but that’s neither here nor there. And hardly something he’s got time to think about, when Miss keeps growing two hands for every one he manages to pry off.

With one last gentle sweep of his wrist— and a disgruntled whimper from Miss— Obi finally disentangles himself, snatching his trousers from the floor before she can figure out a way to grow longer, stickier limbs to grasp him with. She’s always been a heavy sleeper, but from a safe distance; a lump wedged at his back when the braziers burned too low and only the heat of two bodies could keep out Lyrias’s chill. A belligerent hillock of blankets when Suzu flagged him down after a late night of celebrating, asking if he’d go check on their star pharmacist— or else she’d be late for her shift. But this…

Well, he’d have a whole new reason to keep her at arm’s length tonight. One that didn’t have to do with how much he’s struggling to button his trousers.)

*

“Don’t worry about it, Miss.” He waves her off before she can open her mouth to ask, popping the rest of his toast past his teeth. “You’ve got what they call ‘more pressing concerns.’”

Shirayuki squirms upright, settling her back along the pillows. “Do I?”

Both of Obi’s narrow brows hike right to his hairline. “At this point you’re made of them.”

“Well, I suppose Raj’s father is trying to make me queen.” An utterly strange sentence for a girl who, six years ago, barely knew anything of her country’s royalty besides a few names and the way the king's profile carved into her fingertips as she clutched every last penny. “But besides all that…”

Obi snorts. “And your cousins are trying to kill you.”

“No one has tried to—”

“Yet.” It’s impossible to miss the look he gives her, fond and frustrated all at once. “And that’s not even getting into your social schedule…”

She blinks. “My what?”

“The maid brought the post in with breakfast this morning. Seems like you’re a popular young lady, Miss.”

A shower of cards rains down onto her lap, the scent of rose and lilac and a dozen less overpowering scents wafting up from their envelopes. Her hands hover half-curled above them, uncertain; Shirayuki could compose protocols and troubleshoot pesky variables with the best of them, but she’d never had what she would call an analytic mind, the way Kazaha does. She might do well enough sifting through her own day-to-day data, or casually compare observations while wading waist deep in the morass of her own journals, but she could not sit surrounded by stacks of numbers and compose correlations the way he could. Strategy was a skill, and staring at this scattered array of invitations, she realizes— it’s not one she’s cultivated. Not in the way a woman born to this world would have. Not in the way she would need to navigate it.

“What am I supposed to do?” she murmurs, splaying her hands over the mess. “A real lady would be able to tell which card came from whose desk with just a glance and a whiff of the glue. But I…?”

Can’t. That’s what she meant to say. But she knows what she means is, don’t want to.

“Will have to open them one at a time.” She glances up, right into the same he’d worn that day outside Makiri’s office. It’ll be fun, he'd said, and it wasn't, not even a little, but she'd come out of it better a better ally than she'd gone in. For all that it had mattered, in the end “Good thing your trusty knight brought you the kind of blade that can cut through these things like Sir’s sword through Hisame’s shoulder.”

She doubts Mitsuhide would appreciate the comparison— not when he’s so adamant that it’s all water under the bridge at this point— but she barely gets the opportunity to muster an, “Obi!” before he brandishes said blade before her: a letter opener, silver and filigreed, and almost certainly not hers.

“Courtesy of the Little Highness,” he assures her in his most cultured tones, though she can’t possibly imagine when such a gift might have been tendered. Knowing Obi, it was probably best to not. “Now give one of those things over here. I think one of ‘em might be for a horse race, and I’ve—”

“We are not going to a horse race,” she informs him firmly. The last thing she needs is Obi trying to trade favors among Tanbarun’s nobles the way he did with Lyrias’s guards. “And I’m perfectly capable of opening my own mail, fancy opener or not.”

“Think of my reputation, Miss. If you scrape up those little fingers of yours, what would everyone say? That your knight wasn’t taking proper care of you, that’s what.” He doesn’t wait for her to hand him an envelope, instead seizing on a thick one faintly citrus smell before sliding the knife beneath the seal. “Ah, this is the one for the picnic Little Highness is putting on. Tomorrow, before all the ball claptrap. We’ll have to put on a good show.”

Shirayuki blinks. “Show?”

“Miss, haven’t you heard anything about the princess and her set?” He shakes his head, tongue clucking behind his teeth. “They run fast and loose, and if we want to convince them that there’s some...extra care going on behind closed doors, well…”

“T-that shouldn’t be a problem.” She doesn’t dare look at him when she says it, but she can feel it— the way his eyebrows raise, surprised. “We convinced Raj last night, didn’t we?”

“We did.” It’s careful, the way he says it, like the ice is too thin under his feet. “Though I don’t suppose we'll need to go that far. Unlike His Highness, that bunch can read between the lines.”

She nods, ignoring the strange swoop in her belly as she says, “I’ll tell her we’re going.”

“Doubt you would have had much of a choice.” His mouth hooked as he tore open the next envelope. “The Shenazards aren’t known for giving them. Ah, this one is from the Countess Katares—”

“Nereida?” Her nose wrinkles. “We just had lunch yesterday.”

“And she is inquiring after brunch today,” Obi informs her, “along with a post-meal ride around the grounds. I bet if you played your cards right, you might even get dinner out of it.”

If there had been one thing Raj had impressed upon Shirayuki during her visits to Tanbarun, it was that one must not appear desperate to make a person’s acquaintance. It was fine enough to seek out a morning stroll one day and perhaps dinner the next if you were eager to make friends, but lunch precluded an invitation the next day for all but the most bosom companions. For Nereida to ask her now— “Can I see that?”

“Sure thing, Miss.”

The letter folds over her hand as he passes it, but a quick flick sets it to rights. It’s just as he said: brunch with a fortifying ride after, and a heavy implication that it might run into the evening hours—

The exercise might help you keep up with your strapping young night, she adds, so helpful. I’ve heard the ones in Clarines are quite vigorous.

Heat slaps itself across her cheeks, so hot she must be giving her hair a run for its money— and though he’s too busy slicing open the next seal to look at her, the twitch at the corner of Obi’s mouth tells her he’s well aware why. “Ah…well, you don’t need to worry about this one, Miss. Nothing of note here—”

“It’s no use,” she tells him, “I can see Milan’s signature from here.”

Her cousin is hardly subtle. But neither is Obi, the way his mouth twists up, like he’s taken a hearty bite into a lemon, rind and all. “You already had dinner with him last night. He doesn’t need to get greedy. Listen, why don’t I handle tendering your most heartfelt regrets, Miss, and you can—”

“Read the invitation you’ve hidden in your pocket?”

His smirk stiffens with all the subtlety of rigor mortis. “Ah. So you noticed.”

“You did a good job trying to distract me.” Between the bare expanse of his chest and the suggestive contents of Nereida’s letter, he’d nearly managed it too. “But you’ve got a better memory than me for things like house crests…and personal seals. If you’d seen Milan’s in the pile, you would have already had it taken out with the trash. Unless there was an invitation you wanted me to see less.”

There’s not a shred of contrition in his star as he pulls out another envelope— nearly as fine as Rona’s, with a sweeping hand curled across the front— and hands it to her, offering her the opener handle-first. With a swipe, she opens it, and she doesn’t need to see it fully unfolded to know why he’d scurried it away before she could miss it.

Sincerely, that same steady hand writes, every loop precisely placed, Theodosia.

“Obi…”

There's no contrition in the way he shrugs, only resignation. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

[just-an-elf-with-the-socks]

I need more headcanons about melkors and Mairons disabilities. Some fluf angs or something idk I am living for them

Thank you! As a disabled person it comforts me to write them and I’m so glad you asked. I hope you won’t mind the length of this post because it will be a long one.

Mairon will go first, since he has an invisible disability like I do and I’m most attached to him as a character.

Mairon has a disability called Retinitis Pigmentosa, also known as Rod Cone Dystrophy. The back wall of the retina is damaged, and this is a rare, inherited disease that’s genetic and causes severe impairment. It can cause legal blindness by age twenty

They symptoms usually start in early childhood, which is what happened to Mairon. He had glasses as a kid, as much as he hated to wear them

Unfortunately his vision just kept getting worse

He was from a well off family, his father (Aulë) made sure he had the best medical care possible, but Mairon never felt like Aulë made much of an effort to try and understand how his disability made him struggle, made him harder to deal with than his siblings (one of the reasons he left home)

Mairon was able to get his driver license, but by age twenty-eight he was legally blind

He has tunnel vision and is very sensitive to bright lights; his adjustment to changes from light to dark are pretty much nonexistent

It made his business as a high fashion jewelry designer difficult, even though he was highly successful and well respected, and he was forced to retire at just thirty years old (he was well off and could make it just fine but to him that wasn’t the point)

He already lived in the city so driving wasn’t a big deal, but he did have to get a service dog

Against quite literally every suggestion he got a husky as a service dog; he grew up around huskies and loved them

His service dog is named Minnie (it means “resolute protection,” he did not name her after Minnie Mouse), a red husky, and she was the inspiration for Mairon’s other two, Draugluin and Thuri

He does have a lot of internalized ableism

He doesn’t believe that other people having a disability is a bad thing, but when it comes to himself he thinks it makes him a lesser person, especially since he had to retire so young

Mairon refuses to make his apartment friendlier to himself and it’s definitely becoming a problem, especially when he lives on his own (Minnie’s working overtime)

He definitely doesn’t believe in other people “curing you” or “making you” feel a certain way about your disability (neither do I) but Melkor does help him to at least admit that he needs to be more reasonable about the practical aspects of becoming more comfortable with accepting help from others

While he practically spends most of his nights at Melkor’s now, he has accepted that his apartment needs things like railings on the stairs and handles in the shower

He is working on gaining the perspective and confidence that his disability makes him stronger, not weaker

Now we move on to Melkor, who’s experience is a little different from Mairon’s

Melkor has Post-Traumatic Arthritis (PTA) which is a form of osteoarthritis brought following a serious injury to his hand and upper arm

He was in a serious car accident on his way home from a gallery of his (he’s an artist, he makes sculptures) and it seriously damaged his right hand to the point where it nearly needed to be amputated

The surgery went fine, but the lasting effects of the injuries were what led to his PTA diagnosis

It comes with a lot of joint pain, swelling, and stiffness. He doesn’t have a large range of motion anymore, which can be difficult in terms of his career as a sculptor

He says he goes to physical therapy (he doesn’t)

He says he wears his arm brace (he doesn’t)

These things are done mostly out of pure stubbornness and unwillingness to admit he might have issues with his body

When he starts dating Mairon however, Mairon doesn’t have patience for any of this (although he goes about this in a respectful and loving way)

Mairon likes taking care of him and through this Melkor can slowly start to admit that he likes being taken care of (only in his head)

He only wears an arm brace (finally) when it’s the one Mairon made for him

[milkfordragons]

Okay so I am a sucker for data and surveys so I thought I could add to the uhhh discussion of daddy kink in the Hannibal fandom? For context, I’m a trans man, since you inquired about that earlier for an anon. For most daddy kink fics and just in general, it’s not so much of the title but more so the actual care and attention? And even for the title, I honestly prefer Dad over Daddy. My father was emotionally & physically abusive when I was younger, so there’s also that. I was sexually abused when I was younger as well, though the exact figure who did it is unknown. I relate to anon’s jealousy(?) of parental scenes with Abigail and Hannibal, as well as their unintentional sexualization of those scenes, but only when applied to them.

Oh how interesting, thank you so much for sharing, anon! It does add to the intriguing data hahaha.

I have a theory that this dynamic stems from how Will embodies qualities typically associated with femininity and the “girl dad” archetype, while Hannibal, rather than being his direct opposite, occupies a more complex and nuanced role. This could explain why, within the "daddy" niche, cis women tend to prefer Will, while trans men gravitate toward Hannibal.

To expand on this: Will’s affection is not contingent on anything other than existence itself, he loves without condition, without expectation. His is a passive, all-encompassing kind of care, making him fit the “girl dad” role; he would not demand much from a daughter, allowing her to explore the world freely, without judgment or constraint. Hannibal, by contrast, is a sculptor of those he loves. He does not simply accept: he refines, shapes, and nurtures toward an ideal. His child would not only be cherished but also carefully molded, held to high expectations, yet guided with precision and tenderness.

These preferences may reflect different paternal experiences. The cis women I’ve spoken to in this fandom often describe relationships with fathers marked by either abuse or an enmeshed, complicated bond. Meanwhile, many trans men recount a dynamic of maternal codependency or emotionally distant fathers, figures they perceived as cold or disappointed in them. These formative relationships seem to influence the way father figures are later internalized, idealized, and, at times, eroticized in fantasy.

Of course, this is a broad generalization based on patterns I’ve observed within this fandom, specifically among those engaged in this particular fantasy. If it doesn’t resonate with you, that’s entirely understandable...it’s not meant as a universal truth. What fascinates me is how these early dynamics shape the fantasies we construct around paternal love, authority, and desire.