#domestic lore

[nevesmose]

Bandages on Broken Souls: A Nostramo Culture/Lore Post

Sometimes I think about the wee lower-deck people that were all covered in bandages in the Night Lords Trilogy. Why so bandagey? (Bandagepilled wrapmaxxers, not beating the bandage allegations, etc)

She glanced at the wretch, who was unhealthily tall and sexless in its overcloak, keeping its face behind stained bandages. Several others lurked close to the door, whispering amongst themselves. It was impossible not to smell their sweat, their stinking, bloodstained bandages, and the rancid oil-blood of their bionics.

Those ones. The attendants providing for Octavia's needs as a Navigator. Octavia's attendants.

It turns out ADB does tell us a bit later on:

The chlorine reek of them offended his senses, the way it rose in a miasma from their antiseptic-soaked bandages, as if such trivial protections could ward against the changes of the warp.

This is very interesting to me for a few reasons since it can lead to various interpretations about Nostraman culture, even though it's important to bear in mind that what we're seeing is the degraded situation after however-many thousand subjective years of dicking about in the Warp, Eye of Terror etc.

They believe, or at least Ruven the POV character here thinks they believe, that warp mutation can be defended against with purely physical items i.e. bandages and disinfectant. While it's easy to point to examples of people from all kinds of cultures in the setting using spiritual or metaphysical ways to protect themselves from the warp, I find it interesting that this doesn't seem to occur to the Nostramans.

In fact, unless I'm remembering it wrong (always a possibility tbh) other than a small mention in one of the Gendor Skraivok short stories about there being a secret Lectitio Divinitatus cult among the serfs, there seems to be very little spiritual/religious belief organic to Nostramo itself.

That makes some sense, I think. It is after all Space Gotham, a world of armoured groundcars and looming starscrapers where everyone is living under some form or another of very high pressure just to survive whether that means getting their next meal or keeping their position in high level gang politics. Whatever beliefs the original settlers brought with them to the Sunless World were, I imagine, ground away over time as generations passed and people had other, more visceral concerns.

There are a few scenes in the 1984 nuclear war TV movie Threads that take place in the period about 10-20 years after the bombs have fallen. It's clear that the by now rapidly deteriorating survivors of the pre-war world are trying as best they can to provide some kind of education for their post-war descendants, but this is extremely limited and relies on what they can gather together from whatever books, VHS tapes etc happened to survive the war:

"The skeleton of a cat! A cat's skeleton!"

And we can see that it simply means nothing to the children and young adults whose entire existence revolves around basic survival - mostly food and the things they have to do in order to get it.

This, in a way, is what I think happened to whatever beliefs in anything beyond the material that may have ever existed on Nostramo by the time we see it in the Crusade/Heresy era. It's a sad, stunted little world and I feel immensely sorry for the nasty, skeevy people it produced.

Another factor affecting this would of course be the Night Haunter. You don't really need to have a spiritual/metaphorical figure or system dispensing rules and justice when Konrad is actually real and inside your home making it brutally clear what his views on law-breaking are.

So, in my usual roundabout way, we come back to the bandages again. My view, as I've expressed before in my ramblings, is that Konrad didn't truly eradicate crime on Nostramo so much as eradicate the appearance of it.

There's a legend from Ancient Greece about a Spartan boy training to be a warrior which I'll post as a screenshot below since I think we could all do with a break from my writing style for a bit:

"He could steal and suffer and die rather than be found out" is the relevant part here I think. Much like the idea that snitches get stitches or the mafia code of omertà where one's value in society and life itself hinge on a mutual keeping of silence against any and all authority figures.

We know that even before Konrad arrived, Nostraman society functioned on a gang allegiance basis, so already fertile ground for a very insular and secretive type of culture. But then we add the Night Haunter to the mix and the numbers spell disaster for you at Sacrifice the social pressure in this direction ramps up massively.

It's also made very clear pretty much everywhere that Nostramo is a vicious, predatory society. There's a description in one of the Skraivok stories of Phy Orlon, the canonical smallest saddest uwu-iest Night Lord:

It astounded Skraivok how such a vulpine little thing had made it through the selection process. Even bulked by legionary gifts, Orlon still managed to convey the impression of feebleness. Towards the end, Nostramo had been providing only the dregs of the dregs. No wonder Curze had levelled the place.

Weakness was like the scent of blood in the water to the Night Lords. Legionaries like Orlon would always attach themselves to those they deemed powerful, for protection. That explained the ridiculous batwings welded to the top of his helm in emulation of Sevatar, and why he had appointed himself as Skraivok���s adjutant.

It's like prison or high school. Even the transhuman supersoldier Nostramans still function this way. What hope do ordinary people have?

Not much at all, I think. Just in order to survive day to day it'd be necessary to conceal any injury, weakness or deformity at the risk of having it being ruthlessly used against you by just about everyone.

So we come back to the bandages again. Told you I'd get there eventually. We see that the attendants are in fact completely covered in bandages Joshua Graham style:

‘Lord,’ they hissed through slits in their faces that were once lips. Their bloodstained bandages rustled as they shifted and lowered their weapons.

[...]

She raised a bandaged hand, as if she could possibly bar the warrior’s passage with a demand, let alone with her physical presence.

I can imagine the impulse to cover up and conceal any weakness applies very strongly to warp mutations of any sort. Curdled and degraded over millennia roaming the immaterium in the bowels of a ship with the changes becoming worse and worse the longer they go on, it would be plausible for this to develop into a need to cover up and disinfect every inch of oneself in order to maintain some pretence, however flimsy, of being a capable human being.

The saddest part of it for me, though, is that all of the attendants are like this. It's a situation where everyone is quite literally in the same boat, undergoing the same suffering, and yet they still retain this deeply-ingrained need to hide and conceal themselves from each other. It feels like even here, ten thousand years after its destruction, Nostramo's poison is still influencing them, still flowing through their veins to keep them separated, afraid, and deeply alone.

Oh wow, a few paragraphs from ADB somehow led to a great long wall of text. Congratulations if you've made it this far!

PS: This being ADB I feel obliged to consider the possibility of Ruven either lying or being mistaken. I don't think this is likely since he is a) also Nostraman and b) a sorcerer meaning that if there was any spiritual aspect going on he would more than likely have the requisite cultural/magical knowledge or experience to be aware of it or otherwise detect it. Ruven is a conniving goth thot but he has no reason to lie in that particular bit of his own thoughts.

[jellyskink]

Bill be nice for once or else I'm fucking eating your eye

Lore update: Domesticated Ford knows what Homestuck is

[anonyanonymouse]

Event spoilers but Sebek mentions how Lilia and Silver once spilled sauce on their curtains. When the stain didn't come out after washing, they decided to redye the curtains together, even after Malleus offered to just buy them new ones. They're so cute I'm going to blow up thinking about this for the rest of the day oh my god

[sunnylolli]

I’ve written a little drabble along with this below, because I just- I just needed this

(”Marry me, Archie” by Flyte, sets the scene)

Arthur wakes to a crackling sound followed by a baby fussing and blinks himself awake.

He takes a deep inhale through his nose, turning his head towards the baby monitor then further to the alarm clock.

He sighs, lifting both hands to rub at his face, the skin of his palms dry and his face even more so.

4 hours.

Definitely a step forward, a new record.

"Qu’l heure…"

The fussing from the monitor continues, small cries taking on in volume. He’ll have to go in before Matthew wakes up as well.

“I’ve got it. Go back to sleep.”

Arthur mumbles groggily, pushing himself up reluctantly and pulling the duvet aside.

A warm hand brushes at his back and he pauses to sit at the edge of the bed. He eyes the monitor, then the open door ahead of him.

The house is cold and he shivers, counting to three then reaches behind him to give Francis’ hand a squeeze and a lazy kiss, before heaving himself to stand with a grunt.

The shirt he wore yesterday is the closest at hand and he pulls it on to ward off the chills until he can get back to bed and steps into the pair of slippers that stand by the door when he finally drags himself out of the bedroom and down along the corridor.

He runs a flat hand across his hair, brushing it out of his face and closing his eyes while he walks.

He refuses to turn the lights on, the house isn’t that dark and it’s maneuverable. The light always seems to disturb Alfred more than help him anyway, especially sick, he seems particularly light sensitive after waking.

His slippers drag against the wooden flooring and leads him to the room next door.

The door is ajar, a point they make to keep everything open and easy to access. He steps into the doorway, giving the door a gentle push.

He’s greeted by the softest of light from a winnie-the-pooh night light sitting in the outlet at the end of the room and Arthur thanks the heavens it’s as dull and old as it is, to shine so softly.

The first crib he sees is with Matthew. It’s silent, and he can glimpse him still sleeping, while a step further in allows him to spot Alfred.

Arthur looks at him squirming and making a rocus. He huffs exasperatedly.

“Hello.” He sighs, as he drags himself to the crib’s edge.

Alfred’s managed to wrap himself up in his blankets, lying on his back, he looks at the verge of a fit.

Upon seeing him approach, the fussing becomes the beginnings of sobbing and Arthur leans down. Outstretching his arms to begin freeing him from the blanket-prison he’s gotten himself trapped in. 

“Oh, I know. I know. You make some compelling arguments, sire.”

Alfred hiccups at that, binky lying abandoned in the array of teddies Francis’ showered him with after his last recovery and he seems like he’s missed it when Arthur places it back into his greedy little hands.

He probably couldn’t find it in his frantic attempt to unwind himself.

Arthur places both hands under his arms, lifting him up with a playful heave and a ho and places the lad on his hip.

He gives him a once over, checking his face and skin for anything out of the ordinary, but he’s just teary eyed and snot faced and really that’s not so bad, is it.

He gets a hitched breath and decides to get moving to warm up a bottle. A babbling of discontentment following him as he begins to walk.

“That right? Surely not, love, surely not. I bet you’re as tired as I am.”

Alfred babbles some more and Arthur nods in agreement, directing his gaze at his feet, to watch his step down the stairs. 

“Yes, yes, I don’t like sleeping hungry either. Here we go, downstairs.”

The last step creaks obnoxiously and Arthur reminds himself for the hundredth time that he should probably take a look at that.

Alfred continues to fuss and Arthur continues to humor him, jumping him up and down a few times, he goes to turn on the radiators in the living room before making the journey to the kitchen.

He turns on the light from the air vent, the yellow bulb flickers a few times before it comes on and he starts his nightly Alfred-routine.

He finds a pot, fills it with water and sets it to heat up.

Francis already prepared a bottle a few hours ago, ready to heat up and all Arthur has to do now is wait, as he places it carefully into the water to warm it.

The steam rises and begins to melt in with the air around it, and Arthur absentmindedly turns on the vent. It whirrs to life in a gradual ascent and Arthur sits Alfred down onto the counter and crouches down to be at face level with him.

Alfred’s stopped crying, but is still hiccupping and fussy, and he stares teary eyed into Arthur’s own, small scars from the pox still left over near his hairline.

“You must be nocturnal.” Arthur says, reaching his hands up to grab Alfred’s smaller ones and drive them around in circles playfully. 

“You sleep more during the day than you do during the night. What’s that about, ay?” 

He says, smiling in an attempt to get Alfred to as well.

“Are you sneaking out to dance in the moonlight while your pa and I are sleeping?”

Alfred continues to suck at his binky, but he does briefly smile and Arthur continues off of that.

“You do?” He makes an exaggeratedly surprised expression, and Alfred laughs through a hiccup.

“I didn’t take you much for a dancer, but I stand corrected. But as your father, I have to say you’re rather young for such nightly escapades, young man.”

Alfred does laugh for real this time and Arthur grins at him. About to say something else when a sizzling from the pot boiling over catches his attention and he springs up to turn the heat off. 

He keeps one hand supporting Alfred, the other mindlessly grabbing the hot part of the pot and eliciting a yelp at the burn. 

Alfred seems to find his distress funny, because he laughs at the way Arthur flaps his hand then fumbles to pull the pot away by the handle.

A little sadist, the lad.

“You little devil.” He says incredulously. “Laughing at your own dad being an idiot, I’m perfectly capable of laughing at myself, thank you.”

Alfred laughs, ironically, at that as well and Arthur figures it can’t be helped.

He’s just happy the boy isn’t crying anymore - God knows, he’s done too much of that.

Arthur picks him back up and grabs a tea towel for the bottle to dry it off and to hold it without dropping it.

He’s going to let it sit for a minute or two, to cool to bearable temperatures, so he can test it and finally let Alfred have it.

He’s being surprisingly cooperative, looking down at the pot, with his hand fiddling with his binky.

“Are you excited to eat something?” Arthur asks, resettling him to hold him with both arms.

Alfred keeps staring at the pot, but does move his hand and slaps it against Arthur’s mouth.

He closes an eye at it, leaning his head back and sideways, but it’s such commonplace it’s barely surprising.

“Alright! Alright, cheers, I’m done talking.”

They wait for the bottle with Arthur jumping Alfred and Alfred eventually abandoning the pot in favor of leaning his head to rest under Arthur’s chin.

He begins to fuss again when Arthur tests the temperature of the milk on his arm and when he brings them out of the kitchen to sit down by the dinner table.

The light from the kitchen mixes with the blue hue of the night and Arthur situates Alfred to lie down in one arm and positions the bottle with the other.

Alfred spits the binky out himself, reaching greedily for his nighttime meal.

Arthur leans back in the chair for the following minutes, moving his head side to side in an attempt to loosen out a knick and closes his eyes tiredly for just a few moments.

He doesn’t know how he’s gotten through the past 6 months.

First it was a lung infection, then the pox, then right back to another lung infection.

The doctors said he’s predisposed to illness, something about being too small at birth, they don’t anticipate he’ll make it much more than a year.

‘It just is that way at times with twins.’

Arthur opens his eyes and looks down at his son tiredly and misty eyed.

He is small, lying there in the crook of his arm with his eyes closed, falling asleep while eating.

All babies are small. They’re supposed to be small, that’s the whole point of growing. And Alfred’s been growing fine, he’s smaller than Matthew is, but he’s only half a year, he has plenty of time to catch up.

Arthur sniffs, turning his head towards his shoulder to wipe his face in it. 

He’ll catch up.

To hell with what the doctors say, he’ll catch up and he’ll make it past a year. Of course he will. 

A child doesn’t go out on nightly moonlight-raves at 6 months old, if they aren’t going to make it past one year.

Alfred will make it, and he’ll get to grow up and go to actual raves and Arthur’s going to support the hell out of it, because if Alfred wants to, then that’s reason enough to support it.

Alfred stops drinking with the tiniest bit left over and spits it out and Arthur sets it on the table quietly.

Alfred’s eyes are closed, and he’s breathing audibly, clearly half-asleep.

“Alrighty-o, lad.” He says, sniffing and wiping at his nose briefly to situate Alfred upwards. “Sorry to interrupt you, but you’re going to regret falling asleep without trying to throw up on me first, so let’s get that over with, shall we?”

Alfred stares at him sleepily in response and Arthur brings them back to the kitchen to get a small towel to put over his shoulder.

He sets the bottle to soak for the night and pats Alfred’s back.

He does burp a few times, but to Arthur’s relief, there is no reflux along with it.

He just lies there, and Arthur stands with him until he falls asleep, falling heavy and limp against his shoulder and that’s that for tonight then.

He turns the vent and the light off and stands for a moment to adjust to the dark.

He skips the creaky step on the stairs as he goes up and returns as quietly as he can to the nursery to set Alfred down.

The lad fusses briefly as he’s laid down, but settles just as quickly and Arthur watches him with the light from the nightlight for a time. Perhaps too long.

They should’ve waited with giving them their own room, it would’ve been easier to hear them from their own and Arthur wouldn’t have to feel so on edge he barely even sleeps anymore.

He runs his fingers softly across Alfred’s cheek. Stroking across the babyfuss and the drool and the stray streaks of milk that he wipes away, unbothered.

He begins to hum, ever so quietly.

“Close your eyes,” He mutters, voice terrible and definitely not made for singing. “Have no fear.”

He tries to think about the future where Alfred is bigger. Where he’s walking and running and biking, where he’s using the swingset right alongside Matthew out in their backyard, and tumbling and getting scrapes and bruises that won’t have the looming fear of being fatal.

“The monster’s gone, he’s on the run, and your daddy’s here.”

He begins to tear up, stroking Alfred’s hair back, he pulls the blanket over him to tug him in properly.

“Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful,”

Alfred stirs and Arthur retracts his hands. “Beautiful boy.” 

He hums the remaining tunes, letting them trail off to hear both boys breathing into the early morning.

He doesn’t bother drying his eyes this time, he doesn’t even know if he wants to go back to bed. He’s tired, exhausted, but he can’t stop worrying.

He wants to stop, but he can’t.

He crosses the room to check Matthew, finding him equally as asleep as Alfred, although instead of being wrapped in his blanket, he’s kicked it off entirely.

Arthur replaces it over him and runs his hand across his hair the same way, before standing back and rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes and deciding he’s really going to be no help if he doesn’t sleep at all.

He casts a final look down at Matthew, lingering by both boys, before fighting himself back out into the hallway and creeping himself back into bed.

It dips softly and he falls onto the pillow with a sigh. He doesn’t bother taking the shirt off again and his side of the bed isn’t warm anymore either, so it’s just as well.

Francis moves beside him as he’s settled in, turning to face him and scooting closer to envelope him with the duvet.

It crinkles and warms him, Francis’ arm snakes over and around and he’s pressing a lazy, prickly kiss to his mouth that he doesn’t have the energy to return at all.

“I'll take the next one.” Francis whispers.

“You have not slept in days.”

“Nonsense.” Arthur mutters.

Francis half-heartedly slaps his back. 

“It’s like I’m taking care of three children, instead of 2.”

Arthur scoffs. “O, ye of little faith.”

Francis presses in for another kiss and Arthur returns it this time, albeit barely.

They settle down; At the verge of sleep.

The monitor goes off, and Francis groans. 

Arthur laughs.

[sunflawyer]

i adore selfshippers who have such a deep lore story for their s/i & ship because to be honest mine is filled with domestic lovey dovey stuff like us being emotional at our son's first day at the daycare or him telling me to take a bath together ... ⚖️🌻... 😭

[numbuh424]

shoutout to whatever L and Light had going on in Time Speaks

[lorelune]

oh to be alhaitham and kaveh's third roommate. less of a stray, more of a tax-paying citizen of sumeru city who mellows the two of them out. mediates by your nature.

you listen to kaveh's rants and ravings, let him show you his blueprints and new inspirations, and inspire him in kind with casual beauties you bring him. a padisarah in full bloom you found by the market. a seashell, found on the shores of yazahada pool, carried in from the ocean by the rivers current.

you sit quiet with alhaitham. you pet his hair after long days, lean against his side during the kinder ones. he likes when you read over his shoulder or have your nose in your own book. you start keeping a book of crossword puzzles on the coffee table, topped with a black ink pen, and you'll ask alhaitham to do one with you when the mood strikes.

(nsfw)

you cow them both into being a bit more... reasonable with one and other. they're oil and water, sun and moon, sky and sea. you remind alhaitham that antagonizing kaveh with staunch logic isn't the best way to resolve a conflict. you remind kaveh that not everything he feels is a personal slight is intended to be taken in such a way.

you are the jar that hold the oil and water. the star bed that carries the sun and moon. solid earth that keeps the sky tethered and the sea close.

alhaitham takes your recommendation for books seriously-- dives into fiction at your request. his assistant at the akademiya catches him reading what could only be called a "smut novel" between meetings. kaveh drags you into the study and kisses you breathless on the comfy chaise lounge in the corner, pushing you into the cushions and telling you sweetly-- "stay just like that." sketches you. paints you. memorizes the contours and curves of you.

when you tumble into bed, it's a dance.

kaveh maps out the curves of you with soft, long-fingered hands. leaves scratches and opened-mouthed kisses in his wake. kaveh wants to feel you. the rush of heat that comes when he sucks a bruise into your neck. the breath that rushes from your lungs when you let out a pretty keen.

alhaitham wants to know you. wants to learn you in the most intimate way. he wants to know the best angles to crook his finger inside you, the positions that make your eyes roll back in your skull. there's something about rendering you-- someone so horribly intentional, kind, present-- into a puddle, at his hand, that alhaitham quietly adores. shows you, more than tells you. you never leave bed without a limp, or a drooling web of slick and spunk stickying your thighs.

you drag them close. glut yourself on them. watch starry eyes when they kiss, whimper at the way they both go weak for teasing. you spit in your palms and tug at them both, watch with a split smile when kaveh has to duck his head into alhaitham's neck. overcome with just a little touch.

it's all reciprocal. you trade teeth marks (and in alhaitham's case, chomps) and have a schedule for who cooks dinner each night. you link arms with kaveh on the way to the market and steal sips of alhaithams tea before bed. you all attempt to steal the duvet during the night, so you propose to invest in another to keep folded at the end of your shared mattress.

you're grateful, to have fallen into step with them

[yuri-is-online]

...so you just threw this beautiful idea of Fyuuture kid, and left me with a brainrot? Especially after you answered one ask with i quote "he loves his parent so much and was really fighting it to keep it together when he saw them alive again" end of the quote. WHAT DO YOU MEAN AGAIN? WHAT? HOW?

ask 1 and ask 2

Oh 👉👈? I wasn't expecting to get an ask about this au ever again actually, but I am so glad you did, I like it a lot. I mentioned Fire Emblem Awakening in the first ask I got about it but for those of you who haven't played the game, the plot features the children of your army traveling back in time to try and prevent the end of the world. That's more or less what happened in the fyuuture kid au, at least in my first draft... I always end up associating the "future kid meets their parents" trope with either FE: Awakening or I guess Golden Sun? Which I think is the name of the jrpg where something similar happens idk I just like there being a reason for the kid to need to meet their parents.

In my original draft of the au, Yuu was told by Crowley there was no way home for them, so they settled down with Yutu's father and started building a life together. This turned out to not be true, as the Magical Marshall's office began investigating the overblots that happened while Yuu was in school and came to the conclusion Yuu had something to do with them; so they were secretly arrested, cursed to forget everything about Twisted Wonderland, and sent home. The curse was meant to trigger every time Yuu vaguely remembered their time in the otherworld, with the idea their brain would prevent them from thinking about it after a while. They would have justified it, if anyone had been there to ask, by saying Yuu wouldn't know they were missing anything and would be able to live a happy life. When Yutu was born that made that outcome impossible, but the Marshal's office didn't think to check if Yuu was pregnant...

Shortly after they did that though strange things started happening. Monster attacks got more frequent, blot levels started rising, not to extremes immediately but still enough to be concerning. Reports of a strange, abyssal magic using beast, started pouring in to S.T.Y.X. suspiciously close to Grim's description. While Yuu was busy trying to put their life back together in their world, Twisted Wonderland slowly began to fall apart drowning under an ink colored sky. The overblot phantoms they fought come back and begin hunting in their respective homelands, and rumor has it they can turn certain mages into their thralls...

The curse slowly eats away at Yuu's brain, every time they see something that reminds them of their friends, their time at NRC, every time Yutu does something that would make them think about how much he takes after his dad, they feel a great deal of physical pain and temporarily lose the ability to function. It's killing them, and no doctor or specialist can figure out the cause, so Yutu just has to sit there and watch his parent slowly die and not be able to do anything about it. I was uncertain of where exactly I wanted Yuu to die in the story, but it always was around when Yutu gets isekaid to NRC, either before and he had to leave them behind or after when they both get to go home finally! But Yuu doesn't completely make it, they're able to have one moment of peace with their son and Professor Crewel before passing on.

Yutu's dad changes depending on who you want it to be of course, as does whether they met before he and his friends decided to go back in time to prevent this version of the future from ever happening, but his feelings about Yuu never changes. Yutu really admires his parent, he did even before he learned about them facing down overblots! They were really close and the more he learned about their curse, the more responsible he felt for their death. He's very determined to keep Yuu alive and safe in Twisted Wonderland in this timeline, even if it costs him his life.

His opinion on his dad really changes depending on who it is and what he learns about them. Like can you imagine learning your dad was known for being obsessed with teeth and no he had no intention of being a dentist? Clown behavior 💀💀💀 His friends were all ocs I made but never really developed... I do remember that one was a younger sibling of Kalim's (who could be his aunt if you like Kalim and absolutely embraces that role), her retainer, Crewel's son who also sees himself as Yutu's uncle (the feeling isn't mutual) because he is old enough to sort of remember Yuu and thinks of them as a sibling, and a random oc I based off of the kid from Up for no reason other than I like the movie. They also came back in time, but only Yutu ended up in the right place, just like fire emblem awakening.

idk I should probably do something with it. like writing the reactions for the other dorms...

[gothic-mothic]

Night Terrors

[blossoms-phan]

why are they so comfortable hating on us tumblrinas :-(((((( don’t forget your origins

[morelikeravenbore]

A little sneak peak of chapter twenty-eight because I am in my feels about it for real 🥺

On his last day at Hogwarts, Sebastian packed his belongings into his small, tattered trunk and wondered where he'd gone so wrong that his entire life's contents had been reduced to nothing more than books, unfolded clothes and an alarming number of odd socks.

He was quite used to navigating life on his own. Captain of himself, he was his own guardian, decision-maker and provider all rolled into one; but with exams under his belt and the precipice of a new life beyond Hogwarts at his toes, he'd never felt the absence of a family as keenly as he did now. While his peers received letters and gifts from home, Sebastian got nothing: no owls came for him bearing congratulatory letters from proud parents, nor were any words of advice imparted upon him from distant uncles or older cousins. He'd pre-emptively been offered a traineeship at St Mungos provided his N.E.W.T results were up to par (they would be), but a letter from a faceless Ministry employee was hardly comparable to a loving letter from your mother.

He missed his parents. He missed his home in Norfolk.

He missed his twin.

— How to Make a Villain, chapter twenty-eight (WIP)

[coochiekrab]

If domestic cats exist in your furryverse WHO domesticated them.

Trick question cats already domesticated themselves

[jellyskink]

If I was standing in a room and DomesticatedFord was there you best believe I would Mother that man as if he were my son, I would give him a big juicy steak to eat and a real bed to sleep in and I'ma just mother him! (He is 10x my age but I don't care!)

He’s confused and a bit frightened, as he doesn’t know who you are or why you’re being so nice to him

(Also I hope you’re exaggerating about the age difference, because that would make you 6 or 7, and in that case you REALLY shouldn’t be reading this AU)

[dolyx]

(other q&a answers that i wanna save. personally interested in the chance of going to sydney's house.)

[puppynametaken]

I’m a huge fan of the idea of dropping a single Affini into a setting and see how much they can accomplish on their own. Affini can hit like a truck and can survive re-entry into the atmosphere when a full strength. They “rebloom” making them functionally immortal depending on the fic. But like. Chuck a single Affini onto modern day earth. Does it have the ability to domesticate a whole planet itself? My guess is no, but… isn’t it a fun idea???

[elsannej]

VENOM WAR #1 Spoilers

Eddie: WDYM YOU LOST MY OTHER?! HE/YOU HAD ONE JOB!!!

Dylan: DAD I'M HOMELESS + LITERALLY DIED, CAN YOU GIVE A DAMN FR!!!?

Bren and Normie in the bg:

Sleeper: