#the dead shill for you

[kply-industries]

Tom and Jerry shill for Volkswagen.

[bitchfitch]

this is a stupid pet peeve but idk. 'Cooking is an art baking is a science ' is bullshit. you can follow a baking recipe step by step mirroring the original cook Exactly and still get a crap end result.

this is because your kitchen is not their kitchen. unless you live very close to them, their ingredients might be Radically different from yours even if they're technically the same thing. and worse of all. even if you're roommates. if they made their thing first the conditions will be different when you make yours.

like. baking is just ratios. ratio of starch to water to binder to leavener to etc etc.

But you have to include things like. ambient humidity and temperature and where the crop your flour is from was grown and what strain of yeast your using and when your starch was harvested and what the cows and chickens who provided the eggs and dairy were fed and what microbes exist in your environment and how thety hurt or aid flavor and rise time. like. You have to know how to account for the messy nature of reality and there is no formula for that. just repetition until you figure out the flow.

[y-rhywbeth2]

Hello! We haven't interacted a lot but I've seen links and lore stuff leading back here, lol

Potentially random question: off the top of your head, which books would have Calimshan content?

Bear in mind, my only experience with 2e is the original Baldur's Gate games, I briefly played some 3.5 around 15 years back but I got more mileage on that edition via the first Neverwinter Nights than my actual dnd groups because they were clowns, and then started playing again on 5e a few years ago after basically a decade long hiatus, so 5e is the edition I'm most fresh on. I still remember some shit off the old 3.5 Player's Handbook, have pirated Deities and Demigods because I love polytheistic pantheons, and then came across a third-party book called "The Calimshan Adventurer's Guide", but that's not official content... even the wiki on Calimshan is disappointingly sparse, and I do not really trust the wiki that much tbh.

Going with what little I had, I actually ran a 2-year long campaign based entirely in Calimshan, but I had to homebrew the fuck out of it... would love to get my hands on some actual lore lol. Any recs?

A lot of this might overlap or contradict and I make no promises as to quality (haven't read some of them in years), but: I know there is lore in Empire of the Sands (1e), Races of Faerûn (3.5e), and the Forgotten Realms Campaign Setting (3.5e). Calimport (2e) covers the capital. There's a bit of lore in Murder in Baldur's Gate but that's more about Little Calimshan and the recent refugee diaspora. A tiny bit of Spellplague-era lore from the Forgotten Realms Campaign Guide (4e). Empires of the Shining Sea should have 2e lore, as far as I know.

The Sword Coast Adventurer's Guide is so brief even by the usual standards of Calishite lore entries in the larger scope books that I might as well post it here:

'Calimshan. This southern land has long been the battleground for warring genies. After years of struggling beneath their genasi masters, human slaves arose to follow a Chosen of Ilmater, at first using nonviolent resistance, and then erupting into full rebellion following his disappearance. They overthrew the genie lords of Calimport and Memnon, casting the remaining genies out of the cities and back to their elemental homes or into the depths of the deserts. Much of Calimshan is a chaotic place dominated by wealth, political influence, and personal power. Many pray for the return of the Chosen and the completion of his work. Others are learning to live together without genie masters, and grudgingly accept the remaining genasi among them.'

[dailyfatefigures]

[dcxdpdabbles]

Hi!

I saw someone did an Ask about Damien and Danny knowing each other and just keeping in touch just not letting the Batfam know (was it Angel and Demon Brat or something?not sure).

What if we break some hearts,

We have big brother Danny who is dead (the big brother who told him it was okay to call others brother and that blood wasn't everything no matter what grandfather said), Tucker (or Sam or Jazz) just barely escaped Amity's destruction (maybe the GIW went nuclear on the city, maybe a ghost or demon finally got the better of Danny, maybe the portal need to be closed and Danny's life was the price, or maybe the city was already gone and Danny barely got Tucker and Dani out dealers choice) and tearful introduces Damien to his niece (Last last piece of the man he's spent countless lives thinking about, dreaming about and loving since his first life (I love Pharaoh/magically powerful Tucker)).

That got way more detail the more I was writing, haha... Oops 😳😬.

What do you think? Or just whatever pops into your mind. You do you, whatever you put out will be amazing!

There is loud, awful banging coming from the front door.

Or, to be more specific, there is someone banging on the door as hard as they can. At first, Alfred is wondering if he is imagining things. It was a rather quiet night for the bats to be out and about.

There was a storm that had blown through Gotham, driving everyone to take shelter. The howling winds and ran had left even the worst of scum chilled to their bones.

The bats were on their way home. Having called it a night after the third time, the wind had nearly caused two of them to fall while grappling across the city.

When he heard the noise, Alfred had just finished prepping the cave for post-patrol and went up to get everyone some warm clothes. He immediately went for one of the hidden guns around the manor.

Master Bruce was unaware of them, but Alfred had been able to hide the weapons since the lad was five years old.

Crouching low to the ground, he slowly approached one of the windows that overlooked the front door. Whoever had come knocking had somehow gotten past the first three levels of security.

Alfred leaned up only so one of his eyes could look over the window shill, keeping his back to the wall for easy push-off and the shotgun at the ready.

None of their motion detectors, video cameras, or heat vision cameras had detected the two standing figures on his porch. He couldn't see them clearly due to the water splashing against the glass, but it seemed like a man and a child.

Narrowing his eyes, Alfred leaned back down. He quickly pressed the side of his watch in three rapid clicks. At once, the signal that the manor may be compromised went out, alerting his returning family.

Alfred did not wait for a response from them. Instead, he threw himself on the ground, using the crawling technique taught to him by his years in Her Majesty's service to get closer to the door.

He trains the barrels at the wood, ignoring the desperate banging. Usually, he would have opened the door to question who they were, but it was nearly four in the morning, and he could have sworn that the man had been wearing a purple jacket and pantsuit.

In Gotham, that could only mean one thing. If the Joker was here, he would not live to see another sunrise. Alfred was done with that fool harming his family. Master Bruce's wishes be damned.

The only reason he didn't take the shot, for surely the bullets would pass through the aged wood, was that he had seen a more petite figure, too—a child.

He isn't sure who the child is—or if it is even a child—but he can't risk ending the Joker until he is sure the small;ler one is safe. Alfred had seen war many times in his military days; he did not want to force a child to live with them, too.

A few minutes pass when the banging sound starts to slow down, and there is nothing but silence. The wind contuines to howl. The rain continues to spray across the roof, and the lightning and thunder continue to roar.

Alfred feels his fingers strain with the urge to shoot but he keeps still ignoring everything until his watch beeps softly three times. Master Bruce and the children had arrived.

They must not have come through the cave, for he does not hear or sense an approach from anywhere inside the manor. A shadow overpasses him, causing Alfred to snap his gun in that direction until he registers it in the shape of a bat and quickly reaims towards the door.

He keeps himself perfectly still on the ground, even as he starts to hear faint curses, thumps, and a chilling little girl's scream. There is a moment of stillness before two figures fly through the wood—the child and the made-in-purple.

Alfred has a moment of surprise. It seemed the child was a meta before he pulled the trigger, aiming for the man's knees. His aim has not dulled with age, and the bullet sails true. Sadly, the little girl had faster reflections, making the faint glow surrounding her travel down her arm and to the man's body.

Their bodies become intangible as the bullet passes the man easily. Alfred frowns, reloading as he rolls over and swings himself to his feet.

The front door slams open as Master Bruce rushes in, followed by Master Damian. The two crime fighters slam into the strangers, somehow able to touch them when, seconds ago, metal couldn't.

Master Bruce flings the man to the wall, slamming him against one of the tables, while Master Damian has the girl in a painful hold. She thrashes and fails, but she can't get out, and Alfred wonders if her powers are limited.

Alfred trains the gun on the scene, keeping an eye on both Master Bruce and Master Damian at all times in case he needs to cover them.

"Who are you?" Master Bruce hisses, holding the purple suit man up by his collar. At this point, Alfred can see it is not Joker, for the stranger is far too young and has the wrong ethnicity.

"How did you find us?" the man gasps instead of answering, his eyes filled with tears. "The government wasn't supposed to find us here! Wayne was supposed to be safe!"

Alfred doesn't allow his brow to raise, but it's a darn thing. It didn't sound like they were here to do any harm, but one could never be too careful.

"Why are you after Wayne?"

"Don't tell him anything!" The little girl screeches, rainwater mixing with the blood dripping down her face. Master Damian had not been gentle when he slammed her against the ground. He was likely worried about Alfred. "We aren't afraid of you, GIW scum!"

"GIW?" Master Damian repeats. "Who or what are they?"

Both strangers freeze. "You're not with them?"

Master Bruce remains silent, and for one tense moment, Alfred wonders if the other man has passed out from the way he slumps in his old ward's hold.

"You're not with them. Thank the Ancients." The man gasps. He suddenly reaches out, grabbing Master Bruce in a craze of desperation. "My daughter. She's in danger. Please get her to Damian Wayne. Danny said he could protect her. Please... please help us."

His strength fades, and the man finally does fall unconscious, his hold on Master Bruce's slipping as he faints. The little girl screams- it doesn't sound human at all, and the noise likely started Master Damian's reflection, for the boy is quickly slamming onto her back, knocking her out, too.

Alfred finally lowers his weapon as the lightning flashes again, followed by loud thunder. He waits a few minutes before creeping towards Master Bruce.

The other is checking the stranger, mouth pulled into a tight, thin line once they spot that underneath the purple outfit, there are multiple wounds. Burns, cuts, and bruises decorate the dark skin of the stranger.

It's easy to see he escaped from somewhere abusive.

A gutted gasp from Master Damian has them swinging around, Alfred with his gun raised and Master Bruce with one of his batarangs at the ready. Instead of seeing the youngest being attacked, they find Damian staring in horror at the amulet he is holding.

The chain is still around the girl's neck as she was flipped onto her back- likely the lad was also checking her for wounds. Alfred can't see much but he can tell she may be just as wounded as the man.

"What is it, Robin" Master Bruce growls.

There is silence from the Katana user until one single tear rolls down from underneath the boy's mask over his cheek. He looks up at them with the most devastated expression Alfred has ever seen as he whispers.

"She bares my older brother's mark. Father, I think she's family."

"What, brother?" Master Bruce asks. "You never mentioned a brother before."

"He died.....years ago, but if Todd returned, then my brother...I left my kind-hearted brother in my Grandfather's grasp. I left him..."

The lighting flashes behind Master Damian's form, highlighting the devastation on his expression, and Alfred is filled with confusion, horror, and worry faster than the thunder can catch up.

Master Bruce's face loses all emotion- the coping mechanism Alfred had seen him use since the day he was found in that alley by the cold bodies- and growls. "To the cave. I want answers."

[agoodflyting]

Why Aziraphale's White Satin Pumps Are Ridiculous (And I love them)

So this is a continuation of the lengthy rant I posted here about Aziraphale's outfit in the Bastille scene of GO and all the ways it would have pissed people in Revolutionary Paris off. I got to the shoes and realized they needed their own post.

Aziraphale's Blessed Little White Satin Pumps

To recap: in 1793, Paris is in control of The People, who are making up for decades of oppression and poverty by beheading the fuck out of everyone remotely nobility-adjacent. And into this mess strolls one Angel in white satin heels.

Some facts about this style of shoe:

The buckle means they're specifically court shoes as opposed to streetwear. Buckles were out of fashion unless you were hanging out with royalty and needed to look fancy. Everyday shoes had laces by this point.

This heel style for men is specifically called Louis Heels because they were popularized by Louis XVI. Y'know... the king Paris just beheaded in 1793. Here's a pair in a similar style from the late 18th century:

One big difference you may notice in Aziraphale's shoes and the ones above is that the ones above are normal, practical leather whereas Aziraphale is wearing white satin shoes. This is because Aziraphale is ridiculous.

The Allure of White Satin Shoes

In this modern world of laundry machines and affordable shoes I feel that people do not fully understand how absolutely over-the-top ridiculous a pair of white satin shoes would be to people in 1793.

First off lets address the fact that they're white:

If you have ever known anyone who was super into sneakers, you know that keeping white shoes white is a full-time job. It was even more so in the 18th century. The fact that Aziraphale is wearing perfectly clean white shoes says one thing: "I am rich enough to be able to pay someone to clean these, and to replace them when they invariably get stained."

And they would get stained. Oh would they get stained.

Because he is not wearing them for their intended function - lazing around indoors. No, he is wearing them on the streets of 18th Century Paris. And 18th Century Paris was fucking disgusting.

Kind of like how London had its famed London Smog, Paris had its own brand of filth. A unique Parisian muck made up of mixtures of mud, offal from the slaughterhouses, animal waste, human waste, household garbage, and rotting dead animals, all mashed down into what a British visitor called, "A thick, black, unctuous oil, that where it sticks no art can wash it off."

Voltaire said: "We blush with shame to see the public markets, set up in narrow streets, displaying their filth, spreading infection, and causing continual disorders…" and called Paris a city, "Partly of gold and partly of muck."

This is a city with over a million people, with no central plumbing, and no public sanitation laws. Households threw their waste in the streets. Businesses like tanneries and slaughterhouses threw their waste right out into the streets. Horses were the main mode of transportation and nobody was cleaning up after them. It was apparently a thriving hustle that Parisian beggars would hang out in the worst areas with big pieces of wood, and charge wealthy people money to walk on the board over the worst puddles of filth.

That's where Aziraphale is wearing his pristine little white satin shoes. In a city so gross it has its own world-renowned stinking black mud.

And on the subject of those shoes, lets look at the satin part... By the 18th Century, France was no longer dependent on Asia for its silk and satin. There was domestic production, but it was still expensive. A book about the cost of living published in London in 1770 lists the price for a single yard of satin at just over 18 shillings. For comparison, here are some other things you could get for 18 shillings in London at the time:

two box seats at Covent Garden

six barrels of oysters

a really nice wig

a week's wages for a skilled tradesman

15 steak dinners

3 secondhand coats So the outer fabric alone on Aziraphale's shoes cost what it would take a skilled worker about a week to make. Again, that's just for the fabric. Since the shoes themselves were high quality, would be handmade, and required skilled labor, the shoes themselves would be expensive even without the satin. In 1788 a pair of leather gentleman's court shoes cost about 6 livres in France. By comparison, a pound of bread, which was considered a day's food for a peasant, cost roughly 10 sous. So we'll roughly estimate that Aziraphale's shoes without the satin cost the equivalent of 12 days worth of food for an average person.

And, I cannot stress this enough, he is wearing these white shoes, which could easily feed an entire family for weeks, in a city that is abso-fucking-lutely filthy with stinking, staining, sticky mud.

Aziraphale's shoes, probably:

I mean - imagine you're a normal everyday French peasant during the Revolution. You spend decades struggling to feed your family, and some dingbat walks up to you in white court shoes styled after the king you just executed. Shoes that cost more than you make in a month, which he is wearing around your notoriously filthy city with apparently 0 fucks given for the fact that they will be absolutely ruined and will have to be thrown away. (Obviously Aziraphale could just miracle them clean but you're a revolutionary peasant, you don't know that.)

And then this walking audacity asks you for cake.

Aziraphale, hon, you are so lucky they decided to try to execute you and not just like. jump your dumb ass in an alley and steal your pretty little white satin shoes.

[melefim]

Dead Boy Detectives- Moves, Incidents, and Cases Masterlist

Do you like lists? So do I! For my last Dead Boy Detectives Rewatch, I copied down every Move, Incident, and Case mentioned or seen onscreen in the show!

All are listed below, with the episode number in parentheses after each one.

(Two cases, Niko Sasaki and the Devlin House, appear in more than one category. For each listing, the number shows the first time it appeared in that category, which is not necessarily the same episode the case itself appeared in)

Full lists after the cut- As always, enjoy and please let me know if I missed anything!

Moves:

The Old Bait & Matchbook Gambit (1)

The Old Die & Go Seek Maneuver (3)

The Old Run For Our Lives Maneuver (3)

The Old Poke & Prod (6)

The Crystal Method (rejected names: The Esther Bester, Crystal Shroom Persuasion) (6)

The Old Shill & Dash Play (7)

Incidents:

The Infamous Puppy Debacle of ’94 (1)

The Great Chewing Gum Debacle of ’06 (2)

The Great Fenwick Pixie Escape of ’07 (5)

Past cases:

The Case of the Shrieking Doll (1)

The Case of the Drowned Diver (4)

The Case of the Ghastly Greenhouse (6)

Port Townsend potential case board:

Evil Seagull/ Severed Foot (3)

Astral Plane Crash (3)

Phantom Migraine (3)

Bedeviled Teacher (3)

Shrieking Secretary (3)

Disembodied Dog (3)

Haunted Painting (3)

Possessed Fireman (3)

Case of the Devlin House (3)

Phantom Yodeler (6)

Undead Milkman (6)

Doppelganger Gang (6)

Sentient Pants (6)

Restless Piano Syndrome (6)

Sticky Cricket Wicket (6)

Gargoyle in Garage (6)

Active cases:

Drowning victim who can’t move on without his boat (6)

Banker needs his lucky coin (6)

Cases solved during the show:

Museum Haunting (1)

Crystal Palace (1-8)

Becky Aspen (1)

Dandelion Sprites/Niko Sasaki (2)

Haunted Painting (told client how to break curse himself) (3)

Devlin House (3)

Lighthouse Leapers (4)

Two Dead Dragons (5)

Creeping Forest (6)

Cards on the office case board:

Museum Haunting (1)

Niko Sasaki (8)

The Devlin House (8)

Run Ragged Dogs (8)

That Thing We Couldn’t [rest of card out of frame] (8)

Sundevil Slip (8)

Solved cases mentioned by The Principal:

The Devlins (8)

The Vernons (8)

Moy Fitzgibbons (8)

The Jollity Twins (8)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And if you like lists of things like I do, you can check out my other Dead Boy Detective ones here!

When Charles’ shirt color changes

George Rextrew’s Edwin comic inspo board

Soundtrack timestamps

Swearing Stats Masterlist

First pass at finding where the songs in the score are used- full post with timestamps in progress.

[bubblergoespop]

My Top Fool!Milo Quotes

i need more of this man now (yes i know we’re probably never gonna hear from him again) @qhoaaaa here’s your man :))

“Boo!”

“Sweet lips.”

“My little Stealth.”

“But you have no idea what I’m talking about, you’ve never heard of magic, what’s a “Vampire”, isn’t that something from a movie, unnhhh.”

“More inhale.”

“Oh this is my lucky night, bitch.”

“Oh, I know I’m close. You’re welcome.”

“So you flops can just give up already.”

“Your adrenaline’s pumping so hard I can literally taste it on the air. I’m not even touching. I’m just looking, and your heart’s already pounding this bad.”

“Excuse me? I’ll say fuck as much as I fucking want to, thank you very fucking much, fuck you, how’s that?”

“You should try some deep breaths, sweetness.”

“I know I look good, but I shouldn’t have to be the last thing you see.”

“Oh don’t you look surly. Whatsa matter sweet cheeks?”

“How in god’s name did I just end up on babysitting duty for a Department shill? God if Dmitri finds out about this I’m getting my ass handed to me. Hell, if Porter finds out about this, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“No that’s not a Vampire power, that’s a me power.”

“I hate to be the voice of reason cause that shit’s boring as all hell.”

“Don’t try me, Sweetheart, I’m not that fucking soft.”

“Those wet blanket fuck boysup at the Department sent you into shit this deep on your first day?”

“He’s dead. He crossed the Talbot Pack, and they’re friends of the House. So we wiped him. Poof. Head gone. Actually, most of his limbs gone.”

“Snap, crackle, pop.”

“Let me share a little secret with you, Sweetheart. Look at me. Look at this face. Look at this body. People beg me to feed on them. The day I have to trance someone or force someone to get blood, is the day up is down and left is right.”

“Now that I know you’re not some dyed-in-the-wool Department peon, I can focus on your other, far more appealing traits. And it just so happens they do appeal. A lot.”

“What’s this? The lovely little investigator is gonna take a walk on the wild side? Be still my heart.”

“Okay well I’m gonna touch now, you’re literally falling over.”

“What, I’m supposed to whisk you away in my arms? You gotta earn that, baby.”

[running-with-kn1ves]

BELONGINGS

Orc x Kidnapped human reader (Gender neutral)

A/N: Literally NO ONE asked for this but I kept seeing all those shrek/swamp romance tiktoks and got inspired to do some orc stuff. Man I love orcs... like big dumb bugs personified. (also ignore the experimental latin pet names idk what im doing)

CW: Kidnapping, forceful holding, arson, raiding, kind of just angst fluff?

Word count: 2600

You knew the excitement of your life would never move past the blandness of day-in day-out work to survive, not as one without any bestowed or taught brow-raising talents that could lift you away from the mundane daily life you held in the wispy fields of the woodlands. 

As a realist you concurred that you’d never be the breadwinner in your family, maybe not the strongest when hauling crops, or the smartest when it came to solving passed down arithmetic equations from your cousins’ old school books. But as a child you always took comfort in the thought ‘at least I won’t be chained down, won’t be tied to some ugly pig farmer for a couple shillings.’ Your family valued you that much; well-- your working hands, that much. ‘One more body is one more mouth to feed’ you were told time and time again, but you pulled your weight and then some. 

You had little time to think outside of planting, weeding, bathing and eating. Meals and getting rid of the dirt covering your soles that you were scolded for after hours of being in the damp pastures were the only down time you had to yourself, not surrounded by the screaming nieces and nephews you were expected to take care of when the elder of your family members eventually passed from whatever disease ran rampant in the village the coming winter. You prepared your life, prepared for taking care of others and continuing your hard work in growing what you needed to survive, and selling what you didn’t. 

Unfortunately, that humdrum future was wiped out by swirling flames and the braying of stallions of mountainous size. They came in, trampling the greening cranberry bush you were planning to keep all to yourself, and the cabbages your family would have relied on for meals for the next two months before winter fell. 

Persimmon trees were burnt to crispy thorned stumps, the lush of your family’s acres now shredded to flecks of dead grass and muddy hoof prints, along with humanoid footsteps far too large to resemble any of the humans or disfigured hybrids in your teensy rural hamlet. Who were these unwelcomed strangers, the enormous creatures of the night that disrupted the only human civilization for miles around? You remained clueless for the entirety of being ripped out of your bed, continuing to be hauled over some olive-colored shoulder and thrown into a sack on the back of a wagon. 

“This one.” You heard, right before your dirty finger nails were pulled away from your twin beds fading sheets you desperately tried to keep. You had even managed to bring a small, lumpy pillow along with you, the creature that slung you over their shoulder leaving no assumption of a notice. You witnessed the still-burning remnants of your frail thatched home, as the silhouette of a muscular man lowered a flamed stick to its leftovers. 

The entirety of the bumpy ride to wherever your captors were bringing you to, you could only think of the fires holding onto the greenery of your land, of the dirt and rubble and smoke that clawed at your feet when you tripped into the wagon, burnt air choking you as a baby screamed out for its mother. 

Hours must’ve passed before you were brought into this musky, dank room with other fading faces from your village, but it only felt like a few moments ago that you heard the crackling of a fiery tree crushing rows of perking crops. 

The snapping of fingers nearly as grimy as your own blocked your recollection of clouded smoke and angry flames, bringing your attention back to the leather hut you sat domestically within. It was damp and dark inside, the light of torches outside being the only form of light. That, and the reflection of the metal on the warrior in front of you. He turned back, thumbing toward you as he looked at a similar creature.

“Agh, its no use, practically fucking deaf this one. Sure you don’t want one of the mothers?” 

The other orc slapped his fellow warrior on the shoulder with a hearty laugh. 

“No, my friend. Besides, sweet things’ only other option is Brutus. Don’t think he could last with one of these poor creatures without splitting it in two; ‘specially this one.” 

You were suddenly and acutely aware of the orcs conversation, now that your fate was being so clearly decided in front of you. 

The first, far sootier orc patted his fellow brethren on the chest as he turned away with a look that showed he was hardly convinced. Yet, he still walked out of the tented hut, ducking slightly to fit under it. 

You watched him leave, feeling a sense of relief as the threat had been removed. And yet, there was still one so prevelantly in front of you. 

“Hey there.” A guttural, almost faltering voice murmured to you. 

Eyes growing wide, you gripped harder onto the smushed pillow in your lap, instinctively leaning your upper body backward to get away from the orcish face right in front of you. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” The orc gruffed, falling to a crouch as he watches you slide to the edge of the hut’s leather wall. “Just wanna see you up close.”

He consumed the entirety of your fearful attention, his existence like a heavy weight in the room as the quiet tension aimed at him. You pushed your head painfully against a wood pole behind the leather walls, trying to morph your body any distance away that would provide you a miniscule fraction of comfort. But none came, especially not when a sudden warm finger pushed into your cheek. The green thumb pulled your upper lip, showing the ends of your teeth. Your other cheek smushed into your eye as the orc did the same to the other side, observing your poor excuse for chompers compared to his large, well-groomed tusks. 

“Guess these’ll do. You can atleast chew meat, right?” he pulled your jaw open gently, making your lips part. “Don’t wanna have to feed you like a baby bird; though, that wouldn’t be the worst of troubles.” 

You slapped his hand away, grimacing at the idea of being fed by this beast-creature. 

“I can eat perfectly fine.” You grumble, noticing how stiff the orcs arm was, still holding out beside your face as it rests dejected. “What does that matter, aren’t you going to eat me anyway?”

You keep a frown on your face, glaring up at the crouched brute. 

He let out a hearty laugh, those around you turning away from their miserable memories to face the strident disturbance. 

“So cute, as if you’d be enough to feed an orcling!” He let out another chestful of a laugh, grabbing at your cheek this time with a pinch. “My little to-be spouse, I knew you’d be worth the trouble.”

Wincing in pain, your fingers came up to try and pry his rough, printless thumb off your salty skin. 

“So adorable,” He throatily squealed, dragging you closer by the cheek to stumble into his chest. The only thing covering the caverned flesh of deep holes and ravined slices in his skin were straps of bull leather, and the furs of cottontails sewn to form a thin shawl around his bulky shoulders. 

He smelled of a foreign musk, the slight piquant scent of his skin being swallowed in by your nostrils as your lips smushed against the dip in the middle of his chest. Something sharp poked into the side of your face as you were held tightly against the orc, making you muffle against him to let you go. 

“You’re right you’re right; we should have some privacy-- and you, should get a chance to see your new home. My home.” He huffed against your ear, humid breath making your neck sweat as tusks touched the top of your head. “Name’s Xerxes, don’t forget it-- make sure you tell it to any orcs that try n’ talk to you.”

“Wait now--” Your aimed attempt of protesting was cut wrongly short by the sudden grab of your ankles, Xerxes beginning to stand back up as he dragged you with him. Before you knew it you were upside down, hollering as fat fingers made their way around your tibia. A shoulder jutted into your soft stomach, throat heaving as Xerxes began to move. You saw your lone pillow left on the ground, growing farther away as the large legs belonging to your captor moved from below your vision.

With every huge step he took, the harsh necklaces of teeth (which you prayed belonged to animals) dug into your side-- huh, so that must’ve been what was scraping against your face earlier. They clinked together as he walked, his body so rigid and unorthodox that he made a sound whenever he moved, whether it be a snorted grunt or the stomp from his feet, or the shift of his clothes and sheathed weapons. 

Xerxes didn’t open the leather flap of the hut sahe carried you out, walking straight as it brushed across your head. You shut your eyes in an unavoidable flinch, but the orc hardly noticed as he adjusted you on his shoulder, grabbing right below your thighs to hold you steady. 

The brilliant idea of beating and scratching his back enough to get free was so enticing you were on the brink of trying it-- but the orc standing outside the hut you just left, the unfamilliar darkness of the grasslands surrounding you, made you think twice. 

And just like that, your world spun and you were tossed inside what must’ve been another tent, a blur of oranges from fiery torches and grey browns of animal hide entering your vision. Something soft hit your back as you let out an ‘oof!’ from the depths of your chest. 

You scrambled to get back up, alert now that you were thrown in some different environment. But as you clambered to look around, whipping your head from side to side, all you saw were reddish walls of leather and two warm torches, along with the occasional spread of a map or a scribed foreign language.

This tent was much smaller than the last, not meant for a community to rest in. Instead, it was about the snug and spacious size of a room for only one to sleep in. The softness of hairs touched your palms, layers upon layers of furs covering beneath you to create a small lump of a warm, makeshift bed. 

“Look at this,” An excited, guttural voice begged of you. “Been keeping it since forever; saw it in some… abandoned goblin grotto, once. Couldn’t help but take it with me as a memento. As soon as I saw it, I just knew it’d be the perfect gift for my future amasiuncula.”

You could taste the lie on your tongue, as if it was thick in the air once he spoke it. Orcs didn’t just ‘find’ things, the destruction of your teensy village showed you that much. But that didn’t matter, not when the piercing blue of a silk fabric dazzled at you. Why, you had never seen something so plush in your life. It was surely just a base blanket-like piece likely once spooled for the future of becoming some sort of clothing or undergarment; it was still so silkenly smooth nonetheless. Your fingers traced the perfect fabric, its sensation nothing you had ever felt in your years of living as a farming peasant. The softest thing you’d ever touched were the baby calfs your far neighbors had bred into existence. 

“See how soft it is?” Xerxes said with a slight sputter, bringing the silk to your cheek. “Like a cloud… it’s yours. My engagement present.”

You looked back up at him bewildered. “Engagement?” 

“A present. Orc tradition is to offer a gift of richness; the wealthiest thing I could get my hands on.” He covered you in the silk, wrapping your shoulders in it as he pulled you from the furs to his bare lap. You would’ve resisted given the chance, but the orc smugly kept the silk around your arms, bringing the other side of it to wrap around you, pulling it tight; you could hardly move yourself now, shoved in this warm softness of a cocoon; it frightened you. But the tusks pressed against your cheek, chewed lips touching your temple as a tongue gently poked out to swiftly press against your skin, made you fear something else more. “Always wanted a human..” The orc exhaled, audibly sniffing in the scent of your hair. “Been looking for a good once for a while now. One that’ll be nice and docile, a sweet little foal for me to enjoy--” 

You slid your arms against the suffocating silk that was beginning to build heat. “I don’t think i’m what you’re looking for, besides I’m not--”

“Oh but you are,” Xerxes cut you off, leaning his orcish face close to yours to make you look at him. “So.. soft, your skin is like obsidian smoothed and frosted by the tumbling of waves of the sea, so polished and spotted I can’t help but want to keep it in between my fingers.”

Beads hung low by his neck, attached to rings of metal that pierced large holes in his pointed ears. The black and silver balls that dangled would jingle when he moved his head to get a better look at you, along with the wire and metal ornaments wrapped around the braids in his hair. Despite the undercut he fashioned (that you could see better now), a great mane of thick brown hair traveled to his shoulders, tickling your neck as he squeezed you closer. You felt almost like a baby, swaddled and pressed close to his large beating heart that thumped against your shoulder. 

“And oh your dainty little fingers and toes, when I saw them peeking from your bedsheets I knew grabbing them with would be no mistake.”

The orc nuzzled into you with his flat nose, warmth spreading against your cheeks as his sunken face created friction. You always sort of thought your fingers were quite round, your toes a little mishappen, but compared to him, your entirety was merely like a child’s straw doll’s. 

“I don’t want to marry you!” You blurted, freezing as the orc kept himself nestled against you. “I wanna go home, I want to go back to my bed and forget this-- I'm not some little trinket to mate with!"

Xerxes gave you a look. It was so smushy, an embarrassed grin like some pubescent boy watching his crush undress. It was perverted, so snickeringly crude as he bit his lip at the word "mate."

Ahh, he heard his fellow warriors, his chief in command even, discuss their "mates" with lustful wonder and candied eyes that danced with images of their beloved, their spouse. He had never had a person, never had a soft warm thing at night to hold, for him to bully himself into; it was hard to contain the joy inside of him, even with your rapid repeating of "no no no!"

"Mate…" He repeated. 

"I said NOT to--"

"But you said it; and now… I can't get it out of my head, dulcis." Xerxes was snug against your wiggling chest, pressing his freckled cheek against yours to make your lips pucker. He was unbelievably, fiery warm, with a heat under his skin that you wondered was just a layer of embers. 

The mixture of the orcs body heat and the humid equinox night made sweat cling to your dirty skin, the satin coddling you now feeling stickier.  “Now, I s’pose its time we get you looking like a proper orc, smelling like one too. Like me,” Xerxes pressed his tusked mouth below your ear, protruding lips pressing a deep, slightly nipping kiss to below the corner of your jaw. “Get rid of this disgusting… exhilarating human stench.”

[wufflesvetinari]

ok fine, wyllstarion rec list

the demons bade me write this. i have a lot of Thoughts and Feelings and a fabulous bookmarks list. come with me....and you'll be.......in a world of pure wyllstarion nation

note that this is like. an intermediate/advanced, 201-level list. i am trusting you, and assume you've already read asidian's body of work. you've read nothing is safe. you're reading Nothing Like the Sun &etc. Really anything that appears on the first two pages when sorting by bookmarks/kudos is disqualified due to pre-recognized excellence. (you could, however, go read them again)

are you back? good. now read:

"We Happy Few" - @geometea. listen to me. listen. i am looking deeply into your eyes. read this fucking fic. it's hard to shill without spoiling anything, BUT: wyll is a still-pacted grand duke. he used to have a bunch of unresolved romantic tension with astarion and now hasn't spoken to him for 15 years. now take that premise and add body horror, beautiful ominous surreal images, and SURPRISE BIG EMOTIONS. just trust me on this one, guys

"Crossed Blades" - @rebelontherocks. this is a...i think i have to call this a cozy sex romp. wyll and astarion are married, wyll is a busy duke, astarion needs more enrichment, astarion invents a very silly sex game by roleplaying teenage-wyll's smut books. wyll is So Deeply Into It. i love this fic for its characterization, its banter, and its commitment to paralleling character psychology to what sounds like an absolutely wild in-universe smut series (that is sketched with an impressive amount of detail and care tbh??).

"Comfort" - @acephalouscreature. short and sweet. wyll is injured and everyone expects astarion to take care of him. luckily, astarion has a dastardly plan to fake feelings for wyll by thinking about his feelings for wyll. you sure fooled them, astarion!! also featuring: astarion trying to figure out how to comfort someone by thinking about horses

"False Compare" - @jellyfishline. i'd recommend checking out their work generally, but i fell in love with this one first. wyll writes a sonnet! astarion is mean about it until he isn't! deeply in-character with an emphasis on how each of them communicates affection. gorgeous prose

"how to escape the torment nexus" - @ushauz. this series is incredibly unique, set in a fucked-up bad end where wyll is a lemure, astarion is still on the run from cazador, and almost everyone else is dead. where this really shines imo is wyll's POV: he's been through literal hell, doesn't remember his life, and is wading through his unconscious attachment to astarion like a foreign language. (side note also read Heart of Stone for a great lae'zel character piece)

"An Acorn in the Moonlight" - @anonyhex. this is one of the first wyllstarion fics i ever read and it has a special place in my heart!! it's particularly cathartic to read for Wyll reasons, including him actually getting to Have Emotions about what Ulder put him through. and they are so sweet with each other!!

"temporal displacement" - @purplecatghostposts. ok this came out like. yesterday but listen, i LOVE outsider pov of an astarion who's learned to show affection somewhat, seen from the eyes of someone who doesn't know his history and has no reason to suspect All Of That. and when that "outsider" is a dying 20-year-old wyll who just saw astarion step out of a time portal. well.

"nothing to make a song about" - @grey-wardens. for when you want something meaty and casefic-adjacent, set in a post-canon where wyll is the blade and not the duke (for once). contains bonding on the road, getting romantically snowed in together, and Symbolic Fetch-Quests.

i am also watching closely: "One of Those Prince-Types" by @lesbianralzarek and "sigh no more" by @tomorrowsrain. both are one chapter in and promise to be meaty, with execution that already feels very very promising

SPECIAL MENTION TO "Like Death (or Birth)" by The_Dancing_Walrus, which has some fraught implied background wyllstarion and is just generally completely baller. astarion kind-of sort-of accidentally adopts yenna, who got fucked up by her time as a potential sacrifice to bhaal. it works! i promise it works

[kply-industries]

[when-sanpape-arts]

Postmortem: Chapter 3

“A shilling for a fortune told!—” a young voice calls out from a little side street. “You sir— yes! You with the eyepatch. You look like you need some insight—” The young woman sits at a low table adorned with trinkets from the far lands. She’s shrouded in darkness, lit only by candles melted down to stubs. The Gor-goroth sigil she’d carved into her skin all those years ago is now a faint, silvery scar. There’s no mistaking it. Daan stops dead in his tracks, “Marina?”.

[itstimetojellyfish]

I’ll hold you if no one will . ( Dan Heng x reader)

This is another post! Critical advice is welcomed! And it’s sorta long!

It’s…. Been a long day ….. from fighting Mara- struck to dealing with entitled people trying to gas light you into doing something you don’t want to . Nevertheless, you still help people .

It’s a good way to forget . All the memories of the past , essentially, everything . You don’t want to remember. You’d rather feel safe and warm instead of reminiscing the times where the so-called friends you had left you for dead .

So , you keep to yourself and never reveal a single thing about your past , it was a defense mechanism to you . Also , to further ensure you never have to look back on the past , you read books , taking in tons of information, hoping you’ll finally forget every single thing.

It doesn’t work , but it helps you stall time and helps you get lost in an imaginary world where no one would judge you .

Now don’t get it wrong , you love the astral express and its inhabitants, including the fluffy , bunny-like conductor ! But

This is sensitive information that’s really hard to open up to people . So , you stay away and hide who you used to be underneath a bubbly and happy mask .

Because of how often you read , you find yourself in the archives half of the time , Dan Heng , the guard of the astral express, lives there , and dutifully writes down information.

On multiple occasions you interact with him , though most of the time he just listens to you and occasionally hums an acknowledgment.

Soon enough , you’ve formed a bond and he allows you to barge into the archives whenever you like .

Today was not your day . From people trying to guilt trip you to having the people of the past haunt your mind as you constantly try to forget .

At night , the nightmares come . Haunting laughs and shill screams echo in your mind as you toss and turn , trying to get the noise out of your mind .

However , the effort you put in is fruitless. So you tumble out of bed , put on some casual clothes and head out of your room to the archives at 10 pm .

When you open the door , Dan Heng isn’t there , he’s probably just collecting data then . So you plop yourself down in a corner and curl up in a ball .

You take some books from the shelf and start to read , but the voices progressively get worse and soon enough it was too much to handle .

Everything seems to hate you at this point . Fat droplets drip down your cheeks as you start to cry . Why was everyone out for your blood right now?….

In midst of your crying , the door creaked open and you came face to face with Dan Heng . Your eyes widen as you scramble to compose yourself and wipe away your tears . You stare at each other for a while , but then Dan Heng breaks the silence .

Starring at your disheveled state , he asks in a gentle tone. “ Are …. You okay?…. You seem sleep deprived and you look like you were crying earlier….”

You look down and sniff . “ I’m sorry for disturbing you….”

He stares at you for a bit before kneeling down to your height and asking you ,” Did you have a nightmare?”

You look up at him before nodding sheepishly. “ it’s fine though!”

Before you could argue about your feelings any longer he gathers you into his arms and starts to cradle you as if your porcelain.

This triggers something on you as more painful memories rush back full force . Tears fall down your face , how long has it been since someone held you like this? Actually, how long has it been since someone affectionately touched you?…

As you begin to sob , Dan Heng gently rubs your back and continues to shush you , calming you down and letting your emotions out , he doesn’t pet about what troubles you , only lets you know he’s there for you as he hold you close to him .

You let out all your emotions and thought and everything about you and how your friends didn’t feel like friends when they left you for dead and used you as a meat shield .

You didn’t notice it in midst of your crying but as more and more information tumbled out of your mouth , his expression got darker and darker , with his teal eyes glowing softy.

Soon enough , your tear ducts are dry and you begin to tire out . You curl into him , and he lets you , cradling your figure even tighter . You making a mental note to thank him when you wake .

When you’re fast asleep , a tail curls around your waist and the fluffy end gently caresses your face , careful not to wake you up . Dan Heng gently presses his forehead against yours , nuzzling you as his more draconic instincts show .

“….. I won’t let anyone hurt you again, you’ll be safe in my arms and if anyone does try to harm you . They won’t see daylight again .“ He whispers to you , gently rocking you back and forth .

Nobody will hurt you . He vows his life upon it .

[infrared135-36]

the zoomers playing gachas now get so defensive and aggressive over them compared to what I remember from the early to mid 2010s. I see so many people saying “well Y is a gacha but you totally don’t need to spend like Z gacha! It’s more like a live service!”, or “X gacha fans try playing a gacha that actually respects you like Y!” I see this all the time for people shilling shit like Arknights or Limbus Company. Please for the love of god can we get back to the point where everyone can recognize creating a game in the gacha genre is inherently exploitive. I’m not saying this to shame anyone who plays them because I don’t really give a shit, of course there’s pedo-pandering heavy games like blue archive and increasingly FGO that I wish would EoS but that’s a different discussion. If these “nice” gachas wanted to be “buy an update a month” or whatever live service games, they would have been. It doesn’t matter if you think they’re nice about it, they made these games specifically to be gachas because they make a shit ton of money. In one single “dead” month for Limbus Company they basically made the same amount of money that the entire Pathologic 2 kickstarter made for example. And this is even after alienating half their fanbase pulling that incel shenanigans shit.

You don’t need to defend their money grubbing asses even if idk you see the game as an inherent aspect of who you are and your identity so anyone criticizing the game itself is as if they’re criticizing you as a person, which, because of the growth of SNS sites especially since covid, I think a chunk of this is. I don’t think that makes these games unable to tell interesting and moving stories or have lovable characters - on the contrary, they have to make sure gacha-original characters will be pulled for, so they invest a lot of time into their appeal, even embarrassingly having them break the 4th wall and directly say this is the case like in FGO. However every single character design and story has to be created under the gacha framework and the unrelenting need to appeal to their userbase. Why do you think there’s a lot of “badass old men” designs in FGO but after 8 years there’s not one single woman with even the whisper a wrinkle? Why did they change Frankenstein’s berserker screams to be a cute anime girl voice? Why do many of the male Arknights characters have detailed, shaded and distinguished facial features while most of the female cast has the classic anime bug eyes, dot nose and line mouth, especially with the full animal-faced characters?

It’s like many entertainment industries where the characters must have mass appeal but on steroids because you’re not paying to buy the game, you’re paying for the 1% chance of getting the character, so the game lives or dies based on their appeal. I don’t even mean this in a sanctimonious “therefore don’t play them” way, there are “traditional” video game companies pulling stupid, damaging and illegal shit all the time, gacha is not the one single evil thing within the industry. I would just like to see recognition about what you’re playing. It’s a gacha game. Yes even Limbus Company is made to have you gamble, that’s literally the reason there’s daily log in incentives and a gacha currency…. It doesn’t matter if you think these games are nice or fair to you. They’re gacha games, they were made to make money from you first and foremost. Keep skeptical about what they do, you don’t need to jump in and defend their practices just because you like the game.

[st-el-la-luna]

Call of the Valley {Call of Duty x Reader/Stardew Valley AU｝

Prologue: Grey

➔ gn!reader ("you"/"your" pronouns used), thoughts of violence, mentions of death

no character introductions yet, just some world building. unedited

Series masterlist!

next

997 words

Grey walls. Grey ceilings. Grey floors. Grey desks. 

Everywhere you look is grey. From the meticulously lined cubicles to the desks lacking any personalization. From the uncomfortable chairs to the equally as uncomfortably sticky floors. From the company provided coffee mug to the company provided calendar. From your coworker's outfit (you swear that sweater used to be blue) to the contents of your lunch. 

It’s all grey. 

You sigh as you push around the mushy overcooked rice on your desk before you. In the silence of the office, you might as well have fired a gun, the sound a stark contrast to the usual deadness. The only sounds typical of this purgatory you call work are the tap-tap-tapping of keys and the clicking of mouses. Plus, the occasional beep of the microwave, or slam of the fridge door (you swear that fridge has been here longer than any employee. The way the lightbulb buzzes when you open the door sounds like a cry for help. A plea for you to end its decades-long misery. You, of course, don’t. If you must suffer, then so too must the fridge). 

Someone clears their throat from the entry of your cubicle. You turn away from your sad little lunch to find your sad little supervisor. Who, surprise, surprise, is dressed in, you guessed it, even more grey. 

“Something the matter?” she asks you with a smile that makes you want to use your cheap plastic fork to carve out her eyes. “I could have sworn I heard something.” 

“Yeah, sorry,” you try for a smile in return, not sure why you bother considering you hate her guts as much as she hates yours. “I’m just... tired.” 

“Well, tired or not, you know better than to bring that kind of attitude to the workplace. Big smiles, remember? The atmosphere matters you know!” 

“Right, yeah,” you nod, barely able to stop yourself from rolling your eyes. “Big smiles.” 

“Come on, let’s see it,” your supervisor says, tapping the sign on your cubicle wall *Smile, you’re with Joja!* You put on a smile which she returns with a patronizing scrunch of her nose, talking to you like one would an unruly child. “There, that wasn’t that hard now, was it?” 

It wouldn’t be too hard to use my stapler to knock your teeth in, you bitch. It’d only take a couple of hits... All the red would really brighten this place up... Ever heard of colour theory? 

“Yeah,” you smile. “Not that hard.” 

Your computer beeps. Your lunch break is over. You haven’t touched your food. 

Your supervisor's smile widens. The brown-nosing corporate shill that she is. “Well, you’d better get back to it... And try to do better this afternoon. Your numbers have been trailing all morning. I’d hate to have to write you up.” 

“Yeah,” you say as you drop your food into the rubbish. “I’m sure.” 

Your computer goes off again, demanding your attention. Your supervisor stands there for a moment longer than she needs to, as if checking that you’re really going to work, then hums, pleased, and walks away. 

It’s going to be a long day...  

But hey, look on the bright side, you won’t be doing this forever. 

One day you’ll die. 

Die... The thought echoes in your head for a bit. Die... Die... 

Your gaze falls to the drawer of your desk where the letter from your late great-uncle sits, waiting to be opened. You didn’t know the guy much, the family didn’t really talk about him, and he never came to any gatherings. But he had no kids and, well... No one really. He’d been thrilled when you had expressed interest in enlisting in your early teens. He taught you all the tricks of the trade and then some. 

He was less thrilled when you told him you’d changed your mind. 

It really wasn’t that shocking news. He’d kept talking on and on about pulling some strings, using his connections, but it’s just... not what you wanted anymore. You weren’t a kid anymore and well, you had to be realistic. 

Besides, they didn’t want you to enlist. You’d tried and well... While you passed the physical tests fine and were more than smart enough to work in intelligence or as a bomb tech, your psychological tests were... Less than stellar. Which was difficult to explain to a man who, despite having watched countless of his friends die and witness atrocities you could never fathom, thought that mental illness was a sham created by the youth to get out of doing real work. 

It’s not like you’d caused his heart attack. He was already sick. And all the smoking and drinking from his days on active duty surely didn’t help. He got himself too worked up over something small, and well... His heart just couldn’t take any more of it. 

Speaking of being unable to take anymore... you can hear your supervisor coming back around. You look between your monitor and the desk drawer. Monitor. Drawer. Monitor. Drawer. Monitor. Drawer. Monitor... 

“I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to write you up. Just know this isn’t-” 

“I quit.” 

And, just like that, you grab your few personal belongings and shove past her to the door, manilla envelope clutched in your hand.  

She sputters something behind you, makes a move to grab your wrist. You dodge. 

“You can’t be serious,” she says. “You... You can’t quit now! It’s the busiest time of the year!” 

“I just did... Oh, and Stacy?” 

“Yes?” she asks, almost hopeful. 

“You’re a right bitch. Just wanted to let you know.” 

Her entire face goes red as her cheeks puff out. “You... I... Wh...” 

You leave her there to her aneurysm, walking into the elevator and letting the doors close behind you. 

You lean your head back against the grey wall, resting your weight against the railing. You glance at the envelope in your hand. 

God... Please don’t let this be a mistake.  

please comment and reblog to support my writing! asks are always open! Literally nothing inspires me to write more!

who should we meet first and how?

taglist: @tooloudarts @cadotoast @elaineiswithyou-blog @thigh-o-saur

Masterlist!

[zoe-oneesama]

Speaking of Émilie, do you think that she could have been a bad mother before her death, coma, or disappearance? Because, from what I've heard, Émilie had been dead, in a coma, or missing for about a year before the events of MLB, and if Adrien had been homeschooled for about most of his childhood, then that could indicate that his mother was aware of this and didn't do anything about it. Either Émilie was overprotective of Adrien and his wellbeing that she and her husband had to shelter him from the public, or that she was in a horrible situation with her husband from behind the scenes, ergo feeling powerless to do something about her son's sheltered life. There are so many things to imagine who Émilie was really like, but so far, we don't have enough substance to even care about her, especially if that substance arrived five seasons/eight years too late.

I think realistically, all signs point to Emilie being just as on board with locking Adrien up, limiting who he's allowed to be friend's with (Chloe), employing him as a model, bogging him down with lots of extracurricular activities despite him not really being into them. But because Gabriel's an out and proud dickwad, Emilie got to be the "good parent" because she was gentle about it. If Adrien ever DID complain, Emilie was probably the one to talk in a soft voice about how Gabriel was doing what was in Adrien's best interest and to just give it his best shot because things will be fine, or worse, lie to Adrien and tell him that she'd talk to Gabriel about it and then just didn't. She's at best a weak enabler who never stood up for what her son wanted and at worst fully complicit in being completely in control of Adrien's life.

But this show is definitely going to pretend that she was sunshine and rainbows and the best parent ever, a paragon of Momness, because that's literally the only characterization we've ever gotten of her in 5 Seasons - biased recollections from Gabriel and Adrien about how great she was.

I mean, look how the show shills Bustier as the Greatest Teacher Ever despite all the contradicting evidence. Why wouldn't they do it with Emilie.