Headcanons and Writing

suneater’s typical dinner🍜🥟🍗

You hear the soft clacking of Tommy running the silver stud of his piercing along his teeth near your ear, his chest against your back. You hold back a smile and turn around to glare playfully at him, making him chuckle. “Stop that you know, I have to finish this essay tonight.”

But now you recall!

Look! Look!

They loves to play!

Rawr!

Their head is just one giant ball of floof!

I can’t even

How do they live? Being so cuTE??

Ugh!!

This has been a PSA. Baby cheetahs are everything good and pure in this world. Please imagine petting the floof head. Please feel better.

Me, a trans man on the danger list for ovarian cancer and is going to get them removed in the distant or near future:

“you need ovaries to be a wombyn!!!”

transman: guess who got that shit removed I’m a Real Boy™ now

“nO not like that you still have a uterus that makes you female!!!”

ciswoman who’s had a complete hysterectomy: guess i’m not a woman then

“tHAT”S NOT WHAT I MEANT if you have a vagina/vulva you’re female!!!”

transwoman who’s had bottom surgery: oooh i’ve got one of those does that mean i’m a Real Girl™ now??”

“NO YOU DON’T HAVE OVARIES OR A UTERUS”

literally everyone except terfs: *squints*

“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”

The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.

“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”

“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”

The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”

Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”

“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”

Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.

“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”

“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?” 

The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.

A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer. 

“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”

“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”

“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”

The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.

And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.

Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.

“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”

“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”

“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.

“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”

“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”

“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.

“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”

Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.

“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”

“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.

“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”

Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.

“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.

“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.

“What?” the god asked.

The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned, if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he thought.

He had come to understand that humans are senseless creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity. Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless creatures, humans were.

So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth, and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s work on his dying breath.

“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a familiar voice.

The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism.

“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.

“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”

“No,” Arepo smiled.

“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure.”

“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and chuckled.

“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.

“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if you’ll have me.”

The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want to live here?”

Hello guys its been a while since I made a sort of update on tumblr. As you probably already know, my full english patch for Re:Birthday Song has been released! Woohoo!  After translating this game, I feel like I might translate the other (plus I got a chunk translated from the trial). This game isn’t as long (kinda short compared to Re:Birth) so I don’t expect it to be a long project. If all goes well it should be released by the end of this year (hopefully). So for now, I’m looking for translators that can help me out with this project. Just send me a PM via here or via my twitter. I typically use dropbox so I’ll have scripts set up there (or with an email provided I can email them directly). 

Lastly, a lot of people have been asking about the Brothers Conflict project as of the past year or two. I apologize for the delay in responses and the lack of updates. I was focusing on my own project foremost and to be honest, I haven’t been able to do much in regards to it. I was initially a translator and have no experience in ROM hacking (since its a PSP game) and we dropped out of contact with our previous one. At most, our scripts were reformatted into a .tbl format. So, I’ll need a ROM hacker to proceed in hacking in the translated scripts. Albeit all the scripts are completed, not fully revised. However, no progress can be made without someone who’s able to insert the translated scripts into the game. So again, just contact me if you can or know someone who can help out with that.

The owner of this Blog will be making as much noise at Tumblr Staff about how horrible this ban in on other sites such as Twitter or Facebook. 

The owner of this blog will be logging out of all accounts for the entirety of the 17th. Will Not run a queue. Will not even check the dash. Or give the money hungry executives a single page view to squeeze ad revenue out of

Summary:  Hi Fin~♡ may I get a sorta fluffy x reader for Edmund Pevensie? I’m sorry I don’t have a lot of details for this omg x.x - W + prompts “Shut up and kiss me.” & “I’m in love with you, you idiot!” @w-anon

Word Count: 1300

|| Masterlist || Fandoms || Request Here || 

    Cair Paravel was bustling with life as you prepared for the annual Christmas ball. You and the other staff around the castle shared laughs and good spirits as you decorated and made sure that everything was in order for the Majesties.

    Working around the castle wasn’t all bad. You were a handmaiden to Queen Lucy and she practically insisted that you go everywhere with her. It surely was stupid, but Queen Lucy was your best friend. The best days were when she insisted you attend meetings with her siblings. You knew it was wrong, it was frowned upon, but you were harboring some major feelings for King Edmund.

    It wasn’t your fault really. Who could blame you when he was walking around looking like that. He was stupidly cute with his brown hair, chocolatey eyes, and that amazingly adorable smile. Not to mention he treated the staff like equals, not like they - like you- were below him.

    Everytime you and Lucy would sneak out for midnight snacks, he was miraculously there ready and willing to partake in your mischief. He always greets you with that grin and asks what you’re up to. If you and Lucy were baking he was more than happy swipe batter from the bowl while you and Lucy fought him off.

    All too often he could be found in the library, going over old Narnian records. You would read with Lucy in one of her special nooks, but Edmund was never far from sight.

   Lucy was probably in the kitchen with her sister making holiday cookies, and it was an important tradition that you didn’t want to intrude on. Instead, you decided to spend your time helping to decorate the ballroom. Humming happily to yourself as you hung tinsel on the tree that the Kings had brought in. You were excited to see how the fruits of your labors had paid off.

    “Y/n!” Lucy called to you as she entered the ballroom, rushing over to you and dragging you away from the tree.

    “My lady, where are we going?!” You giggled as she dragged you through the corridors.

    “We’re getting you ready for the ball, silly!” She beamed as she pushed you into her room, pulling a gorgeous green and gold dress from her armoires.

    “But, my Queen, I couldn’t.” You protested.

    “Y/n, I insist. You deserve a night off as much as the rest of us.” She gave you a disarming smile, one that she knew you’d give in to.

    “Only if you’re absolutely sure, M’lady.” You gave a small curtsey.

    “None, of that tonight, Y/n, please. At least not with me.” Lucy insisted, handing over the dress.

    “Of course, M- Lucy,” You curtseyed again. “If I may be excused to go change?”

    “Right!” She bounced with excitement. “Go!”

    You idly chatted with Mr. Tumnus, a drink in your hand that you were only half sipping on. You enjoyed Mr. Tumnus’ company, but you were distracted from the moment Edmund entered the ballroom. His clothes were tailored to him perfectly and suited him with his silver crown.

    “Y’know, if you stare any harder you might actually burn holes in his clothes.” Mr. Tumnus pointed out as he noticed your wandering eyes. You blushed, adverting your eyes.

    “I’m sorry, but, he looks like that! You can’t tell me that that is fair.” You groaned, taking another sip of your drink.

    “Don’t look now, but he’s coming this way,” Tumnus warned.

    “I swear Tums if you’re messing with me -” Your threat got interrupted as Edmund appeared.

    “Evening Mr. Tumnus, do you mind if I borrow Y/n for a minute or two?” Edmund asked, sending Tumnus a charming smile.

    “Not at all, Your Highness.” Tumnus sent you a wink as he backed away. You sent him a scowl as a response.

    “You look lovely tonight, Y/n,” Edmund broke the silence between you.

    “Thank you, Your Highness,” You bowed your head, “you as well, if I may say.”

    “How many times have I told you to call me Edmund?” He smiled down at you.

    “I suppose it wouldn’t do much harm for you to tell me once more,” You shrugged, returning his grin.

    “Then, Y/n, please call me Edmund.” Edmund insisted.

    “Of course, E-Edmund.” You took a sip from your drink. His name tasted sweet on your lips, but you could never admit that. It was wrong, frowned upon. His smile only widened as his name fell from your lips.

    “Would you mind joining me for a walk?” He offered his arm to you. You simply nodded, looping your arm with his as you ditched your glass.

    It was relatively quiet as you made your way away from the crowded ballroom. You could still hear the band playing in the distance as you wandered through the corridors.

    “Edmund? Where are we going?” You furrowed your brows as you looked up at him.

    “You’ll see,” Edmund promised, “We are almost there.”

    It was quiet for a few moments more until you’d finally come to a stop on a balcony overlooking the ocean. The reflection of the moon and stars glittered across the ocean’s rippling surface, waves crashing steadily against the shore.

    “This is so much better than a party,” You hummed, taking in the sight.

    “This is one of my favorite spots in the whole castle. I like to come here to think sometimes.”

    “Something on your mind, Edmund?” You tore your eyes away to meet his.

    “Just you. It’s usually you.” He reached out, brushing some hair behind your ear. You felt your face go red. “I’m sorry that was forward of me.”

    “Is this some sort of joke?” You questioned. Emotions swirled inside you as you took a step away from him. “Did someone tell you to do this?”

    “Y/n, what are you talking about?”

    “I’m in love with you, you idiot! Did someone tell you to do this?” Hot tears of betrayal welled in your eyes.

    “What? No, Y/n. You’re in love with me?” Edmund could hardly keep up; his thoughts were running as wild as his heart was beating.

    “I, uh, yeah. It was fairly obvious.” You crossed your arms over your chest, not wanting to look him in the face.

    Suddenly his lips were on yours, gone just as quickly as they’d come. Mostly, Edmund looked just as startled and affronted as you did.

    “I’m sorry, I should’ve - I -” He stuttered, running a hand through his dark hair.

    “Shut up and kiss me,” You rolled your eyes at him, endeared by his stuttering. Once again his lips were on yours, slower this time. He tasted like wine and sugar, and, god, he was so warm. Edmund pulled you close to him, his warmth radiating through you as he cupped your cheeks in his hands. You couldn’t resist dragging your fingers through the ends of his hair. The kiss left you perfectly breathless as he finally pulled away.

    “Well, that was less romantic than I’d hoped,” Edmund admitted with a sheepish grin. You couldn’t keep the kiss drunk smile off your face.

    “It was perfect,” You assured, your hands now held tightly in his. Your moment interrupted by a loud crunch.

    “I was wondering when Ed would make a move,” Peter commented from where he was leaning against the wall, a plate of cookies balanced in one hand.

    “How long have you been standing there?” Edmund questioned.

    “Awhile.” Peter shrugged and walked off.

    Edmund stared after him in stunned silence. A giggle bubbled from your throat before you could hold back. Soon both of you dissolved into a fit of laughter.

    “So maybe we could read in the library tomorrow? Together.” Edmund shifted nervously.

MOTHER

FUCKIN

HANUKKAH 

SEASON

This is actually something I haven’t seen before, someone so excited about Hanukkah

That’s how my grandparents (immediately post-WWII) did it. That’s how my parents (mid-1970s) did it. Oh, and the third house my parents ever purchased, when they upgraded to a still affordable but spacious and very nice one, when I was a preteen? The purchase price was maybe 1.5 times my dad’s salary, with payments spread out over a 30-year mortgage.