🦆 hello, my pen name is A.D. Andrius but you may call me "eydi"
🌻 i often write for characters that invoke something within. even if it was only me who was writing for that fandom, i will still do it
🦆 i am bad with updates because it is hard for me to focus
🌻 i love posting here, so if you follow me, do expect that i do that a lot. if you also love talking, then we will vibe for sure
🧺 english is my second language and i struggle a lot with setting a scene
🦆 it makes my day whenever you reblog and leave comments on my stories. sometimes, it feels unbelievable that someone out there, do really read your silly little fanfics
🌻 lastly, this is a safe space. be at peace. its okay to let all of it go and just enjoy
Thank you, Black people in fandom spaces. Thank you, Black creators and Black lurkers. Thank you Black artists, Black writers. Thank you, Black bloggers, Black influencers. Shoutout to those Black characters, both canon and original. Thank you, Black people, both queer and cishet.
Your perspectives matter. Your representation matters. You are not bothersome for demanding equal treatment in fandom. It is not your responsibility to make fandom more welcoming and inclusive to you. It is not your sole responsibility to create all of the Black-centered content. You are not "ruining" anyone's fun for demanding better for yourself, and anyone who says otherwise can go fuck themselves. Any fandom worth being a part of should have no room for racism in it.
Black people in fandom, you are wanted. You are needed. You are loved and appreciated. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.
And since they don't get told it near enough, thank you, Black women especially!!!
You are not "ruining" anyone's fun for demanding better for yourself, and anyone who says otherwise can go fuck themselves. Any fandom worth being a part of should have no room for racism in it.
tweaking thinking about reader waking up in the hospital in a small coastal town with no recollection of who she is and where she came from, only to look over and meet the wide, charming grin of a Scottish stranger who introduces himself as her husband when she asks who he is.
the doctor says she’s fine otherwise though; no concussion, no symptoms apart from her total lack of memories. nothing to do but rest and wait for them to come back, he says, shrugging like the massive dearth of identity - the black hole in her memory spanning from the beginning of her life until precisely twenty minutes ago - is something he can just shrug off.
he takes her home though - Johnny, her husband, handsy enough as he leads her out of the hospital that she has to imagine he’s done this with her before - and drags her to bed the same day, brushes off all of her concerns by reminding her that his hands and lips only feel unfamiliar because she took a tumble and shook her memories loose. they’ll come back to her eventually though, and won’t she feel silly then trying to bat her own husband’s hands off her when he was so worried about her.
(that’s not the truth though, is it? but how is she to know that he just wandered in off the street, a stranger in the right place at the wrong time. was in the hospital for some other reason - couple stitches after he nearly cut open his hand doing a bit of work in the yard - when he spotted her unconscious form as the paramedics wheeled her in on a gurney and just followed them to her room, lying through his teeth the whole while. couldn’t believe his luck when she woke up and couldn’t even recall her own name.)
(he’s just got to wait her out. keep her happy and sated and fucked and pampered to that when those pesky memories come back, she won’t want to leave him.)
Oh! Look! My favorite genre of Soap from Cei. 😋 Absolutely adore when he just sees someone he likes, uses his charm to get it, and acts like there's nothing wrong with it— as long as he's not caught.
I don't understand why inspiration comes to me whenever I'm seriously drowning with work and presentation/reports lmaoooo
but seriously I wanted to write for Zuko and a reader who told him, while drunk, that if he was married to her, there will be no way that one child is enough. She'll climb him everyday, any time, that other people would be the ones to tell them to stop having kids. That doing it raw everyday is not a competition nor an achievement. 😌 That they are already the father and mother of a nation, they don't need to create another one related to them by blood. She was so wasted that all Zuko could do is blush and stutter. A Fire Lord who were caught off guard by the person they least expect to share such bulgar unfounded promises.
Sharing a bit of the stuff I've written already so I won't forget huehue 😋
I have an idea for Fire Lord Zuko and a reader, who had been a friend of his during his travels with the Avatar. You who absolutely was surprised that Mai and Zuko married. Though you knew their relationship survived the war and all the complicated matters of themselves, you just knew that they will not work out. Mai who is absolutely strong willed and Zuko who is stubborn and kind of childish. Or maybe it was their rose-colored look about romance and love that blinded them so with their differences. Fire and fire will never be a good mix. It will always destroy— even the things it loves and treasure.
When the news about their divorce came up, you kind of expected it, probably sooner, yet you kept to yourself. Zuko had stopped sending letters to his friends then, and you accepted that he had chosen to drown himself with work and raising his only child. Because at the end of the day, you knew how much he loved Mai.
It has been years when you last reached out. The last letter you've sent was your sincerest apologies that him and Mai didn't work out. You were left with no response. He usually replies to your letters, even late on his correspondence, it always arrives, except that one. You accepted that he'd rather not talk about it, especially to those who knew the intimate details of his relationship with his first love and former wife.
But you have no choice. Your business is losing money. A little bit more and you will be living on the streets. No, you'd rather be shameless than hungry.
You have exhausted all the means you could think of, except your connection with Zuko. A partnership with strong connections is all you need. So you wrote that letter. Sweating, trembling and shame crept up on you. He had always admired your tenacity, and you wanted for him to see you that way. However, an image will not feed a starving stomach. Ego will not save your workers' families. There are a lot more things you could lose. And losing your pride will be the least of all that.
You swallowed, determined to get this over with. You can't believe that after all those years, your first letter to him would be to take advantage of what you two had. You felt disgusted. You hope he understands. You truly hope so.
Weeks passes by, and you were losing hope. You watched and let the murmurs travel around, as you count all your last coins, preparing to depart from the people who helped your business up, hoping that even if you starve, they will have enough to look for a better job, and not worrying about their family starving for a while. You laughed bitterly as you remembered when your father said that maybe you bite off more than you can chew. You scoffed back then, but you probably should have listened a little, and you'll probably be in a better predicament than now.
An announcement woke you up from your woes, a soldier dressed in red, had called to you and gave you a bag full of gold and a letter. In haste, you opened the fine paper, trembling as you read, tears welled up as you realized you were saved. You've thanked the heavens that after all this time, Zuko still remembered you. Still willing to lend a hand, even when everyone around him said no. There were conditions but you could think of that later. For now, you are saved. And that is enough.
fandom etiquette as a whole died when people who didn’t grow up on fandoms became stans during lockdown, yes, but why am i seeing people openly mocking fics on twitter. why am i seeing screenshots of fics with captions like “bro what is this 😭.” why am i seeing people mock fic writers for not knowing how sports or theater or college or any other organization operates in the real world.
“college is absolutely nothing like this” “why are we writing four people on the team scoring a hat trick in one game” “so tech work is nothing like this, hope that helps!”
if you don’t like a fic, and if you can’t suspend your belief enough to enjoy a fic that exaggerates or ignores real-world orgs, you don’t have to read it. you don’t have to screenshot it and put it on blast for twitter. you don’t have to post a link to it in the replies. the back button is literally there on your phone. it’s not giving baby’s first fandom anymore, it’s giving entitled asshole and it isn’t as cute as you think it is.
listen, I respect others’ opinions even if I don’t agree with them, as long as they’re not disrespecting or harassing anyone. so this is not to throw shades at op. but a gentle disagreement and a reminder that, while people can absolutely do whatever they want when it comes to fictional characters (as long as they’re not harming anyone in real life), the point of shipping has never been about whether or not the ship is canon. for decades, the point of shipping fictional characters is that it’s fun. that’s it. that’s all. there are so many ships where characters aren’t even from the same source material and therefore have never met in canon.
I’m not telling you or anyone what to do, but as someone who’s been in fandom space for so many years (way before tiktok became a thing), my advice is: you will find liking fictional characters, shipping and engaging in fan contents so much more enjoyable if you don’t treat canon as a rule, but a suggestion instead (so whether or not you will follow canon, how much of canon you will follow, if any, is entirely up to you). don’t let canon limit and dictate what you can or can’t enjoy.
if you don’t like canon, indulge in your own headcanon, create your own fan contents — you have the freedom to create your own world for your comfort ship and characters.
Naaaah, ship all the characters you want, do the most unhinged things to fandom because AI is literally taking over everything that makes experience human. Worrying about being cringe or whether something is right or wrong for fiction is insane.
Also, we used to be singled out and bullied for the things we enjoy and now, y'all are trying to fence us over with these takes.
and if i said that tumblr thought they could get away with that update bc they know the majority of this website ignores the reblog option entirely compared to years ago, so they figured they could just BREAK the very foundation of how this website was built to operate and people would just shrug and be fine with that. please let this be a wake up call. our strong reaction to that change should start to reflect significantly in that ACTUAL reblog count under those notes we just fought for to stay untouched. fandoms and communities cannot thrive on likes alone. as much as tumblr has tried to turn this place into tiktok and twitter, it's not. posts need to circulate. art needs to be seen and shared. tumblr is not tumblr if this is not happening consistently because reblogs are the heartbeat of this website. please don't ever take it for granted. never give tumblr a reason to take away the thing that links us together and amplifies creativity. make reblogging a priority, PLEASE.
Apparently, Tumblr is ban in the Philippines because it was flagged as a gambling site but not the endless fucking ads of gambling whenever I turn off my phone restrictions againsts such ads.
Summary: He is here. He is clipping the cat's claws on a Tuesday afternoon.
Pairing: Hiromi Higuruma x gn reader
Genre: fluff, comfort, househusband au
AN: I want this for him. So BAD.
"Why are we doing this again?" you ask, holding Hiromi's ladder as he paints test strips over the laundry room walls.
At 3am.
"It is a necessary evil." He dips the roller in more paint without looking down. "I cannot. Will not, accept a subpar home tour for your family."
"They're coming to see us, Hiromi. Not the laundry room."
"They will see the laundry room."
"Only if we show them the laundry room."
"We will be showing them the laundry room."
Four months of break and counting. This Hiromi is so different from Lawyer Higuruma you had come to know.
He has color coded both your closets. He has created a wash care ledger, a physical document, with laminated pages, cataloguing every garment in the home by fabric content and care requirements. He has perfected a croquembouche recipe across three attempts for the New Year's party you both want to host in the new home this year.
And he has stolen your cat.
This is the gravest offense.
Kano, your cat, your little paw monster, now allocates the majority of her biscuit-making activity to Hiromi's chest. She seeks him out. You have watched her walk across you, to reach him on the other side of the couch. You have watched her slow blink at him. A favor she has never once extended to you despite five years of feeding her and cleaning up after her.
"The color on the left," he says from the ladder, "has better depth."
You look at the paint strips. They are, as far as you can tell, identical. "They're the same."
"They are not the same."
"Hiromi. It's 3am."
"Your mother arrives at eleven."
"She has never once in her life looked at a laundry room and had thoughts about the depth of the paint."
He looks down at you. The look is brief and complete and communicates, without any words whatsoever, that this is not the point and you are both aware of it.
You hold the ladder.
"It should be by the tea drawer," Hiromi replies from the couch, where Kano has him hostage. Or the other way around.
"We have a tea drawer now?" You turn around, incredulous.
He doesn't look up from Kano's paw. "Third drawer. By the window."
You open it.
It takes you a moment to understand what you are looking at. Blends organized by use, by brand, by color, each one labelled in his small precise handwriting. Morning blends. Evening blends. Chamomile. Peppermint. Something for digestion. Something for sleep. Ginger peach tucked neatly in the corner like it has always lived there.
You stand there longer than you mean to.
You had watched him run entirely on espresso. You knew the particular sound of the machine at 2am, at 4am, at whatever hour a deadline required.
There is no coffee in this drawer.
There is ginger peach. There is chamomile for evenings. There is a small handwritten label on every single box because of course there is, because he cannot do anything halfway.
You forget what you came to the kitchen for.
Behind you, on the couch, he says something quiet to Kano in the tone he uses when he thinks no one is listening. You hear the small snick of the clipper. Kano makes a sound of profound indignation and then settles.
You think about the past few months.
He is getting better.
You had hoped for this. You had not let yourself expect it. And now here it is. Not announced, not explained, just present, the way he is present, in a drawer full of carefully labelled tea on a Tuesday afternoon.
You take two ginger peach sachets. You fill the kettle. You stand there in the quiet kitchen while the cups steep and you let yourself feel it fully, the way you haven't allowed yourself to until now.
He is here. He is clipping the cat's claws on a Tuesday afternoon.
He is okay.
You pick up both cups and go back to the couch. You hand him his without a word and then arrange yourself across him in a way that makes room for neither the tea nor Kano nor any reasonable interpretation of personal space.
Hiromi intends to go back. He will return to the justice system. It is all he has worked so hard for.
But he is not in a rush anymore.
The world has held its breath these past few months. Or perhaps he has. It amounts to the same thing.
He has had time, these days. A strange and unfamiliar quantity that he has been learning, slowly, to use without guilt. Time to take half-empty midday trains to grocery stores. To visit bookstores and stay as long as he likes. To try new cafes and bakeries. Reading without a deadline waiting on the other side of it.
Time, most recently, to plant grape tomatoes in the backyard garden. The ones you mentioned liking, Hiromi noticed (of course he did) and ordered the seeds the following Tuesday.
They are coming in well. He checks them in the mornings now.
His steps are lighter than they have been in years. He is not sure when this happened exactly. He suspects it was gradual, the way most important things are.
Today he is carrying Kano to the local thrift store to find a bookshelf for the basement.
She is draped over his forearm with the sovereign composure of a cat who has decided this is her preferred mode of transport and expects it to continue indefinitely.
The elderly man at the counter smiles when they come in. At Hiromi first, then at Kano. He reaches out to pet her and risks losing fingers for it.
Hiromi walks the aisles.
He is not a fan of the smell, the particular mustiness of accumulated time but there are ways to address that. Airing. Beeswax. He has done it before with the coat rack in the hallway, which came from a place not unlike this one and now stands in the entrance.
Then, from the corner of his eye...a nightstand.
He stops. He knows the quality of the wood just by looking, the weight of it evident in the way it sits, made by someone who knew what they were doing and intended it to last.
He crouches to look at the underside, Kano shifting on his arm with mild complaint. The joinery is clean. The drawer slides smoothly despite the years.
He stands up. He tucks Kano more securely against his chest. "This one," he tells her, as though she has been part of the deliberation, which in some capacity she has.
Kano looks at the nightstand. She looks away. This is, he has learned, her version of approval.
He carries it to the counter under one arm, Kano under the other. The elderly man raises his eyebrows at the logistics.
Outside the afternoon is mild and bright and going nowhere in particular. He has no deadlines. No hearings. Nowhere to be until you come home.
The grape tomatoes need checking when he gets back.
