#one piece fathers are the worst

[wilteddreamsofbaldursgate]

Overindulgent father Astarion who tells his children they’re allergic to any kind of jewellery that isn’t made of the highest grade Dwarven crafted gold. 

It’s not even because Astarion might have a certain aversion to silver, no, he just raises his children to have standards, thank you very much. 

And it doesn’t end with shiny things, oh no… 

The Ancunín brood is known to be dressed in perfectly woven cotton, silk and soft leather clothes, no matter the occasion.

They’re seen playing with expensive toys, reading artfully illustrated books that certainly belong behind thick glass, not in children’s sticky hands. 

There’s even talk that one of the children is not as naturally inclined to music as his parents claim him to be, surely his lyre must be enchanted—the instrument certainly looks extravagant enough! 

And then there’s always this air of effortless haughtiness surrounding the Ancunín children whenever their nannies and servants are parading them through town as if they were perfect little dolls; objects to show off the wealth their parents acquired in quite the mysterious ways. 

So, it’s no secret that Astarion and Tav are pampering their children—some might say they’re even spoiling them rotten. 

And maybe they are, especially Astarion.

But he doesn’t see why he should raise them any other way, nor does he want to.  

When it comes to his children, Astarion has his own standards, and as long as Tav agrees with him nothing really matters. 

Because, these people, they don’t know anything about the Ancuníns. 

They don’t know that it’s not unusual for Astarion to wash out dirt and mud and strawberry stains from comically small finery, leaving behind only the memories of a day spent playing in the garden, chasing after ducks, picking flowers, lazing in the sun…

That any holes and tears the children’s clothes might suffer are quickly mended, making them look as good as new in no time. 

Nor do they know that Astarion doesn’t mind fashioning a brand new dress to match that of a favourite doll, either. Or to embroider a pretty vest with the likeness of that stray cat the children seem to adore, although their father would rather they don’t touch the mangy animal. 

No, those people know nothing at all...

“Not tired!” Astarion’s youngest cries; the vehement denial of her father’s earlier accusation is cut short by a telltale yawn.

The room still smells of fragrant lavender oil and peaches even when the bath water has already grown tepid, just one or two degrees above what Astarion would consider too cold to be enjoyable. 

Amused, he raises an eyebrow at the protesting toddler before he lifts her out of the copper bathtub with little effort. 

By now, he knows every step of this game.

“Tut-tut, my dear child, what did mama and I say?” Astarion kneels, quickly wrapping a soft towel around the child to keep her warm. “We only tell lies outside of this house.”

Unfazed by her father’s gentle scolding, the girl crosses her arms that haven’t yet lost their puppy fat across her chest, reminding Astarion a little too much of a very displeased Tav. 

Suppressing a sigh, he leans back to consider the pouting child, wondering what could possibly be upsetting her this time—the list is growing longer by the day, after all. 

“What’s the matter, dear?” Astarion asks gently, hoping it’s something easily fixable as it’s growing rather late. 

“Want apple!”

Decades ago, Astarion might’ve rolled his eyes—he knows exactly which stupid apple the child wants, it’s been haunting him all day—but once he started to treat his children’s problems as if they were his own, his life has grown somewhat easier. 

“Why, let’s get an apple on our way to bed, then. Would that be alright, Your Highness?” 

The girl promptly nods her head, allowing Astarion to pat her hair dry before dressing her in a clean night dress. 

She rests her cheek against her father’s shoulder as he carries her first to the kitchen to grab a fragrant apple and a knife, then to her bedroom where they settle on the cosy window seat, just like they do every night.

Soft moonlight is pouring through the windows; the child giggles at the way the knife’s blade is catching the silver light as Astarion peels and cuts the apple into even pieces.

“Here you go,” he finally says, giving the slice of apple one last examining look before surrendering it to the impatient little hands reaching for it. “A sweet treat for my little sweet. Doesn’t it taste so much better when we don’t eat it off the floor, darling?” And when it’s not crawling with ants…

The appeased toddler nibbles at the juicy fruit as Astarion carefully combs through her still-damp curls. 

Her hair’s getting long, he notices, knowing that taking care of it will become more time-consuming each day. 

Once, Astarion would’ve thought this task tedious, brushing out hair that’s not his own, oiling and braiding it for no other reason than knowing his children enjoy him doing it. 

But that’s why he loves doing it in the first place, he supposes.

Astarion can tell by his toddler’s heartbeat that sleep is about to claim her. 

The half-eaten slice of apple is still clutched in her little fist as he cradles the child to his chest, slowly rising from the window seat to put her to bed. 

He’s just about to lay the child down that the fruit drops to the floor, his daughter’s tiny hand clutching at his shirt instead.

“Thank you, papa,” she mumbles, more asleep than awake.

Astarion pauses.

He breathes in the clean, yet unique scent of the little girl that is forever engraved in his brain, the same way he knows under which exact constellation she was born. When she took her first steps, what her first word was. Soon, he will have to memorise her favourite colour, and what she likes to eat when dirty apples won’t be that appealing anymore. 

By now, Astarion knows this game by heart, knows that with every year that passes, he has something new to learn about his children.

And sometimes he wonders what it’s like to grow up with clean bed sheets and full bellies. Sleep filled with naught but warmth and happy memories. Ever open doors and tears that are dried by tender kisses. Living in a house where mistakes and anger are welcomed, safe. 

He wonders what it’s like for his children to know that their father’s love comes without conditions. Not now and not ever. 

Sitting down on the bed, Astarion holds his youngest a little closer to his chest, unwilling to let go of her, yet. 

He’s often accused of spoiling his children when most people can only just grasp the very surface of his love for them, the bare minimum of what he feels for his one and only, precious family. 

These baseless accusations are as unimportant to Astarion as the people voicing them.

He’s raising his children to have standards, wants them to take their father’s love for granted, to accept nothing less but pure devotion.

It’s the only way Astarion knows how to love them, the only way that comes most naturally to him. 

Astarion looks down at his little girl, now fast asleep, a gentle smile tugging at her lips. 

After all these years—all these children—he’s still in awe watching them sleep in his arms as if no harm in the world could ever befall them.

And it won’t—not if Astarion can help it. 

“No, thank you, my heart,” he whispers, pressing a kiss against the crown of the toddler’s head. 

When it comes to his children, Astarion holds himself to the highest standard.

[mooneln0ne]

Happy mothers day

[kacievvbbbb]

Look I like Roger enough, I understand what he represents and I generally don’t think he was a bad dude. I do however think he was shit at interpersonal relationships because, what the fuck. Whitebeards crew is infinitely more well adjusted and I’d say he arguably had the more traumatic death.

Like what even, what kind of planning leads a 53 year old man to sire a child knowing he is dying of an incurable illness and is about to turn himself in to be excuted by the marines where he will cause so much chaos it is literally still turning the world on its head 22 years later. He knew he was going to cause so much of a stir that he literally disbanded his crew and told them to spread far and wide to keep them safe. Because he knew the marines would hunt them far and wide But yet he still brought a baby into the world. Babe. What the fuck? What even is that? What was the thought process. I sincerely hope it was an accident and not a deliberate attempt to bring about a new era.

Because if so babe I need to see the recipe or I’m afraid we can never let you cook again

[frankencanon]

We've moved on from Wano but I still frequently see people disagreeing over what pronouns to use for Yamato, and so I thought I'd throw in my two cents since it is my belief that the answer is a lot more simple than people make it out to be...

When deciding how to refer to Yamato, most people ask: "What is Yamato's gender?" "Does Yamato identify as male or female?" Etc.

I'm here to tell you that none of that matters.

I repeat, Yamato's gender identity is irrelevant.

Here's what does matter:

Yamato openly and consistently refers to himself as the son of Kaido, and those that are familiar with him (such as Kaido, Luffy, and the Beast Pirates) obide by his wishes by doing the same.

What more do you need to know?

It doesn't matter what Yamato's gender is; What does matter is that Yamato wants to be referred to as a man, as male, as a son.

Even your beloved Captain—the future Pirate King, Monkey D. Luffy himself—treats Yamato the way that he wants to be treated, giving him the masculine nickname "Yama-o" (Yama-guy).

ヤマ男

YA-MA-O

Compare with Tora-o and Giza-o, Luffy's canon nicknames for Law and Kid respectively, where the "o" suffix is written using the Japanese kanji for "male" (as shown above).

So what does it matter what Yamato's gender is, when you could instead ask: "What does Yamato prefer to be called?" & "How does Yamato prefer to be treated?"

In which case, the answer is obvious...

[worst-fictional-father-showdown]

[suitmana]

father hans you are the best worst old man to me (yes more than old jochen). i love how the game tries to give him some depth without shying away from his actions

heavy discussion of the apostasy route ahead

so, yeah, he's very zealous in his religious beliefs.

but despite (or maybe because of) his strong convictions, he cares a lot for kieferberg, even if only out of moral obligation:

i mean, he has the decency to feel a little guilty about the supernatural terrors he puts the town through:

that very religious zeal, unfortunately, also makes him willing to have any of kieferberg's residents burnt at the stake for the sake of the town's "salvation". ironic, then, that in the same letter that he condemns walpurga's followers he starts with this:

his well-meaning, yet extremist religiosity is also apparent in his relationship with elise. even with the clear animosity on both sides, he was genuinely concerned for elise's soul after learning about how holle had her in the first place:

...as that concern later turns into condemnation:

yet he doesn't even word it as something he looks forward to either. just something unfortunate that needs to be done.

the way he tries to keep the peace throughout the game and is actually one of the more vocally skeptical among the townsfolk (even if part of that is to diffuse suspicion towards his own experiments) is also interesting considering how his religious beliefs enable him to do genuinely terrible things. like he believes that his god has no problems with him burning people alive but also he wants to be absolutely sure that there's an actual witch to burn in the first place. he is simultaneously the personification of everything wrong with kieferberg and one of the few (aside from gustav, leb, and freya) who are barely keeping the village together

[king0fcrows]

Screaming over all the challenges to the narrative in the newest IWTV episode

I love that Lestat walks onto the stage with the intent to remain stone cold as he condemns Louis and Claudia--and instead leaves psychologically wrecked and guilty (he's literally swaying back and forth in the background as Louis and Claudia are sentenced)

Love that Louis' memory is reinforced as less and less reliable with every episode (that shot of him dragging pre-transformed Claudia's body like a rag doll, like a toy? goddamn.)

Love that Daniel is trying to call Armand (my poor wet meow meow, who has never done anything wrong in his life) on his lying bullshit in front of Louis

[butnotbubblegum]

using the tags to vent my current emotional state into the void bc ig story feels like a bad plan for this, read at your own risk.

[ladeaeveld]

bonney is so precious.. 🤲

[onepiece-polls]

Follow for more One Piece Polls! ❤

[whatdourelfeyessee]

JASON SUDEIKIS WE NEED TO HAVE A TALK ABOUT THE EMOTIOMS YOU ARE MAKNG ME EMOTE

[mooneln0ne]

Don't I deserve to live too?

[kacievvbbbb]

We should get to see Shanks and Rayleigh be slightly awkward family.

Mostly because I think they have a natural rhythm they’d fall into, they love each other after all theres alway been an easy camaraderie between them Shanks has always been the best parts of him and Roger and it’s hard not to be easy around him. but he’s also got their worst parts so it’d be one of those things where the lightness can never last and they get quiet with the weight of all the unsaid hurt between them. Because their captain was sick and then he died and then Ray abandoned him. And shanks still has so many suppressed issues about that.

Also I think their the type of people to do that cute knocking heads together thing and id pay good money way to see that.

[tournamentdirectory]

One Piece has many terrible fathers. @worstonepiecedadtournament finds the most loathsome.

[charkyzombicorn]

Soul eater au

How dose white bead feel about dragon ? I can’t be good considering for all he knows dragon abandon crocodile and luffy (I fout that’s the case but it’s not like crocodile will tell what happed between the two of them)

Whitebeard picks Dragon up with one hand like a squeaky toy and with a smile just says "It's really a shame I missed the wedding, I hope you'll have me for your Eighteenth Anniversary Vow Renewal ceremony" as a threat

Crocodile thinks it's funny at first but then tries to throw a sham-wedding thing for WB's sake. Crocodile finally cops up and says Dragon was a fling, Luffy was an accident and Croc hasn't spoken to Dragon since Luffy was dropped off with Garp.

Whitebeard is perfectly fine with it, tells Crocodile it doesn't matter where Luffy came from, only that he's here now, thanks Crocodile for trusting him and being honest and tells him he loves his family unconditionally

But if he sees Dragon again it's On Sight

[jasper-dracona]

So uhhh I was just gonna make an addition to this in the tags, but i didn’t realize how verbose I was gonna be, so I ran out of tags. So I’m gonna continue it up here cause I don’t wanna rewrite all the tags:

But writing the words “maybe I won’t become a palaeontologist” caused me to burst into tears in class. I pushed through and kept writing to finish off the piece, but something in my heart had snapped like a twig.

I used short snappy sentences and repetition to show my anger, fear, frustration, and most importantly, my constant anxious thoughts that kept giving me anxiety attacks during tests. Telling me over and over again that I was never gonna make it. That I was stupid. That I’d never make it into university, let alone survive it.

This also, conveniently, was a motif in the text.

Anyways, a week or two later I got the grade back for that piece, and if I’m remembering right, it was pretty solid. But I didn’t… really care about that, which was very weird for me at the time. But for some reason I just wanted to have it back. Despite the pain I felt in writing that phrase, I felt an inexplicable urge to read it again. So, when I got it back, I tucked it away in my backpack.

That night, sitting at my desk, up too late, I pulled the pieces of looseleaf out of my bag, and read what I had wrote in full. Most of it was still just as visceral as when I had written it, and while it was emotional, it didn’t bring me to tears like it had before.

Until I read that phrase.

I sobbed for probably over an hour that night.

After that I made a consistent habit of digging out that piece, reading that line, and letting myself cry for a while whenever I was feeling hopeless about school or my future. And each time I did, it got a little easier to read. Slowly I was convincing myself that this wouldn’t be the end of the world, that things would be okay, that I would be okay.

And I think this was among the top 3 best things I ever did for myself. Along with going to my doctor about getting assessed for ADHD and a particular break up.

And now I keep journals with my most visceral of emotions in them, so that I can go back and read them over and over, and learn to accept how I feel, and my situation. I write prose and poems and unorganized swaths of thoughts and feelings. I draw, scratch and scribble with a shitty pen, with no care for beauty, just expression. (I did this a lot during anxiety attacks in my math quizzes and tests. I’ve lost most of them but I remember how much those made me feel too)

The idea is that if I keep writing and drawing these things, I’ll eventually come up with another of those twig-snapping phrases, or a visceral image, and I can look back on those and view them again and again, allowing me to process those emotions.

It’s cathartic and therapeutic, and I’m glad I learned to do it, all thanks to that shitty fucking chemistry test.

(GOD this ended up long, sorry lol)

So, okay, fun fact. When I was a freshman in high school… let me preface by saying my dad sent me to a private school and, like a bad organ transplant, it didn’t take. I was miserable, the student body hated me, I hated them, it was awful.

Okay, so, freshman year, I’m deep in my “everything sucks and I’m stuck with these assholes” mentality. My English teacher was a notorious hard-ass, let’s call him Mr. Hargrove. He was the guy every student prayed they didn’t get. And, on top of ALL OF THE SHIT I WAS ALREADY DEALING WITH, I had him for English.

One of the laborious assignments he gave us was to keep a daily journal. Daily! Not monthly or weekly. Fucking daily. Handwritten. And we had to turn it in every quarter and he fucking graded us. He graded us on a fucking journal.

All of my classmates wrote shit like what they did that day or whatever. But, I did not. No, sir. I decided to give the ol�� middle finger to the assignment and do my own shit.

So, for my daily journal entries, over the course of an entire year, I wrote a serialized story about a horde of man-eating slugs that invaded a small mining town. It was graphic, it was ridiculous, it was an epic feat of rebellion.

And Mr. Hargrove loved it.

It wasn’t just the journal. Every assignment he gave us, I tried to shit all over it. Every reading assignment, everyone gushed about how good it was, but I always had a negative take. Every writing assignment, people wrote boring prose, but I wrote cheesy limericks or pulp horror stories.

Then, one day, he read one of my essays to the class as an example of good writing. When a fellow student asked who wrote it, he said, “Some pipsqueak.”

And that’s when I had a revelation. He wanted to fight. And since all the other students were trying to kiss his ass, I was his only challenger.

Mr. Hargrove and I went head-to-head on every assignment, every conversation, every fucking thing. And he ate it up. And so did I.

One day, he read us a column from the Washington Post and asked the class what was wrong with it. Everyone chimed in with their dumbass takes, but I was the one who landed on Mr. Hargrove’s complaint: The reporter had BRAZENLY added the suffix “ize” to a verb.

That night I wrote a jokey letter to the reporter calling him out on the offense in which I added “ize” to every single verb. I gave it to Mr. Hargrove, who by then had become a friendly adversary, for a chuckle and he SENT IT TO THE REPORTER.

And, people… The reporter wrote back. And he said I was an exceptional student. Mr. Hargrove and I had a giggle about that because we both knew I was just being an asshole, but he and the reporter acknowledged I had a point.

And that was it. That was the moment. Not THAT EXACT moment, but that year with Mr. Hargrove taught me I had a knack for writing. And that knack was based in saying “fuck you” to authority. (The irony that someone in a position of authority helped me realize that is not lost on me.)

So, I can say without qualification that Mr. Hargrove is the reason I am now a professional writer. Yes, I do it for a living. And most of my stuff takes authorities of one kind or another to task.

Mr. Hargrove showed me my dissent was valid, my rebellion was righteous, and that killer slugs could bring a city to its knees. Someone just needs to write it.