Papillon Scrapbook

-- Absent-minded alien staring at Aurora -- Aki/Akky | Multifandom and my ramblings | MDNI HL noob ff sideblog: @thestralwitch #thestralwitch Art: #vanilamacha | ibispaint: vanilamacha Neither artist, nor writer. Just Hobbyist

[akiyamacho]

Well-Received 🤗

Deepest gratitude to @shiraibambi for her fan-work merch of Ominis Gaunt and Sebastian Sallow that she sold it at Comifuro 16–17 May 2026 😊 Well-received today for mail order, dear Runa 🤭

I really love her idea making a portrait of Ominis Gaunt wearing beskap. It gives the vibe of "Londo" during colonialism era at Indonesia (Ofc I bought it! Love the idea! 🥰)

Pray the success for you 🖤🤎

[akiyamacho]

Aurora in Hogsmeade

Another lovely soothing project 🤗

[akiyamacho]

Some questions as confused person:

1) Why did they delete the post but still have the audacity to send the screenshot of the last comments that makes you were tricked into that? And moreover, why 3 months after the post they did that to you? What the hell were they doing during those 3 months?? Planning to make you guilty???

2) I saw the nun and pastor fanarts. Damnnnnn it’s harmless art! And the outfits are too proper omg I love it! Why only your friend’s mc that got harsh comments but not also Sebastian? Sebastian is also evil! Why was he out of radar? If Sebastian is real, I will smack his arse and shout to him “YOUR OTHER GIRL GOT HARSH COMMENTS BUT YOU DIDN’T GET IT? WHO IS THE REAL GIRL IN HERE ACTUALLY?? URGGHHH!!!!”

3) Of course your artist friend vented about it. Want to use Indonesian price as International citizen??? And the reason was “more favourable for them”, not to the artist?? That was the most hilarious reason I’ve ever seen in my life because it was disrespectful as they don’t appreciate the artist’s works 🤦‍♂️

Both three of you are Indonesian people in that fandom. I don’t want to make assumption but maybe they hate Indonesian people although harmless Indonesian people?? (some kind of xenophobia??) So they do everything they can to hurt you and make you uncomfortable?? and recklessly tricked you all with guilt-trip and making you as a hooligan?

If they have xenophobia, then better out from fandom than hurting harmless people!

Whatever it is, it’s not healthy anymore. I wish you stay safe.

Hi anon. sorry I needed time to read your message. I dont know too honestly 🥲🥲

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

Most annoying thing about being in the fandom I'm in (I've been in it for little over 10 years now) is that some of the people in it do not understand basic fandom etiquette. The amount of times I've seen people dogpile others because of them just having fun, making OCs, doing normal fandom activities. Call-Out posts over stupid stuff like "your character looks like a child, change how you draw" or "This person like dark fiction, we need to get them for it".

I have no clue what shifted fandom from being this fun, weird cultural thing to being a giant panopticon where people are scared to draw their favorite characters kissing wrong—if it was COVID or something else—but I'm legitimately tired of it. Watching it happened to fan bases for series that are inherently dark and adult is even worse.

yeah that’s why I rarely engage with people in fandom and generally vibe either alone or with my close fandom friends. I definitely do create and post taboo contents, but since I don’t care about what strangers think about me or my dark fics, they can’t get to me lmao. so they can try and cancel me or whatever. I don’t care about them and will continue creating / posting whatever I want. their opinions and feelings are their problem, not mine.

[kasmikassim]

"I have no clue what shifted fandom from being this fun, weird cultural thing to being a giant panopticon where people are scared to draw their favorite characters kissing wrong—if it was COVID or something else—but I'm legitimately tired of it."

<- I think Covid definitely accelerated it. The rise of chronically online, media-illiterate youths raised in a time of increasingly dumbed-down education that have popularized "cancel culture" - basically an internet vigilante witch hunt for anyone performing the slightest wrong in public with the belief that they're getting rid of "problematic" people by chasing them away, circle-jerking through social media which encourages knee-jerk reactions and rewards performative moral posturing rather than critical thinking and putting one's money where their mouth is.

An iota of critical thinking would alert them to the fact that they're behaving no different from the conservative Satanic Panic mob from barely a generation ago, but they seem to genuinely believe that voting left wing or supporting gay rights makes them immune to any wrongdoing. It's honestly terrifying, this phenomenon of new dumb armed with power in numbers.

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

Most annoying thing about being in the fandom I'm in (I've been in it for little over 10 years now) is that some of the people in it do not understand basic fandom etiquette. The amount of times I've seen people dogpile others because of them just having fun, making OCs, doing normal fandom activities. Call-Out posts over stupid stuff like "your character looks like a child, change how you draw" or "This person like dark fiction, we need to get them for it".

I have no clue what shifted fandom from being this fun, weird cultural thing to being a giant panopticon where people are scared to draw their favorite characters kissing wrong—if it was COVID or something else—but I'm legitimately tired of it. Watching it happened to fan bases for series that are inherently dark and adult is even worse.

yeah that’s why I rarely engage with people in fandom and generally vibe either alone or with my close fandom friends. I definitely do create and post taboo contents, but since I don’t care about what strangers think about me or my dark fics, they can’t get to me lmao. so they can try and cancel me or whatever. I don’t care about them and will continue creating / posting whatever I want. their opinions and feelings are their problem, not mine.

[akiyamacho]

anon, now I'm also afraid to interact with other fandom members except my close fandom friends. I'm afraid of being plotted when genuinely want to help other fandom members -- to be called "ignorant" 🥲

[akiyamacho]

Hiya gurll..

I read your post carefully and asking friends who can speak Indonesian to translate the comments. and it seems I share common trauma with your friend. Sorry for trauma-venting to your inbox. Actually, I was in HL fandom around 2023-2024 but I got out from there because I felt sick with the fandom war in there.

As for my trauma, it was about in another fandom. About medieval age game. I made my mc as mischievous and a bit evil girl partnered with the everyone’s beloved/golden boy who is also mischievous and a bit evil. I was surrounded with so many seductive outfits (people love too-tight outfit especially for female) that’s why I felt bored and wanted to design proper outfit. I was inspired with archangel proper outfit design so I made it for my mc and also the golden boy. I shared it with my fandom moots.

When I shared it at first and second post (from first and second post I made it 1 month apart), it was okay. I got appreciation for my design. But for the third post, suddenly I received weird message from 1 of my moots. They said using archangel outfit for my mc who is known as mischievous girl is immoral for them as christian. I was totally dumbfounded when receiving that message because I also christian. I didn’t design it like seductive archangel in general. As if my girl wasn’t allowed to be a good person for once. Weird thing is they only commented on my girlll.. not to the golden boy who was more mischievous than my girl. Dang! I was so angry about it and I didn’t want to reply to that such nonsense!

1 month after that, I got message from the same person. They said they wants me to draw their oc but don’t have enough money (at that time, it was called art beggar). I was still angry at them about how they disgracefully commented my girl’s outfit, not the golden boy’s outfit. So I blocked them.

About your trauma, it is same with my friends’. I remember the next day after I blocked them, they posted something similar about art beggar. Me and friends planned something. 2 of my friends commented that they’ll draw the oc for free (of course no. it was just a test). 3 of my friends commented about recommended artists with cheap price. Guess what? My friends who offered free drawing immediately received a friendly response. But my friends who recommended artists with cheap price needed 1 months to receive the response. And the responses were harsh! Either it was about the artist’s style was ugly or my friends received the call ‘stupid’ just because my 3 other friends recommended budget-friendly artist, not a free art.

Because this nonsense became too many, me and my friends wanted to call-out this person. But their friends defended this art beggar. And when we gave the proofs their ‘art beggar’ friend was hurting many people in this fandom, the last barrier they used for the excuse about was their friend was having depression so they begged to let it slide. Oh, of course I didn’t want to let it slide! Their friend’s mental illness must be cured! It shouldn’t be an excuse just because you have mental illness then it’s okay to hurt people!

1 week after that, we received apology message from this person. And this person left fandom the next day. Some of their friends apologized to me. I forgave but I already felt sick with those ammount of audacity. So I left the fandom 1 week after apology message.

Actually until now I still don’t get it why their friends defended the art beggar and shamelessly using mental illness excuse to let it slide. A care friend won’t do that. A care friend will observe first then if they know that their friend actually the perpetrator, they will advise to apologize to people that got hurt, not defending their friend.

I’m so sorry for this long trauma-venting. But I hope you know that you still have fandom friends that care about you. Wishing you for happiest life for becoming kind person.

Hi anon. I needed time to read your message. Thank you to trust me as your trauma-venting 🥺 I also wish you get happiest life

[akiyamacho]

I have similar story like yours although we're in different fandom (well, I'm not in that fandom anymore). I also helped ex-fandom mutual to find local artist for cheaper price after they posted something about wanting to commish an artist but don't have enough money. The fandom was small so we were like close-knit. If fandom mutual needed something, they helped each other. But the respond was longer than yours, about 5 months after I helped. And yes, I also got similar calling of 'ignorant' and got blocked. Was stressed about it for months and blaming myself. And then decided to leave the fandom and now I only help people who actually value my help. I'm so sorry about yours. The fandom should be a fun place and respect each other. If your 2 friends got the problem with the same person (getting insult about the harmless art, and your Indonesian artist friend probably got underprice like choosing Indonesian price than International price although the person should use International price because they're not Indonesian (yea I know that similar problem about commision issue between Indonesian artist and International commisioner)), I'm so sorry you guys met that kind of person in the fandom. Hope you stay strong. I'm so sure there're still fandom mutuals that will value your help.

Hi anon. Thank you for your message 😭

[akiyamacho]

Hello. I'm in need to commish Indonesian artist and I need your help. They can be paid with Indonesian price which is so much cheaper than international price if the commisioner is Indonesian. and I found out you're Indonesian. Can you help me to commish to Indonesian artist that I already choose? I'll transfer it to you with what you'll pay

Hi anon. Thank you for the message. I appreciate you asked me for the help.

But unfortunately, right now, I'm not in the condition to help other people. I'm afraid to be called ignorant again. Hope you can find other Indonesian people that is willing to help you.

I wish the success for you 😊

[anggreknoone]

Born of what they scorched. [Chapter 1]

Hogwarts Legacy fem!OC|| OC lore focus || No underage romance. || Miscommunication || Misleading Narrative || there will be a romance || but surprise, it's a super duper slow burn that won't even start until later chapters.

﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒⋆ 𖤓 ⋆˚࿔⋆☀︎｡⭒﹒⋆༺ ⚜⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆⚜ ༻⭒﹒⋆｡☀︎⋆࿔˚⋆ 𖤓 ⋆﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒

Summary: There is an old saying: "A village that does not protect its children invites its own destruction."

And for a young witch once rejected by Hogwarts, only to be summoned five years too late, it may find itself facing the consequence of that neglect.

﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒⋆ 𖤓 ⋆˚࿔⋆☀︎｡⭒﹒⋆༺ ⚜⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆⚜ ༻⭒﹒⋆｡☀︎⋆࿔˚⋆ 𖤓 ⋆﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒

Note: wasn't going to post stuff in Tumblr after my friends uh--unfortunate experience here, but I like to make a blog where I sometimes yap about my oc and yap about my writings so why not?

More about her on A03

﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒⋆ 𖤓 ⋆˚࿔⋆☀︎｡⭒﹒⋆༺ ⚜⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆⚜ ༻⭒﹒⋆｡☀︎⋆࿔˚⋆ 𖤓 ⋆﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒

“My father is friends with the Headmaster, and I’m not afraid to exploit that connection if I need to.”

The voice was smooth—as though she hadn’t heard that kind of threat a dozen times before.

Aithne’s expression remained neutral as she took a proper look at him. Green robes—Slytherin. Ash-blond hair, combed neatly. And a face that practically screamed entitlement learned early and worn often.

'Figures,' rolling her eyes. 'A pureblood,' she muttered inwardly, drawing a quiet breath so as not to appear rude. 'They really are all like this, aren’t they?'

Her lips thinned.

'And this is exactly why I didn’t want to go to Hogwarts in the first place.'

─────────────────────────────────────────────

Now, before the story truly begins, it is best to step back to a couple of weeks before, to when Aithne resided in London.

Muggle London.

London wore the afternoon well. A pale sun stretched lazily across rows of townhouses, catching in windowpanes and glinting off the occasional passing carriage. It was warm enough to be pleasant, and for once, Aithne chose to walk. It was a fine day, after all—why bother with a carriage when the air itself felt agreeable? Her light tan skin does need the sun, if London ever cares to give light to the city instead of heat.

The wind teased loose a stubborn strand of her mahogany hair, escaping the careful braid coiled into a low bun beneath her bonnet. Some strands, she had long accepted, refused discipline no matter the effort.

She had just finished her lessons—lessons in the Muggle academy. Latin and Greek linguistics and literature had been particularly enjoyable that day, their structure neat and satisfying in a way magic rarely bothered to be. Tomorrow promised mathematics, and she found herself almost looking forward to it while her friends and classmates had been hoping to avoid tomorrow.

Muggles, she had noticed, studied most things rather slowly. It made following the curriculum… effortless.

By the time she reached her townhouse, her thoughts had already wandered elsewhere. She opened the door and stepped inside without ceremony, the familiar quiet settling around her like something well-practiced.

The magic followed just as naturally.

Her hat and its pin lifted from her head the moment the door shut, drifting neatly toward their proper place. Her coat slipped from her shoulders soon after, folding itself midair with quiet precision, and her bag followed.

At the entrance, two figures were already waiting.

“Welcome back, Miss Luciel!” Greta greeted brightly, her brown hair tied back but already escaping its pins.

“Afternoon, Greta. Afternoon, Hyacinth.” Aithne greeted them back with a smile.

Aithne’s smile came easier here, softer at the corner of her mouth. With a flick of her wrist, a length of white lace ribbon appeared between her fingers, delicate and freshly made.

“Diana made these in one of her classes,” she said, offering it to them. “She insisted I give you both one.”

Hyacinth’s eyes lit up immediately. “Why, ma’am! That is awfully kind of her!”

The house-elf took the ribbon with careful hands and tied it neatly atop her head. It rested between strands of silver-grey hair and the soft fall of her purple tartan tunic, giving her an almost storybook sort of charm.

Aithne nodded, pleased. “That looks wonderful, Hyacinth.”

“Now,” she continued, already turning toward the stairs, “I must rest. Do bring my tea and biscuits to my study.”

“Will do, ma’am!” Greta replied, "Will chamomile be fine?"

"That would be lovely, Greta." Aithne nodded,

“And I will bake your favorite!” Hyacinth added, beaming before disappearing with a crisp snap of her fingers.

Aithne paused briefly at the foot of the stairs, exhaling as she shook her head.

Hyacinth, the house elf who had served her family for a decade, had been freed years ago—along with many others, during her father’s time as an Auror, when he was deeply involved in the investigation into house-elf trafficking. Clothes had been given, contracts offered, and freedom, in every legal sense, ensured, and yet some had chosen to stay, not out of obligation or fear, but by their own will.

Her parents had accepted this, though not without conditions—clear ones: respect, proper wages, and autonomy, not merely in word, but in practice and paper.

It was, by most wizarding standards, an unusual arrangement.

The Luciel household did not employ house-elves in the traditional sense. In fact, they had long been opposed to the practice entirely—not out of disdain, quite the opposite. They could not abide the notion of a creature bred for servitude, bound so completely that it scarcely knew how to exist beyond it. The idea of ownership, of inherited obedience, sat poorly with them.

So when the elves chose to remain, it had not been simple. They had to be taught—patiently and deliberately—what it meant to choose, what it meant to refuse, and what it meant to exist without waiting for permission. Only then were they allowed to stay.

Aithne, having been raised in such a household, thought this was the norm. After all, in her mind, any living being working alongside wizard-kind ought to have autonomy—it was simply their right.

A belief she knew would earn her more than a few stares in the wizarding space if spoken aloud. Not that she particularly cared.

She made her way up the hardwood stairs and slipped into her study, closing the door behind her with a quiet click. For a moment, she rested against it, letting the stillness settle before lifting her hand, fingers extending toward the bookshelf across the room.

“Accio.”

The book slid free from its place at once, gliding through the air into her waiting palm. She caught it easily and opened it as she walked, her attention already drawn into the pages by the time she reached her desk.

By now, it would have been quite obvious to anyone reading—Aithne was no squib. Magic answered her readily, and without a wand at that, something her Moroccan mother had taught her since she was twelve.

Which only made the question more curious. Why was she here, in London, in Muggle grounds rather than tucked away in the wizarding side of the Scottish Highlands at Hogwarts like every other witch her age?

The answer, frustratingly simple, was this: her letter had never come.

Poor little Aithne, eleven years old, with a blow of her candle, was awaiting her letter and sadly got nothing.

But young Aithne had not lingered in her disappointment for long. Her parents had been far less composed on her behalf, her dad and mother ready to demand her a seat at Hogwarts. But after a handful of quiet, dutiful days spent mourning what might have been, she had done something altogether unexpected. Rather than demand entry into Hogwarts, she had asked to attend a Muggle school instead, knowing her squib aunt owned one; she wanted to use that opportunity to learn more about the Muggle world.

In her defense, the reasoning had been simple. If wizard kind would not make room for her, then she would make her own path elsewhere. She had the family name, the resources, and more than enough sense to make use of both. Should it come to it, she could build something of her own without difficulty—she was hardly lacking in means.

Not long after her twelfth birthday, she had moved from her family’s manor in Scotland to a London townhouse owned by her mother, bringing with her a small, carefully chosen staff—Hyacinth among them, one of the few house-elves who had insisted on staying.

Since then, her life had settled into something almost…peaceful. Magic remained, of course, but quieter—woven into the edges of her evenings rather than ruling them like a witch would.

At the end of each week, she returned to Scotland, where her mother guided her through wand-less casting, patient and precise is a must as a witch needed to be, while her father took a more practical approach, teaching her basic defensive spells with a second-hand wand, and the art of fencing, so she would be quick on her feet to defend herself.

Surprisingly, fencing and wand casting go hand in hand.

The rest of her weekends were rarely her own. Since she spent most of her time alone in London, she spent it with her cousins, who eagerly showed off what they had learned at Hogwarts—charms half-mastered, stories about potion class of how someone spilled and burned the class with, stories told with far more confidence than accuracy. In return, Aithne brought them pieces of the Muggle world: small, curious things that never failed to fascinate. She even provided them with some of her peaceful, unchaotic stories.

And then there was Dari. An Irish wolfhound, her mother had trained and adopted, all long limbs, gray fluffy fur, and quiet loyalty, who had been at her side since she was a toddler. He was less pet and more constant—her comfort in a life that had quietly split itself between two worlds.

For her, it was, by all accounts, a good life.

And she had grown used to it. Four years of careful adjustment had shaped her into something steady, something self-assured. By sixteen, she had already mapped out her future with practical clarity: continue her studies, complete her education, and perhaps establish a business of her own in the Muggle world—or, if it suited her better, step into one of her family’s ventures within the wizarding world.

It was a plan. a plain yet sensible plan….a boring one that will lead to a boring life.

─────────────────────────────────────────────

She woke at her desk.

Books lay scattered across the surface, some half-open, others slipping precariously over the edge as she stirred. Aithne groaned softly, blinking herself awake. She had fallen asleep again—somewhere between studying and thinking far too much.

The tea and cakes Greta and Hyacinth had brought earlier sat untouched at the side, long since gone cold. Well, not entirely untouched. She had managed a quarter of it before surrendering to her thoughts. A faint smile tugged at her lips at the sight of it, though her gaze drifted away soon after.

Her hands came up to her face, fingers pressing briefly against her eyes as she tried to ease the dull sting behind them. It did little. With a quiet sigh, she leaned back into her chair instead, letting her head rest as the room came slowly into focus.

Moonlight filtered through the window, pale and distant, mingling with the low, steady glow of candlelight. The study felt still—too still.

Her hand drifted to her chest.

There it was again. That hollow, heavy feeling, settling deep and unwelcome, as though something essential had been left just out of reach. It had no shape, no clear source—only a quiet insistence that something was missing.

But what?

She had everything, didn’t she? Wealth, status, and opportunities that most witches and wizards would never see in a lifetime. Nothing had been denied to her—nothing except the one thing that mattered.

The letter. The very thing she had long since decided not to dwell on.

Five years. It had been five years. There was no sense in circling the past, no sense in entertaining something that had never come.

And yet—Deep, quiet, and stubborn—

Why had it come for her cousins?

Why not her? Why not—

Her hand struck the Latin book on her desk with more force than intended. It slid sharply across the surface and hit the wall with a dull, resounding thud, the sound cutting cleanly through the silence.

Aithne stilled, her hand trembling faintly from the sudden motion.

“I am an Ait-Anqa,” she said more quietly, the name firm on her tongue—her mother’s name, a name that carries weight. “I will not be chained like this.”

The flames answered her before the room did. They flickered, then swelled—burning brighter, richer, as gold and red danced along the wicks. The light shifted, alive in a way it had not been moments before.

Her gaze settled on one of the candles. She watched the wax soften, melt, and bend under the heat before reaching out, fingertips closing around the candle with little regard for the warmth. Slowly, deliberately, she brought her other hand forward and touched the flame.

It did not burn—not at first. Her index finger moved through it, guiding it, coaxing it away from the wick. The fire stretched, resisted, and then yielded, slipping free as though it had always meant to follow her. When she opened her palm, the flame rested there, small and steady, flickering against her skin.

Aithne watched it with quiet focus. Orange and yellow first—familiar, easy. Then deeper, red creeping in at the edges as she pressed, testing, pushing it further—

“—ssst! Oh, hmar!—” She flinched.

The heat bit sharply this time, enough to break her concentration. She flicked her hand toward the fireplace, tossing the flame back where it belonged before it could do any real damage. It caught quickly, disappearing into the waiting embers.

Aithne hissed under her breath, turning her hand over to inspect the faint burn blooming across her skin.

She exhaled through her nose.

“Still can’t make it white,” she muttered, irritation settling back in. “Not even blue.”

Her tongue clicked softly as she pushed herself to her feet. The fallen books lay scattered at her boots, and for a moment she simply stared at them—then bent to gather them one by one.

She didn’t rush. Each spine slid into her palm, each page brushed beneath her fingers as she carried them back to the shelf. The slow, deliberate motion grounded her, steadied the restless hum beneath her skin.

'The only way to ground yourself is through touch.'

Her mother’s voice echoed, clear as if spoken beside her.

Aithne paused mid-motion, her thumb tracing the worn edge of a cover before setting it back into place. The rhythm worked; it always had. Maybe she did need to go outside tomorrow, get her hands into soil, plant something. She huffed quietly under her breath. Arran wouldn’t mind the company.

Besides, tomorrow is her sixteenth birthday.

─────────────────────────────────────────────

The sun found her easily. It slipped through the curtains and settled across her room in quiet insistence, warming her face until she stirred awake. Aithne blinked slowly, turning slightly into the light before letting out a soft breath. She had made it to her bed the night before, at least—though she scarcely remembered when.

Rubbing at her eyes, she stretched, the stiffness lingering in her shoulders from hours spent at her desk. Rising at last, she crossed the room and opened the window, letting the morning air drift in.

It carried with it the faint scent of molten metal and soot. her face scrunch in disgust, but she could only sigh.

London, she mutters inwardly,

How she missed the cleaner air of the Scottish countryside—the gardens, the open fields, the quiet chorus of birds in the early hours. Still, she would be home by the end of the day. Classes first, and then—

She paused, listening. Movement downstairs. The soft, hurried rhythm of preparation. It seems the packing has begun. She mumbles to herself.

Leaving the window ajar, she turned back toward her wardrobe. Tomorrow would be spent at the manor; she would save her finer things for that. Today called for something simpler—dusty blue and soft earth tones, practical but still neatly put together.

She reached for the bell beside her wardrobe and gave it a light pull.

A moment later, Hyacinth apparated near the door.

“You called, ma’am?” she asked, smiling brightly.

“Yes, Hyacinth. I’d like the bath prepared, please,” Aithne replied, gathering her hair to tie it back. “Add Mother’s saffron and herbs, if you would. I should like to arrive at school presentable this day.”

“Of course, ma’am—oh! And may I give you this?”

Hyacinth stepped forward, holding up a small brooch with careful pride. Upon closer inspection, it was a rounded purple gem, framed delicately with tiny pearls.

Aithne’s expression softened at once.

“Hyacinth…” she murmured, lowering herself to meet her at eye level. “You shouldn’t have.”

“But I wished to, ma’am!” Hyacinth insisted, chin lifting with quiet determination. “You deserve nothing but the best.”

Aithne let out a small, fond laugh. Hyacinth had always been like this—drawn to anything that shimmered, forever intent on gifting it to her. Refusal, she had learned, was rarely accepted. She remembered yemma* and Hyacinth arguing about gifts- in the end, Hyacinth won.

She reached out and took the brooch gently.

“Then I shall wear it today,” she said. “Thank you, Hyacinth.”

“You are most welcome, ma’am—oh! And when you come downstairs, everyone is planning a surprise breakfast for you!”

Hyacinth froze. The realization struck her a moment too late. Her hands flew to her mouth, eyes widening. “Oh dear—I was not meant to say that—”

Aithne laughed softly, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Your secret is safe with me, Hyacinth.”

She gave a small, conspiratorial wink.

Hyacinth nodded, relieved, before hurrying off to prepare the bath.

Left alone, Aithne rose and fastened the brooch to her outfit, pairing it with Diana’s ribbon. The combination was simple, but thoughtful—soft blue, pale lace, and the quiet gleam of violet and pearl.

She paused before the mirror and smiled.

Perhaps, she thought, today might turn out to be a good day after all.

After dressing, Aithne made her way down the stairs, the faint sound of hurried steps and poorly hushed whispers reaching her before she even reached the hall.

She almost let out a giggle. By the time she stepped into the dining room, the lights had been dimmed—rather suspiciously so. Then came a sharp snap of a finger, followed by a burst of light and—

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, AITHNE!”

The room came alive all at once. Smiles stretched wide across every face as Hyacinth and Tiddly snapped their fingers again, sending a cascade of flower petals drifting down from above.

Aithne laughed, clapping her hands together, unable to hide her delight. “Thank you, everyone! Truly—every year, you all insist on this.”

She brushed a few stray petals from her sleeve and took her seat, still smiling.

Archie appeared at her side soon after, setting down her usual birthday breakfast with a certain quiet pride. Two eggs with perfectly runny yolks, three strips of bacon arranged into a cheerful little face, and sides of black pudding, sausages, beans, and fried potatoes.

It was hearty—common, even—but Aithne had loved it from the moment she was first introduced to it. And, as Archie often insisted, she needed “proper food” in her diet.

“I am sixteen now,” she said lightly, glancing around the table. “You all treat me as though I am still a child.”

“Aye, lass, an’ you always will be,” Archie replied, giving her a fond pat on the head before she could protest. His voice carried the rough warmth of the coast, thick but not unkind.

“Still remember the day you first came here—small as anythin’, lookin’ far too serious for your own good—” He sniffed, just a little too loudly.

Greta immediately swatted his hand away with a spoon. “Don’t you be mussin’ her hair!” she scolded, her Scots lilt rolling through her words. “She’s spent the better part o’ the mornin’ on it.”

She leaned in to fix a stray strand anyway, gentler than her tone suggested, while Aithne continued her breakfast as though this were all perfectly routine.

“Woman, I’m only showin’ the lass a bit o’ affection,” Archie huffed. “You smother her with it daily—what’s one pat?”

“She’s a young lady now,” Greta shot back, narrowing her eyes. “Not somethin’ for the likes o’ you to manhandle. And perhaps if you bathed like a proper person, I’d allow it—but you smell like a pig’s pen.”

“A pig’s—! Now listen here—”

“Don’t you ‘listen here’ me—”

The argument carried on, lively and familiar, their voices rising and falling in practiced rhythm. Aithne, for her part, paid it no mind. It makes everything more lively if she's being honest, everyone talking at the table. eating good food and feeling happy. That is all she wishes for her birthday.

“Is everything to your liking, ma’am?”

George, her new footman—the last one had retired since he had been with the family when her dad was a teen—had taken a seat nearby, his own breakfast set before him as he glanced over with quiet attentiveness. The others had settled as well, though Greta and Archie had since carried their argument into the kitchen, with Hyacinth hurriedly ushering them along before they could make any further scene.

“Of course,” Aithne replied brightly. “Archie’s cooking is always splendid.” She smiled as she spoke, scooping up a spoonful of beans.

“I almost dread leaving it behind,” she added lightly. “After the weekend, it will be back to the usual—academy lessons, fencing practice… I wish I had never left.”

Her voice dipped into a soft grumble at that, though it did little to slow her appetite as she took another bite.

George allowed himself the faintest hint of a smile.

“You will be back by the end of the weekend, won’t you? The place will remain just as you left it—we shall see to that.”

“I’m sure you all will,” Aithne replied lightly.

She snapped her fingers, and a small stack of letters lifted from the sideboard, gliding neatly into her hand. She flipped through them as she ate, skimming the letters.

“Yemma* hasn’t written of any particular plans…” she murmured, then, after a pause, “Baba neither.”

*(Yemma: Mother in Tamazight, Baba: Father in Tamazight)

George inclined his head. “I am certain you will have a pleasant visit regardless, ma’am.”

He continued his meal, though not without sliding a napkin toward her. Aithne took it without looking, dabbing neatly at her lips before returning to her breakfast—beans now layered onto toast, folded together into a rather unrefined but efficient sort of sandwich.

“Will you be returning home as well?” she asked. eyes still skimming the letter her cousins sent.

“Yes, ma’am,” George said. “My daughter is coming back from Hogwarts for the weekend. My wife and I are very much looking forward to having her home.”

The room fell quiet.

Utterly, unnaturally quiet.

It took George a moment before the color drained away from his face. His posture stiffened, color draining just slightly from his face as the weight of what he had said settled in. He had broken the rule. The unspoken rule. The one thing never to be mentioned.

“My—my lady, forgive me, I—”

“It is quite all right.” Aithne’s voice did not waver.

She sounded exactly as she had before—calm, composed, almost pleasant.

“You must be very proud of her,” she continued, setting her napkin aside. “I hear Hogwarts can be rather demanding. Is she in her third year now? My cousins have just completed their fourth—they’ll be starting their fifth soon.”

She smiled—bright, easy, entirely convincing.

George blinked, caught off guard, until Arran—the gardener seated beside him—nudged his arm sharply.

“Y-yes, ma’am,” George managed, a slight croak in his voice as he straightened himself. “I am—my wife and I are! She’s had a difficult term, so… we thought it best to have her home for a few days.”

Aithne nodded as though nothing were amiss, finishing the last of her breakfast.

“My parents do the same for me,” she said, rising from her seat. “You are a wonderful father, George. I do hope you have a pleasant weekend with her.”

She turned then, standing up, addressing the room as a whole.

“Thank you, all of you, for the celebration. You’ve made this place feel very much like home.”

The effect was immediate. Shoulders softened. Tension eased—if only slightly.

“I shall take my leave now, ill await in the carriage,” she added lightly. “Do not rush on my account.”

With that, she stepped out of the dining room, the quiet echo of farewells following her down the hall.

The moment she was gone, every eye turned to George.

He looked as though the ground might give way beneath him.

“What were you thinkin’?” Arran hissed, shoving his shoulder. “Merlin’s sake, George—three years here and that’s what you go and say!? The rule was simple— NO MENTION OF HOGWARTS.” his voice climbed high

“I—I didn’t—” George swallowed, words catching uselessly in his throat. Arran had already left, since George can't be functional- he's the footman for Aithne today.

“Well, I ought to knock some sense into you—” Archie had just emerged from the kitchen, sleeves rolled and temper already flaring, only to be caught by the back of his collar as Greta dragged him straight back.

“You’ll do no such thing,” she snapped, shoving him inside. “Stay there before you make it worse.”

Archie’s protests muffled quickly behind the door.

Greta exhaled, then turned her attention back to George. The sharpness in her expression softened, though not by much.

“We’ll have to inform Sir Luciel; he already knows by now,” she said, more quietly now. “You know the rule.”

George lowered his head. He nodded.

It was the only thing he could manage while he recalculated the future of his family.

The day passed as smoothly as it could. The carriage ride was quiet—not uncomfortable, merely absent of conversation. When she arrived, Aithne stepped down without hesitation and made her way straight toward the academy, not once glancing back at Arran or the driver. Behind her, the two exchanged uneasy looks, their concern unspoken but shared; whatever needed to be said would be carried back to the others soon enough.

Aithne, meanwhile, had already retreated into her thoughts. Even as she worked through her lessons, algebra and arithmetic posed no challenge to her, their logic not so different from the arithmancy she had been taught at home. Numbers aligned, formulas resolved themselves neatly beneath her hand, and yet her mind refused to remain with them. It wandered, circling back again and again to the same question—her future. She had only just turned sixteen, and already she found herself examining the shape of her life with a scrutiny most would reserve for far later years. Not merely her place in the wizarding world, but the possibility of leaving it behind entirely, of remaining in the Muggle world once and for all.

It would be a quieter life. Boring, perhaps—but boredom had its uses.

It allowed for time, and time, in turn, allowed for control; enough, she hoped, to keep certain things at bay once and for all.

Her pencil snapped cleanly in her hand.

Aithne stilled, her fingers tightening for the briefest moment before she set the broken piece aside and reached for another. The tremor in her hand faded quickly, composed and hidden before her deskmate could take notice. She forced her attention back to her work. This was neither the time nor the place to indulge such thoughts.

She needed only to finish her lessons, return home, and speak with her parents properly.

“—Aithne? Aithne.”

She blinked, turning her head to find Diana watching her with quiet concern.

“Class has finished,” Diana said gently. “Are you quite all right? You look rather pale.”

Her hand slipped around Aithne’s, warm against her own, and Aithne offered a small, apologetic smile as she rose, gathering her things with practiced neatness.

“Oh—my apologies. My stomach is not quite agreeable this morning. The weather, perhaps.”

Diana frowned slightly, though she said nothing of it, instead guiding her along. “Every year on your birthday, it is the same with you,” she said, shaking her head. “You truly must return to the countryside more often. A bit of fresh air would do you good.”

Aithne inclined her head, allowing herself to be led toward the garden. “I shall see you again soon enough, Diana. It is not as though I intend to disappear. I am quite content where I am.”

“Content—and alone, as always?” Diana teased.

Aithne rolled her eyes, though there was no real annoyance in it. “And what, precisely, is wrong with that?”

Diana huffed lightly. “You cannot be serious. Have you not given any thought to your suitor? Your coming-of-age is not so very far off now.”

“In two years’ time,” Aithne corrected calmly. “And no, I have not. Life offers rather more than the consideration of suitors.”

She lifted her chin slightly, finding the whole notion faintly amusing.

In the wizarding world, all she had ever heard was expectation—progress, discipline, achievement. That, at least, she could understand. Her family possessed a level of wealth and influence few could rival; such pressure was almost expected of it. But here? Diana’s father owned a railway enterprise that stretched further than most could sensibly manage. With even modest expansion into property, the fortune would have secured itself for generations. And yet, despite such standing, the conversation never seemed to stray far from marriage, as though it were the sole measure of a woman’s worth.

A narrow system, she thought, though not without its quiet absurdities. One could almost believe it had been designed to keep capable women suitably occupied, lest they prove themselves too formidable and send the men about them retreating with their pride rather poorly intact.

Aithne allowed herself a small, private smile.

“What is that look for?” Diana asked, narrowing her eyes in suspicion.

“Nothing at all,” Aithne replied smoothly. “Only something a cousin once said about their academy in Ireland.”

The lie slipped past her lips with ease; having a Slytherin cousin would do that for you.

After lessons had ended, her mind remained unsettled, thoughts circling the same question without resolution. How was she meant to present this to her parents? How should she begin, and more importantly—how would they receive it? No… not like that. There had to be a better way to—

She did not realize they had arrived until Arran opened the carriage door.

Aithne blinked, startled for a moment before she composed herself, allowing him to assist her down. “Thank you, Arran,” she said with a small nod, already moving toward the door.

Inside, Hyacinth and Tiddly were waiting.

“Good evening, Hyacinth. Tiddly. Where are Greta and George?” she asked, removing her coat. Before she could so much as fold it, Hyacinth snapped her fingers, and the coat, hat, and pin drifted neatly away to their places.

“They are just… having a talk, ma’am,” Hyacinth began carefully.

Aithne exhaled, soft but knowing, and lowered herself to their height.

“Hyacinth. Tiddly. You both know I do not mind such things being spoken of in this house,” she said quietly.

Tiddly shifted slightly, her scarred ear twitching. “We do, ma’am. You were thinking of… the matter with no name.”

“Precisely,” Aithne replied, her tone gentler now. “So please—where are Greta and George? He is a good man. He has worked hard for his family.”

Hyacinth hesitated, then sighed. “In the back, I believe, ma’am.”

“Thank you.” Aithne reached out, giving their hands a brief, reassuring pat. “Now, both of you—there are sweets in my coat pocket. Do take them before someone else does.”

With that, she rose and made her way toward the back of the house.

her heels silently click on the parquet flooring, grumbling in her heart because of her fathers silly rule-

“—Sir Luciel is not so cruel,” Greta was saying as Aithne approached, her voice carrying faintly down the corridor. Aithne slowed, stopping just short of the doorway. “We may speak to him. I can try to—”

“Oh, Greta, there is no use,” George replied, his tone low and worn. “The fault is mine. I spoke where I ought not to have.”

“A fault easily made,” Greta insisted. “Mrs. Anqa and Mr. Luciel are only protective—”

“And rightly so,” George said, cutting in, though there was no sharpness in it—only fatigue. “We have all watched her grow… and yet she pretends, Greta. As though all is well when it plainly is not. She is hurting. I saw it in her eyes.”

There was a pause.

Aithne, without meaning to, glanced in.

George had covered his face with one hand, shoulders drawn inward as though the weight of his own words pressed too heavily upon him.

“She was but twelve,” he continued, voice roughening. “Making such a choice for herself… leaving home for London as though it were nothing. And each time I see her, I think of my Dahlia. So small still… and yet growing, all the same. I cannot help but wonder what it must be like—to come of age in a world that was never meant for you.”

Greta said nothing to that. She only placed a hand upon his arm, her expression softened, the earlier sharpness gone.

As the room fell quiet. Aithne did not linger.

She turned, her steps light against the floor as she made her way back toward the stairs,

Once inside her room, Aithne went straight to her wardrobe and drew out a mirror from within. It was no ordinary thing, of course—the interior of the wardrobe shifted subtly at her touch, revealing objects far too large to belong in such a space. With a practiced motion, she lifted the mirror into the air.

“Levioso.” It hovered obediently before her.

She traced her fingers along its edges, using a quill and ink, she inscribed small, precise runes into the frame, each one settling with a faint glow before fading into the glass. When the last mark was complete, she closed her eyes and began the incantation her mother had taught her, her voice lowering into something softer, more familiar.

[“A yelli innu?”]

My daughter. The response came almost at once.

Her mother’s voice, warm and unmistakable, echoed faintly through the mirror, as though carried across a great distance.

When Aithne opened her eyes, the reflection had shifted. Her mother sat before her, clad in a deep red thobe embroidered with fine gold thread that caught the light with quiet elegance. The richness of the fabric stood in striking harmony against her cool brown skin, her dark hair resting neatly at her side. The image shimmered slightly at the edges, but her presence remained steady all the same.

“Yemma,” Aithne greeted, the Moroccan lilt slipping easily into her voice. “Yes, it's me. I wished to ask you something.”

Her mother studied her for a moment before speaking.

[“Did those Muggle teachers request a guardian again?”] She asked, a faint frown forming. [“If they are still under the impression you are an orphan—”]

“Aih, no, Mama,” Aithne cut in gently, shaking her head. “It is not that.”

Her tone shifted, “I wish to ask that you and Baba not dismiss George.”

There was a pause.

[“A tafat-iw*… why would we dismiss George?”] Her mother asked, brow furrowing slightly as she leaned back. [“He has only just begun his work.”]

*(my light)

Then, a beat later—[“Ah.”] Understanding settled in her violet eyes, followed by a small shake of her head.

“One of your father’s peculiar rules, I assume.”

Aithne huffed softly. “Yes. One of many.”

“I shall speak with him,” her mother replied. Then, without missing a beat, she added, “Or I shall simply knock some sense into him myself.”

Aithne let out a quiet laugh. “Yemma—Mama, please do not kill Baba.”

Her mother rolled her eyes. [“He behaves as though the mere mention of Hogwarts would have you weeping on the spot. Your father has always been dramatic.”]

Aithne smiled, settling onto the edge of her bed with a soft sigh. “Is he not always?”

[“Only when it concerns you and me, my little firebug,”] her mother returned with a light chuckle. [“It will not be an issue. I shall speak with him soon.”] She adjusted the folds of her dress and leaned back into her seat, her expression softening once more. [“Now then—how is my newly sixteen-year-old daughter? Have you packed?”]

“Yes, Mama. We leave tonight,” Aithne replied, reaching for her brush as she loosened the pins from her hair. The dark strands fell free, and she drew the bristles through them with slow, steady strokes. “I am only ensuring everything is in order before the new tenant arrives.”

Her mother hummed in approval, watching her with quiet fondness.

“Also… Mama,” Aithne continued after a moment, her tone shifting just slightly, “may we speak of something once I return home?”

Her mother’s brow lifted. [“Oh? And what might that be, my child? I do hope it is not another business venture in the Muggle world. You and your Aunt Mary may discuss those without me.”]

Aithne shook her head, turning to face her fully.

“It is not that.”

There was a pause.

She reached up, undoing the subtle charm that masked her face. The illusion slipped away, revealing the scar along her right side, her fingers resting lightly against it.

“It is about the… iblis.”

Her mother straightened at once.

[“Has it come to you?”]

“No,” Aithne answered quickly. “Nothing of the sort. I only wish for you and Baba to train me further—and for me to learn more spells. To contain it.”

Her mother’s expression hardened, her voice losing its warmth, though not its care. [“That thing is not meant to be contained.”]

“Then only until I am strong enough to destroy it,” Aithne said, her voice quieter now, but no less firm. “It has troubled you long enough. It is time I put an end to it.”

Her hand remained at her cheek, fingers resting lightly against the mark, as though it might answer her if she pressed hard enough.

Her mother did not reply at once. She had gone still, her gaze drifting away, lost somewhere beyond the mirror.

“Yemma…”Aithne’s voice softened, almost careful.

At last, her mother looked back at her. Sixteen. Only sixteen—and already bearing a scar from a battle she had never asked to fight. It was supposed to be her fight—but demons—this in particular had already marked her daughter.

“I have made my decision,” Aithne continued, more steadily now. “I will face it. I will not sit idle and do nothing.” The faintest trace of her Welsh lilt slipped through as her resolve sharpened. “Yemma… Mama, please.”

Her mother watched her, something conflicted settling in her expression. This was not how it ought to be. A girl of her age should have been concerned with studies, with laughter, with small, trivial things—not with demons that lingered at the edges of her life, waiting.

[“If…”] she began, then sighed, already knowing she had little chance of refusing when Aithne begged and looked at her with those brown-yellow eyes. [“If you truly believe you are capable, then I shall speak with your father—and your aunt and uncle as well.”]

Aithne’s face brightened at once. “Thank you, Mama! I shall bring you sweets in return,” she added with a soft laugh. “I will finish my packing now. I shall see you soon.”

Her mother’s expression softened again, warmth returning as easily as it had left. [“I will be waiting, a yelli innu. Travel safely.”]

Aithne nodded, then leaned forward, brushing her fingers along the edge of the mirror. The runes faded beneath her touch, one by one, until her mother’s image dissolved completely. The glass stilled.

She guided the mirror back into the wardrobe before turning to her belongings. Her suitcase lay open, and she began with the essentials, packing with neat efficiency.

Even so, her thoughts did not quiet.

Perhaps she ought to write to her cousins. They had mentioned, in passing, some manner of duelling club at their school—something they attended for fun and sport. Aithne allowed herself a small, knowing smile at that. She doubted either of them lasted more than a match or two without causing trouble, but even so, it might prove useful.

After some time, she changed into her travelling clothes.

The off-white cotton blouse sat comfortably against her skin, its ruffled neckline soft without being excessive, while her navy trousers were fitted just enough to allow ease of movement. She stepped into her black, calf-high boots, lacing them securely before fastening a more flexible stays bodice over her blouse—one that allowed her to breathe without the rigid constraint of formal wear. It was practical, if not entirely conventional, but Aithne had long stopped caring for convention where comfort was concerned.

She tied her hair back into a neat bun, securing it with a slender gold pin, then paused only briefly as she reached for the finishing touches. Her mother’s red scarf she wrapped about her waist, the fabric a quiet contrast against the rest of her attire, and Hyacinth’s brooch she fastened carefully beside it.

Two small things from the people she cared about, only then did she lift her case and make her way downstairs.

The household was already gathered. Aithne paused at the sight, then inclined her head slightly.

“Oh—have I kept you waiting? My apologies.”

“Not at all, miss,” Greta replied with an easy smile, stepping forward to take the luggage from her hands. “We have not been waiting long.”

She gave the case a small, appraising look. “Is this everything? I was certain there was more to pack.”

“I have… adjusted a few items,” Aithne replied, smoothing a stray strand of hair into place. “It seemed unnecessary to travel with excess.”

Greta huffed softly but said nothing more.

Aithne straightened, glancing once around the room before nodding. “Shall we, then? Home awaits.”

Greta moved toward an old cupboard set against the wall, tapping its side with practiced familiarity. The wood shifted, revealing the hidden Floo connection within—a narrow chimney, darkened by soot and faintly warm.

Aithne stepped forward without hesitation. She reached for the small pot, took a measured handful of powder, and cast it into the hearth. Green flames surged to life at once, rising bright and steady.

She stepped into them, shoulders squared, her voice clear as she spoke:

“Manor Luciel.”

[rosierirene]

Aithne! My fav Amazigh fmc!!! 💛💛

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

"is it wrong to write xyz in fanfics?"

I got asked this question every single day on this blog. and my answer will always stay the same: as long as it's fiction and as long as you're not hurting anybody in real life, NOTHING you put in fanfics can EVER be wrong.

you cannot apply real-world moral compass on FICTION.

YOU as the writer have complete and total right/freedom to write WHATEVER YOU WANT. HOWEVER YOU WANT.

that's the whole point of fanfics: authors have the power, control and freedom to create their own world. no matter how messed up or disgusting or morally wrong it is, FICTION WILL ALWAYS STAY FICTION. a person's real-life moral compass can never ever be judged by what type of fiction they create and/or consume.

fanfic is creative writing and creative writing is a form of art. and the thing about art is that it doesn't have to always be rainbow and sunshine. it can be macabre and dark and brutal and ugly. and it's still a work of art that is just as valid and valuable.

YOU as the writer have all the power, rights and freedom to literally write WHATEVER YOU WANT. HOWEVER YOU WANT.

I am a stranger. people on the internet are strangers. YOU as a fanfic writer write FOR YOURSELF AND YOUR OWN ENJOYMENT. you do NOT need my opinion or permission when it comes to YOUR OWN HOBBY AND FREEDOM.

you do not need anybody's opinion or permission when it comes to YOUR OWN HOBBY AND FREEDOM.

"is it wrong to write xyz in fanfic" ask yourself if you are hurting anybody in real life by doing so or not. if the answer is no, then it is never ever wrong.

write whatever you want. however you want. no matter how messed up or disgusting or morally wrong it is. as long as it's fiction and as long as no one in real life is being harmed, it literally is never ever wrong.

please stop seeking strangers' opinions or permission when it comes to your own rights and freedom to create.

[maidofking123]

this makes me want to write more. I'm a gal who likes to write darker themes and in my real life, I run into people who genuinely find my interests and or kinks utterly disgusting. It's quite lonely and has made me abandon most of my writing because I end up writing for other people and not me.

I end up trying to people please my way into acceptance, from people who wouldn't like me either way.

So while I'm on this journey of self acceptance and love, I gotta stay true to myself by reminding myself that it's ok to like the yandere character trope, that it's ok to like writing toxic lovers who trap their beloveds, that I'm not a bad person just because I find these things hot and that I don't need to go on a diatribe about my personal traumas to justify my interests to people who I really don't matter to.

No matter what I say, how much I suck up, some people will genuinely never like me and it's futile endeavor to try and get them all to. I'm a good person, a lil fucked up from my traumas and working so hard to get through it all, but a solid guy at heart.

I'm trying to be okay and I'm learning to just vibe with my writing. It's not for others, it's for me. If no one else will like it, I should at the very least be writing what I want.

I haven't been writing much lately, I should give it more of a shot so I can improve :)

[akiyamacho]

I support you although we're stranger :)

Don't seek any acceptance if they don't want to understand you. And also don't hurt other people just because they don't know about you and the headcanon :')

Hope someday you meet people that really care for you :')

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

"is it wrong to write xyz in fanfics?"

I got asked this question every single day on this blog. and my answer will always stay the same: as long as it's fiction and as long as you're not hurting anybody in real life, NOTHING you put in fanfics can EVER be wrong.

you cannot apply real-world moral compass on FICTION.

YOU as the writer have complete and total right/freedom to write WHATEVER YOU WANT. HOWEVER YOU WANT.

that's the whole point of fanfics: authors have the power, control and freedom to create their own world. no matter how messed up or disgusting or morally wrong it is, FICTION WILL ALWAYS STAY FICTION. a person's real-life moral compass can never ever be judged by what type of fiction they create and/or consume.

fanfic is creative writing and creative writing is a form of art. and the thing about art is that it doesn't have to always be rainbow and sunshine. it can be macabre and dark and brutal and ugly. and it's still a work of art that is just as valid and valuable.

YOU as the writer have all the power, rights and freedom to literally write WHATEVER YOU WANT. HOWEVER YOU WANT.

I am a stranger. people on the internet are strangers. YOU as a fanfic writer write FOR YOURSELF AND YOUR OWN ENJOYMENT. you do NOT need my opinion or permission when it comes to YOUR OWN HOBBY AND FREEDOM.

you do not need anybody's opinion or permission when it comes to YOUR OWN HOBBY AND FREEDOM.

"is it wrong to write xyz in fanfic" ask yourself if you are hurting anybody in real life by doing so or not. if the answer is no, then it is never ever wrong.

write whatever you want. however you want. no matter how messed up or disgusting or morally wrong it is. as long as it's fiction and as long as no one in real life is being harmed, it literally is never ever wrong.

please stop seeking strangers' opinions or permission when it comes to your own rights and freedom to create.

[akiyamacho]

yes this is so true. you can make your character however you want from hero to evil. as long as it's only in your head. but getting immerse it to your own personality so it makes you get "main character syndrome" and then hurting other people just because they have 'opposite' character in their fiction shouldn't be tolerated. or worse, asking friends to follow 'cancel culture' just because 'opposite character'.

[akiyamacho]

I was thinking to take a break for caring other people. The trauma is still real by being called ignorant when what I did was genuinely helping (and again, still am confused why that burst-out came to me 3 months after I helped? why not immediately?).

More news came from my friends about this particular person to me like a river without I asked. My friend got an insult about the harmless fanart after my friend giving an idea to help by commissioning an artist from our country to get local price.

Why insult to unrelated subject tho when both me and my friend offered solutions to the financial problem? I'm confused.

An artist friend also got mad a bit about the same person when venting to me. This person totally has 'unique' character. I'm confused.

Some friends in this fandom still encourage me for 'do not give up giving unconditional kindness' (I really feel grateful to befriend with these people 🥺 so sooo grateful)

I guess now I'm trying to not give up..

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

I think the act of not giving a fuck is so beautiful and powerful. they can't cancel you if you don't give a fuck about what they think or say

edit, I want to clarify, this is not to say "you should stay quiet and let them harass you". I think bullies deserve to be publicly called out and shamed. but it really helps if, after rightfully calling them out, you tell yourself these people are just bullies with sad, sad lives. and therefore their opinions don't matter.

[akiyamacho]

ahahahaha we got it from the same person @rosierirene 😂😂😂

we're definitely twinnie, together in sickness and good times 😂😂😂

[akiyamacho]

this soothing project is finally done 😌

next puzzle/blocks?? 🤭

[lollaarchive]

Irene Rosier as a Lannister princess 🦁 (HL x ASOIAF)

Dark red ver:

White ver:

I love to imagine Irene in the ASOIAF world as a Lannister princess. She would be very good at politics, since in the Hogwarts Legacy world, Irene really enjoys political manuvering and is skilled at it. And don't forget that she has a strong sense of hierarchy and awareness of social dynamics.

And to my guilt, I love Cersei... don't judge me! I mean, we need characters like her, and I'm not afraid to make Irene as bad as her, since she's already bad 🤭

This is my first time having a cute art of Irene 😭🫶 and look at her forehead!!! OMGGG 😭😭😭♥️🌹

[akiyamacho]

love irene ❤❤❤❤❤

[diligentcranberry]

Completed commission for @akiyamacho !

Thank you so much for commissioning me! This was a treat to create.

My commission info can be found here.

[akiyamacho]

*SCREAMING LIKE A FANGIRL*

DIANA IS SO MAJESTIC IN YOUR HAND AND SHE'S VERY MUCH LIKE ELLE FANNING 😻😻😻 Thank youuu for drawing my girl 😻😻😻

Diana Hartwell belongs to @thestralwitch 🤗🤗

[akiyamacho]

I think this will be a good idea for another spin-off story about someone doing same pattern to everyone like "I want to buy a new wand but I don't have enough Galleons".

Then, when some genuinely kind-hearted souls offer a perfectly functional second-hand wand or a cheaper wood alternative; or suggesting to some budget-friendly local wand artists for 'local' price, that person doesn't say thank you. Instead, that person shrieks that the wood grain is "offensive" or "ignorant" of their specific "noble" heritage.

Or worse, that person attacks the wand artist because the other current wands aren't standing in "a way" according to some ancient, obscure wizarding decree that "devoted" person believe to.

What "that person" actually wants is getting an expected new wand with no need to spend Galleons

Nice idea 🤔🤔