#bc this bothered ME to write

[inkskinned]

the thing about art is that it was always supposed to be about us, about the human-ness of us, the impossible and beautiful reality that we (for centuries) have stood still, transfixed by music. that we can close our eyes and cry about the same book passage; the events of which aren't real and never happened. theatre in shakespeare's time was as real as it is now; we all laugh at the same cue (pursued by bear), separated hundreds of years apart.

three years ago my housemates were jamming outdoors, just messing around with their instruments, mostly just making noise. our neighbors - shy, cautious, a little sheepish - sat down and started playing. i don't really know how it happened; i was somehow in charge of dancing, barefoot and laughing - but i looked up, and our yard was full of people. kids stacked on the shoulders of parents. old couples holding hands. someone had brought sidewalk chalk; our front walk became a riot of color. someone ran in with a flute and played the most astounding solo i've ever heard in my life, upright and wiggling, skipping as she did so. she only paused because the violin player was kicking his heels up and she was laughing too hard to continue.

two weeks ago my friend and i met in the basement of her apartment complex so she could work out a piece of choreography. we have a language barrier - i'm not as good at ASL as i'd like to be (i'm still learning!) so we communicate mostly through the notes app and this strange secret language of dancers - we have the same movement vocabulary. the two of us cracking jokes at each other, giggling. there were kids in the basement too, who had been playing soccer until we took up the far corner of the room. one by one they made their slow way over like feral cats - they laid down, belly-flat against the floor, just watching. my friend and i were not in tutus - we were in slouchy shirts and leggings and socks. nothing fancy. but when i asked the kids would you like to dance too? they were immediately on their feet and spinning. i love when people dance with abandon, the wild and leggy fervor of childhood. i think it is gorgeous.

their adults showed up eventually, and a few of them said hey, let's not bother the nice ladies. but they weren't bothering us, they were just having fun - so. a few of the adults started dancing awkwardly along, and then most of the adults. someone brought down a better sound system. someone opened a watermelon and started handing out slices. it was 8 PM on a tuesday and nothing about that day was particularly special; we might as well party.

one time i hosted a free "paint along party" and about 20 adults worked quietly while i taught them how to paint nessie. one time i taught community dance classes and so many people showed up we had to move the whole thing outside. we used chairs and coatracks to balance. one time i showed up to a random band playing in a random location, and the whole thing got packed so quickly we had to open every door and window in the place.

i don't think i can tell you how much people want to be making art and engaging with art. they want to, desperately. so many people would be stunning artists, but they are lied to and told from a very young age that art only matters if it is planned, purposeful, beautiful. that if you have an idea, you need to be able to express it perfectly. this is not true. you don't get only 1 chance to communicate. you can spend a lifetime trying to display exactly 1 thing you can never quite language. you can just express the "!!??!!!"-ing-ness of being alive; that is something none of us really have a full grasp on creating. and even when we can't make what we want - god, it feels fucking good to try. and even just enjoying other artists - art inherently rewards the act of participating.

i wasn't raised wealthy. whenever i make a post about art, someone inevitably says something along the lines of well some of us aren't that lucky. i am not lucky; i am dedicated. i have a chronic condition, my hands are constantly in pain. i am not neurotypical, nor was i raised safe. i worked 5-7 jobs while some of these memories happened. i chose art because it mattered to me more than anything on this fucking planet - i would work 80 hours a week just so i could afford to write in 3 of them.

and i am still telling you - if you are called to make art, you are called to the part of you that is human. you do not have to be good at it. you do not have to have enormous amounts of privilege. you can just... give yourself permission. you can just say i'm going to make something now and then - go out and make it. raquel it won't be good though that is okay, i don't make good things every time either. besides. who decides what good even is?

you weren't called to make something because you wanted it to be good, you were called to make something because it is a basic instinct. you were taught to judge its worth and over-value perfection. you are doing something impossible. a god's ability: from nothing springs creation.

a few months ago i found a piece of sidewalk chalk and started drawing. within an hour i had somehow collected a small classroom of young children. their adults often brought their own chalk. i looked up and about fifteen families had joined me from around the block. we drew scrangly unicorns and messed up flowers and one girl asked me to draw charizard. i am not good at drawing. i basically drew an orb with wings. you would have thought i drew her the mona lisa. she dragged her mother over and pointed and said look! look what she drew for me and, in the moment, i admit i flinched (sorry, i don't -). but the mother just grinned at me. he's beautiful. and then she sat down and started drawing.

someone took a picture of it. it was in the local newspaper. the summary underneath said joyful and spontaneous artwork from local artists springs up in public gallery. in the picture, a little girl covered in chalk dust has her head thrown back, delighted. laughing.

[lazylittledragon]

ok someone please correct me if i'm wrong but am i weird for thinking those 'audiobooks don't count as reading' posts are ableist as fuck????

[dukeofthomas]

Here's my controversial opinion; if you're trying to write Bruce as a non-abusive, good parent, you should also write him respecting his kids' privacy, boundaries, and not stalking&surveying them.

[bardicblast]

[milquetoad]

of the many injustices put forth toward the show by fans i think the most overall damaging and telling of a complete lack of critical viewership is the idea that sam riegel builds his characters with nothing more than the bit in mind. like you are only telling on yourself if you think characters like scanlan shorthalt and veth brennato are one-dimensional and depthless

[lord-squiggletits]

One of my favorite parts of phase 2 (and indeed one of the few moments I resonated with IDW Prowl) was when the neutrals were coming back to Cybertron and Prowl said that he refused to let Autobots be pushed aside and overruled after they were the ones who fought for freedom for 4 million years (the exact wording escapes me atm).

And I mean, that resentment still holds true even once the colonists come on bc like. As much as it's true that Cybertron's culture is fucked up, and as funny as it can be to paint Cybertronians as a bunch of weirdos who consider trying to kill someone as a common greeting not important enough to hold a grudge over.... The colonists POV kind of pissed me off a lot of times, as did the narrative tone/implications that Cybertronians are forever warlike and doomed to die by their own hands bc it just strikes me as an extremely judgemental and unsympathetic way to deal with a huge group of people with massive war PTSD and political/social tensions that were rampant even before the war?

Like, imagine living in a society rife with bigotry and discrimination where you get locked into certain occupations and social strata based on how you were born. The political tension is so bad there's a string of assassinations of politicians and leaders. The whole planet erupts into an outright war that leads (even unintentionally) to famine and chemical/biological warfare that destroys your planet. Both sides of the war are so entrenched in their pre-war sides and resentment for each other that this war lasts 4 million years and you don't even have a home planet any more. Then your home planet gets restored and a bunch of sheltered fucks come home and go "ewww why are you so violent?? You're a bunch of freaks just go live in the wilderness so that our home can belong to The Pure People Who Weren't Stupid And Evil Enough To Be Trapped In War" and then a bunch of colonists from places that know nothing about your history go "lol you people are so weird?? 🤣🤣 I don't get why y'all are fighting can't you just like, stop??? Oh okay you people are just fucked up and evil and stupid then" ((their planets are based on colonialism where their Primes wiped out the native populations btw whereas the Autobots and OP in particular fought to save organics. But that never gets brought up as a point in their favor)) as if the damage of a lifetime of war and a society that was broken even before the war can just magically go away now that the war is over.

Prowl fucking sucks but he was basically the only person that pointed out the injustice of that.

And then from then on out most of the characters from other colonies like Caminus and wherever else are going "i fucking hate you and your conflicts" w/ people like literal-nobody Slide and various Camiens getting to just sit there lecturing Optimus about how Cybertronians are too violent for their own good and how their conflicts are stupid, with only brief sympathetic moments where the Cybertronians get to be recognized as their own ppl who deserve sympathy before going right back to being lambasted.

Like I literally struggled to enjoy the story at multiple points because there was only so much I could take of the characters I knew and loved being raked over coals constantly while barely getting to defend themselves or be defended by the narrative so like. It was just fucking depressing and a little infuriating to read exRID/OP

[shesmore-shoebill]

new amangela fic!

"Two cheez-it packets and an apple is not dinner. You don't have any leftovers or anything in your house?"

Angela groans, leaning forward and balancing her forehead on the edge of her laptop screen. "I don't even have groceries right now, because I didn't have time to do a grocery run on Tuesday. I think the last time I looked in the fridge it was literally just condiments and a jar of martini olives." She pauses, and then, continuing to not look at Amanda, adds. "...And half a lemon."

"Half- why is it only half a lemon. What happened to- okay, you know what, not the important thing here. Babe, what the hell."

AKA: I said i was going to write a fic about the half lemon in Angela's fridge and i meant it.

It started from "i want this specific scene as a result of Angela kind of Going Thru It" and quickly turned into "how many acts of love and service can i feasibly cram into the before and after of this". Its VERY fluffy, consider it an exploration of "what can you do when your friend is overworking themselves to the point of being stretched very thin + a healthy dose of Amangela banter and love".

Its written in a way that I think is arguably platonic, but I mean, you all can decide that. enjoy!

also, a huge thank you to the other amangela fic/content writers on here- for directly or indirectly discussing, providing encouragement, motivation, etc, and also making their own stuff! Cool stuff makes more cool stuff.

[1tbls]

man, DE fic piss me off a little sometimes asdfgk. i think u guys are greatly overestimating how much police can or are willing to do, and what cases they are incentivized to actually pursue.

when my mom's apartment was broken into a year ago, her next door neighbor literally got one of the guys on camera, and the police basically shrugged and went "sorry! nothing we can do!". when one of the men broke in again a week later, while my sister was home alone, when she could have been attacked, when she saw the guy face to face, again they were like "sorry! nothing we can do!"

which isn't to say i think they should have gone all supercop to solve the case. what the fuck are they gonna do, manhunt the guys across the city based on grainy camera footage? what would my mom and sister even gain from that, what would the community gain from that, having cops hovering around and then maybe throwing two poor guys from the neighborhood into prison? it's just reality that there's only so few resources to solve these things, so many dead ends, and more harm than benefit to the socioeconomic circumstance of the area.

it's just kind of irksome seeing fic casually talk about all the crimes precinct 41 and C-wing are pursuing and solving, when in reality most probably wouldn't even reach their desks before they were waved away as a dead case. or if they did reach their unit, still wouldn't be solved because it's simply too big of a gamble of time and resources. according to pew research center, in the US, about 45% of violent crime cases are solved each year, and only about 18% of property crime. and that's only the solve rate for the reported cases. it is in fact copaganda and simply inaccurate to portray the police as though they make a significant impact on crime, when more than half the time they're going, "sorry! nothing we can do!" 👍

[slyandthefamilybook]

Once there was a boy who was a shepherd. He kept watch over a small flock of sheep in a pasture at the edge of town. He loved his sheep. He had been born to a shepherd from a family of shepherds, and had so grown up amongst his flock. He knew all of the sheep by name and would great them one-by-one each morning. "Hello Dolly," he would say. "Hello Steven and hello Betty."

Now these sheep were undoubtedly useful: the townspeople would eat their meat and weave their wool and gnaw on their bones as they worked the fields. But these sheep were also alive. They had a glittering intelligence in their black eyes, and they would commune every so often to discuss the harvest, and the shepherd boy, and the townspeople. The sheep loved the shepherd boy and they loved the town and the townspeople, and the people loved them back. They were good sheep.

Now one day the shepherd boy overheard one of the townspeople talking about his flock. The man said he thought the sheep were ugly, and that they smelled bad. This upset the shepherd boy, because he loved his sheep, and he thought the people loved his sheep as well. The shepherd boy, being no more than 12 years old at the time, wanted to remind the people of how much his sheep mattered to them. So one night as the moon hid behind the clouds the shepherd boy stood on a stone in his pasture and cried out: "Help! Help! A wolf!"

Out came a crowd of people, blinking the sleep from their eyes and carrying torches and pitchforks and shovels and ladels. They stood in the pasture and looked about, but they could see no wolf. The townspeople became angry and shook their fists at the shepherd boy. "This is a serious matter!" they cried. The shepherd boy had to admit that his ploy was juvenile, but he was still a child, and so the people forgave him. And they continued to love the shepherd boy and his sheep, and the shepherd boy and his sheep loved them back, for the townspeople had proved that night how much they cared.

Five years later, when the shepherd boy was now a teen, he stood amongst his flock in the pasture and he said "good night, Dolly. Good night, Steven and good night, Betty." But as the clouds passed over the moon the shepherd teen saw a shape in the distance, and out of fear for his flock he cried out: "Help! Help! A wolf!"

Again came the great crashing crowd with their knives and their swords and axes and bows. They stood in the pasture and looked about, but they could see no wolf. The townspeople once again became angry, and they shook their fists at the shepherd teen. "This is a serious matter!" they cried. "We love you and we love your sheep, but you must learn to not be so frightened!" With great grumbling the townspeople returned to their homes, and the shepherd teen sensed that something had changed.

Five more years passed, and the shepherd teen was now a shepherd. He still passed through his flock every morning and said, "Good morning, Dolly. Good morning, Steven and good morning, Betty." And the sheep loved the shepherd and he loved them. But in his age he had grown cautious. The shepherd had learned from the townspeople that perhaps the wolves were not so great a threat as he had thought. And so at night when he would see their red eyes prowling at the edges of his pasture, he would stay silent and wait.

One night, as the clouds began to cover the moon, a wolf appeared. The wolf approached Dolly the sheep and snarled, its lips wet. "Away!" cried the shepherd. "Away with you!" But the wolf showed its fangs and said, "I want your sheep." "Why?" cried the boy. "Why must you take my sheep? You have your food in the forest!" But the wolf laughed. "I want your sheep because I am a wolf and they are sheep. That is how it is done." And the wolf parted its terrible jaws and snatched up Dolly the sheep and dragged her into the deep woods. And the shepherd remained silent.

The next night two wolves appeared, their eyes red and their tongues hungry. The wolves approached Steven the sheep who was with his family. "Away with you!" cried the shepherd. "Why do you hate my sheep so?" The wolves cackled and said with the same voice, "we hate your sheep because it is the thing for sheep to be hated. All wolves hate sheep, and they cannot all be wrong. Even the birds and rabbits of the forest will come around." And the wolves each took a leg from Steven the sheep and hauled him into the dark woods. And still the shepherd held his tongue.

The next night as the moon was new the shepherd saw a sea of red eyes at the edge of the forest. The wolves marched toward his sheep, their heads held high. And the shepherd saw that indeed the birds and rabbits of the forest were among them, their eyes bleeding and their teeth sharp. They approached Betty the sheep who cried out in terror. The shepherd stood on a rock in his pasture and called out with a loud voice: "Help! Help! The wolves have come, and all the birds and rabbits of the forest!"

But this time no one came. You see, although the boy had cried wolf before, his fear was now justified. But the townspeople had grown tired of him. Every time the flock was threatened they felt compelled to act, and that compulsion drained them. And they no longer liked the shepherd. He had spent too much time with his sheep, and they had begun to see that same glittering black intelligence in his eyes. Sheep are frightened of everything and cannot be expected to know when they are truly in danger.

What had the shepherd done for them? He kept his sheep mostly to himself these days. Perhaps the shepherd was the one really in control, and he had used his cries of wolf to bend the townspeople to his will. Anyone whose flock was threatened that often must be doing something wrong.

And what was this about the birds and rabbits of the forest? They were peaceful! They could never be convinced to join with those who preyed upon them. Flocks of sheep are old and backwards and they are a drain on the town, the people thought. If the birds and rabbits hate the sheep they must have good reason to do so.

Again the shepherd called out, but the townspeople rolled over in their beds and stuffed their ears with sheep's wool. The shepherd's cries of wolf had made them feel guilty, and so they had found reasons for why they did not have to listen. And besides, the townspeople thought as they pulled their wolf skins over their heads and their eyes glowed red, the sheep really were delicious...

[kenobihater]

of all the star wars movies, which of them do y'all 1) enjoy the most 2) consider the best quality and 3) think you've rewatched the most. add your answers in the reblogs or replies, i'm genuinely curious how much of an overlap there is within everyone's three answers. mine don't overlap at all! they're revenge of the sith, empire strikes back, and the force awakens :^)

[grimdot]

(removing like from a horny post) that's a rly long run-on sentence actually

[hella1975]

would you like to talk about how bad the mha ending was hella

as much as i would love to give like. a comprehensive response i genuinely dont think i can get my words together just yet without it being a constant unintelligble stream of 'AND ANOTHER THING-' and bc it's become quite torn in the fandom on if the chapter was good or bad i want like. an actual coherent response here. so i will reblog this if/when i can word it but know IM NOT FUCKING HAPPY

[dukeofthomas]

"Angry robin" "violent robin" "misbehaving robin" shut up and accept my alternative; spunky Robin. Determined and head strong, can out-stubborn the Batman, has a strong moral-backbone and does what he thinks is right regardless of what anybody else says, Robin. Jason who was sassy and quippy and made crude jokes with a smile on his face. Jason who hid in Bruce's cape and whispered gossip to him. Jason who, if Bruce refused him something, could keep bothering endlessly until Bruce caved. And also dramatic Jason. If Bruce tells him no, it becomes a whole theatrical show; a monologue, a narration, embellishments, and falling onto the floor in his grief upon the fact his cruel father has denied him once again.

(Jason who has suffered through abuse and homelessness and poverty and starvation, who is the Fight out of Fight or Flight, who's built up defenses and walls and when pushed and triggered responds with the thing that's always protected him; anger. He's sweet and kind and funny, and when he sees a pimp hitting a prostitute he gets furious and responds with violence.)

[lilbittymonster]

Day 11: Surrogate

Read on AO3

The road was long. Every ilm of his body ached under his armour. The lance that was once so proudly given as the honoured weapon of the Azure Dragoon had been reduced to being used as naught but a cane. The rolling hills of the Central Highlands were all beginning to blur into one green mass before his exhausted eyes, and only the years of treading these roads made sure he and his young charge were heading towards the tents of Camp Dragonhead.

The child hadn’t uttered a single word the entire journey, and the weeping had ceased bells ago. Now, still dusted in soot, he stared listlessly ahead as he clung to Alberic’s gauntlet. He’d been limping for the last malm and Alberic wasn’t sure if he was in any state to carry the boy should it come to it. Blessedly, the light of the campfire was visible off in the distance. All he had to do was wait until they were spotted.

“Who goes?” called a sentry as they drew nearer.

“Ser Alberic of the Knights Dragoon,” he called out hoarsely. “And…..child.”

The knight straightened at Alberic’s call. He said something to the other knight beside him, and they ran off into the camp.

“Full glad are we to see you returned, Ser Alberic,” the sentry said as they approached. “We could see the battle raging from here.” He turned to peer at the boy trailing slightly behind Alberic. “And who have we here?”

“A survivor,” was all Alberic said. “He needs to be seen by a healer.”

“Of course, of course,” the sentry nodded quickly. “Whatever you need.”

Alberic nodded wearily, and with another look at the boy, he led them further into the camp towards the healer’s tent. Now that they were in full lamplight he could see the burns on the child’s feet and hands. Smears of blood from unseen wounds crusted on his skin and tear tracks through the soot ran down his cheeks.

“Good evening, how- oh, good heavens above,” said the attendant chirurgeon. “What happened to this child?”

“Dragon attack,” Alberic said wearily.

The man was already pulling clean rags from a shelf with one hand and tugging the boy’s hand away from Alberic towards a bed with the other. Alberic released him and leaned his full weight on his lance, content to let the boy be seen to first. He was still silent, unresponsive to the healer’s prodding as he was wiped down. The burns were an even angrier red once the thin layer of black was removed and Alberic feared the boy may scar. The chirurgeon’s lips pressed together worriedly as he worked.

“What is your name?” he asked the boy gently.

No response.

“Do you know?” the chirurgeon asked, turning to Alberic.

He shook his head. “He’s said nary a word the whole journey.”

The chirurgeon hummed in disappointment. “Were there any others with him?”

Alberic shook his head again.

“A shame. How many more good innocent folk must we lose to the thrice damned Horde?” His hands were methodical in their movements, and in small concentrated bursts were the burns slowly eased. Satisfied with his work, and that there were no other injuries in need of tending to the boy, he straightened and turned to Alberic.

“Do not think your slumping has escaped my notice, ser dragoon. Sit, I shall be with you shortly.”

Alberic obeyed without complaint, glad to be off of his feet. He set the stained and bent lance to the side of the bed and stiffly began the process of removing his armour.

The boy said something in a mumble.

“I beg your pardon?” Alberic said gently leaning in.

“Estinien,” the boy said in a whisper. “My name’s Estinien.”

“Hello, Estinien. I am Ser Alberic Bale, of the Knights Dragoon of Ishgard.”

Slowly, Estinien looked up at Alberic with hollow eyes. “Where are we?”

“We are in Camp Dragonhead, not far from the Holy See. You’ve been hurt badly.” He hesitated. “Do you have any family that live in another village? Grandparents, maybe? Or an aunt and uncle?”

Estinien paused, then shook his head minutely.

Alberic closed his eyes and inhaled slowly through singed lungs. Another orphan of the war.

“Well, Estinien, once you are rested up a bit, I shall take you to the Holy See. You’ll be taken care of there.”

Estinien just looked past him again, eyes unseeing once more.

-

Alberic shouldered open the door to the apartment. It was far less glamourous than his previous lodgings, but a knight’s barrack is no place for a child. A lantern was already filled on the counter next to a small flintbox, and he methodically went around the room lighting the various wall lanterns. The room filled with soft light, and he turned to see Estinien still standing in the open doorway, staring wide eyed about the space.

“Come in, and close the door behind you, lad,” Alberic said as he set down his bag on the bare floor.

Hesitantly, as if waiting for an enemy to spring from the woodwork, Estinien stepped over the threshold and closed the door softly behind him. Trailing a hand along the wall he made a slow circuit about the common room. He paid no mind to the kitchen, but the washroom seemed to confuse him.

“What is this?” he asked.

Alberic looked up from the small wrapped bundle of plates he was putting away.

“What is what?”

Estinien was standing over the toilet with a confused tilt of his head.

“Surely you’ve seen a toilet before,” Alberic said, half jokingly.

Estinien frowned. “I have. Why is it inside, though?”

That brought Alberic up short.

“Ah, the city has sewers all throughout it,” he explained, trying not to laugh and embarrass the boy. “It keeps all our washrooms clean that way.

Estinien seemed to accept this explanation, not even looking at the tub, and continued his walk about the apartment. His meager belongings put away, Alberic watched wordlessly as the young boy assessed the space, leaning against the counter. First the bedroom on the left, then the right, before finally coming to rest back in the middle of the room.

“Well?” Alberic prompted.

“It’s big,” was all Estinien said.

“And…..that’s good?”

Estinien nodded, and Alberic’s shoulders slumped in relief.

“Well, which room would you like for yourself?”

Before Alberic had finished asking, Estinien was already pointing to the door on the right. Alberic chuckled.

“Go on, then, it’s all yours. We’ll get you a proper bed after supper.”

Estinien slipped inside and closed the door, and as Alberic picked up what was left of his belongings to enter the other bedroom, he thought he could hear the faint sounds of crying through the wall.

-

The smell of bitter and sweet herbs wafted up from the steaming mug as Alberic mixed in a healthy spoonful of honey before bringing it to the currently curled up elezen on the couch.

“Here, it’s still hot,” Alberic said as he approached.

Estinien slowly sat up with a wince and took the mug from his hands, sipping tentatively at the liquid. He pulled a face at the first sip and Alberic made a sympathetic noise.

“How much longer until it arrives?” he asked morosely.

“The letter that said it was sent from Ul’dah is dated two moons ago. It shouldn’t be long now,” Alberic promised.

Estinien grunted and winced again, taking another sip of tea.

“Is that barley sock still hot enough?” Alberic asked.

Estinien shook his head and unfurled himself enough to hand over the simple cotton tube. Alberic took it and laid it out on the stones by the fireplace again, careful not to let it get close enough to the flames to burn before sitting back down on the couch. Estinien leaned against his shoulder as he settled back against the cushions.

“I can’t wait to not have to do this again,” he muttered.

-

“Again!” Estinien demanded.

“We have been at this for bells, now, son,” Alberic panted as he straightened.

“If I am to be the next Azure Dragoon, then I need to be better than all the rest,” Estinien insisted.

“Aye, and you’ll never survive even being a Temple Knight if you kill yourself training,” Alberic countered.

Estinien scoffed and muttered something, but relaxed his stance. He was nearly the same height as Alberic now, and the set of old training maille rested snugly on his frame. Secretly, he had hoped to keep the danger of joining the dragoons from Estinien and spare him the same fate as him, but the lad was stubborn, and the flame of vengeance burned brighter in his eyes with each passing day.

And so, with a heavy heart, Alberic had agreed to instruct him. And that included making sure that Estinien did not run himself into an early grave.

“We’ve done these same drills a hundred times,” Estinien complained. “When are you going to show me something new?”

“You lack the balance to accompany your strength,” Alberic said, noting the small gathering of onlookers in the wings of the proving grounds. “It takes more than simple might to slay a wyrm.”

Estinien processed this with a furrow in his brow. Alberic rested the sparring lance against the nearby training dummy and stretched his legs. A few of the newer recruits were still fighting at the other end of the sand pit, and Alberic caught some of them gawking, only to avert their eyes as he met them.

“And how am I meant to practise balance?” Estinien asked finally.

“That we can do at home,” Alberic promised. He paused. “And I may be able to call in a favour.”

Estinien’s eyes lit up.

“I cannot guarantee anything,” Alberic clarified quickly, “but I did promise I would impart to you all that I know, and I plan to keep my promise.”

-

Alberic sat up in bed, heart pounding in his chest and pulse loud in his ears, but no memory of what he had dreamt beforehand. Perhaps it was for the best that he didn’t. As he tried to slow his breathing down his sleep-addled brain eventually recognised that there was light leaking in from beneath his door. He hauled himself out of bed and dressed slowly before cautiously opening it.

Estinien looked up from the table, where he was sitting with a deck of cards spread before him and a bottle of wine at his side.

“Can’t sleep either?” he asked, placing a card down on a row of others.

“Seems so,” Alberic said groggily as he meandered into the kitchen.

“Plenty of wine left in the bottle,” Estinien said without looking up.

“How considerate of you.”

Alberic slumped into the chair opposite and watched as Estinien laid down card after card. The wine was a bit too dry for his liking but it took the lingering edge off. He got back up to retrieve the last of the wheel of cheese from the icebox to cover the aftertaste.

Estinien stacked the fourth and final column of cards and swept the deck back into his hand and began shuffling.

“Care for a hand, if you aren’t sleeping?” he asked.

“I could go for a round of Skyfish, sure.”

Estinien raised a brow as he shuffled. “Skyfish, huh? The children’s game?”

“Ah, come now, humour your old man.”

“You’re hardly that old, Alberic,” Estinien said.

“If you’ve the brains for a more involved game, I’m all ears.”

Estinien chuckled but dutifully dealt them their hands. Alberic swept up his four cards, and immediately regretted the choice of game.

-

The manor was quiet in its comfort, the meal finished and plates cleared away by dutiful staff. Estinien and Aymeric were in the parlor across the hall with the cats. Alberic could hear the gentle tinkling of a bell and scampering claws on hardwood as Arienne skittered across them.

“I’m so glad you could join us this year,” Vivienne said as she sipped her wine contentedly.

“As am I. ‘Tis good to spend time in your company outside from formal matters for a change.”

Vivienne laughed at that, tilting her glass in a small cheers. It had taken the better part of the dinner and two glasses of Lominsan red for Alberic to relax in the company of nobles, even nobles he ostensibly already knew.

“Truthfully, I am glad of the excuse not to attend the larger Starlight celebrations,” she said. “My old bones aren’t what they used to be and the chairs are never comfortable enough.”

The sounds of the bell had stopped, and distantly Alberic heard the echoing sound of a door being closed followed by the wails of a small cat. Alberic hid his smile in his glass of wine. A minute later, Arienne appeared in the doorway voicing her complaints.

“Oh, did you get thrown out, your poor dear?” Vivienne said sympathetically. She patted her lap in invitation. “I know I’m not my son, but-ah, hello my darling.”

Arienne pushed her head against Vivienne’s hand, purring loudly, before circling twice and curling up contentedly.

“Oh, to be young and in love,” she said, a knowing smile on her lips. “Have you ever had anyone special to call your own, Alberic?”

He coughed on the wine slightly at the unexpected question.

“Ah, nay, I have not,” he said quickly to recover. “Being a knight, then a dragoon, I had not the time nor desire to tie myself to anyone I might soon leave behind. And then when that path was closed to me, well….” he trailed off with a meaningful look towards where the boys had disappeared to. “All my time went towards ensuring the happiness of my son. And I don’t regret a single moment of it.”

“And he makes my son very happy as well. I can’t tell you what a blessing it’s been to have Estinien around.”

Alberic’s chest swelled with pride at her words. It was a relief to hear that Estinien had come out of his shell just as much as he’d hoped.

“I thank the Fury every day that they have each other,” he said.

-

I loved you as a father, but I can ill forgive you for Ferndale.

Estinien’s final words to him still rattled about between his ears. The din of the room hardly drowned them out, much as he tried. He tried to think of any other way that conversation could have happened. Any way to spare him that pain. But as always, Nidhogg had other ideas.

He supposed it was a good thing Kitali stepped in when she did. He doesn’t know if he could have had the strength of will to fight his only son. He leaned back in the rickety chair and closed his eyes.

Halone, hear this prayer of a desperate father, he thought. Keep my son safe.

[elysianymph]

🔥 anything about sirius because i am being a little hater towards some characterisations too

i've already talked your ears off about this on discord but i'm happy to talk to about it again bc i fucking HATE new sirius black with a burning passion. i hate him as much as i love my sirius black that marauderstok can pry from my cold dead hands bc i'm not letting him go. i don't know when it happened and why but marauders fans are particularly persistent on taking away any interesting traits sirius had and leaving behind a whimpering pathetic twink that cries when someone looks at him the wrong way. sirius has been scrubbed clean of any morally grey traits he might've had (he's not allowed to care for his family (unless it's regulus) or long for them bc they are bad, he's not allowed to have any prejudices even though he was literally raised with pureblood mentality and taught he was superior to everyone else from the day he was born, he's not allowed to be an asshole bc he's not like his family guys!! and when he is an asshole it's always used to victimize the character he's being an asshole to and sirius is painted as the villain with mommy issues that can only be fixed by getting dicked down apparently)

i cannot stress this enough: LET THIS MAN BE A COMPLEX CHARACTER!! and no, giving him mental illnesses that miraculously disappear when he gets together with remus and making him attempt to kill himself post prank because he feels bad is NOT making him complex! you're just weird. you're just romanticizing mental illnesses and i can't believe you don't see anything wrong with it. giving him bipolar to justify his actions is?? not??? representation??? it's offensive to people who actually have to deal with these issues in their day to day lives and yet here you are using something that will impact their life forever as a plot device for your uwu sadboy mlm fanfic.

and that's what new sirius boils down to. he's a plot device, an accessory to everyone else's story that's never given much depth other than "oh his mom used the cruciatus on him and now he's traumatized". no hate to jegulus but hate to specific jegulus fics that turn sirius into an overdramatic caricature of his former self for the sake of drama and angst.

also, some of these wolfstar shippers... wtf are you guys on?? idk when and why (that's a lie i do but i'm not gonna say it) remus became sirius black in a werewolf costume but here we are. oh sirius was cool and effortlessly smart and handsome and girls wanted him? well guess what? snatches all of those character traits and throws them onto remus they're his character traits now. ignore how it doesn't make any sense for the werewolf child who was isolated from the rest of the world to be a smooth talking alpha casanova who plays basketball actually. while we're at it, ignore how unrealistic it is for a boy who was raised in a family that believed they were superior to everyone else based on blood status, who was raised to be the perfect heir and checked off all the traits needed to be one to be insecure?? and unsure of himself?? and stupid??? and a loser??? i don't understand what the point of flipping the wolfstar dynamic was when you're left with a shallow copy of the original but ok. you do you ig.

to summarize, my sirius is cool and effortlessly smart and egotistical and a complete asshole who thinks he's the best thing ever. is it an act to cover up how damaged he thinks he is because of his family? possibly. but i also fully believe sirius thought he was a god amongst men and everyone should be glad to be in his presence. he talked down to other people because he considered himself smarter, he rolled his eyes when students asked stupid questions and made fun of them when they got an answer wrong. he's a teenage boy let him be a dick with no excuses.

(also i find it funny when people write about sirius getting into a fight with james or remus and crying because they said something mean. as if sirius wouldn't throw hands the moment someone started criticizing him. he's toxic and that's what makes him interesting. that's his purpose! characters exist to make stories interesting, to start drama, not to be your moral guide on how to act. stories become so much more fun once you let go of the need to make every character a good person. also liking a character doesn't equal liking them as a person. i love sirius but i would hate his guts irl)