#Substitute Guardian | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ashdreams2023 · 8 months ago

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Hello again! I was wondering if you still do requests and if so, can I request a Severus x reader but platonic? Like we've all read Sev being like a guardian of sorts to students but what if reader is like the prof that cares for Sev when he was a student? Like Severus' favorite teacher is reader cause not only is she smart and teaches well but she has a soft spot for Sevy and is one of the profs that punishes the marauders every time she catches them bothering Snape. Snape can see her as a mother figure that even up to the point that Sev actually became a teacher he still goes to her for his problems and she just babies him lol. (Reader was once the youngest teacher to teach in Hogwarts before Snape took that role)

Alright alright gonna do this now!

Platonic Severus snape x fem reader

All my respect

Severus had a rocky relationship with adults from a very young age that’s for sure, his home life and neighborhood left little in his faith for grown ups.

It was a rocky two first years when he couldn’t even trust his head of house let alone another professor, he felt uncomfortable if he had to seek his head of house for help, he preferred to suffer in silence, even if it meant having to sit in aching bruises from his bullies until he learned how to brew a cooling balm.

No one did a thing to genuinely help him, no one, he hated how everyone overlooked him, how They saw him just as a weird kid who others avoid for no reason but that they didn’t understand him.

That continued until his third year, after a brutal beating from Sirius and his wand almost snapping in half, he remembers it very clearly he was sitting in the hall feeling the entire world was against him.

Then you came, young looking and worried, at the time you were only 28 years of age, he knew you were the new hired substitute professor for charms.

He expected to be scolded and sent to his dorm but instead you kneeled down and without even asking a question tended to his injuries self, he flinched when you first touched his face but that didn’t stop you from applying some healing balm and checking his medical chart with your wand.

He was speechless to say the least, no one ever cared this much about him…even his mother…

"Tell me who did this to you and I don’t want any lies little boy" you tried to sound firm but he could tell you were still panicked about his state and what you saw on his medical charm, he was a scrawny malnourished boy "you can tell me, you’re not gonna be in trouble I promise"

Next thing he knows points have been deducted from the lions and he’s all healed up. Although that still didn’t make him trust you that easily.

But it kept happening, you stopped whoever was bothering him, looked out for him when he seemed a little off and much more, you didn’t rest until you got the marauders suspended from hogwarts for a whole semester because of that idiot and deadly prank.

You scolded him still but always with a gentle hand checking if he’s hurt or hiding an injury like he sometimes did.

"One of these days you will kill me with a heart attack!"

"They started it!"

Heck you even helped him get some rare plants for his potion making and recommended him to higher education, even after he messed up and used that awful name, you believed him, you saw the good in him and stood by his side.

He can thank you a million times but he still feels like it isn’t enough, even now at 35 of age, you’re 50 and still working in the same school.

He comes to you for guidance, he has tea with you every other day and you sit there smiling fondly as he complains and rants about his day, just like the little boy you once knew.

"With all my respect to you mother but these kids are insufferable" it takes him a minute to realize what he just said and he blushes crazily but you chuckle.

"Oh please, you’re the son I never birthed"

Severus sighs still blushing slightly from embarrassment "Isn’t it too late for me to call my professor mum?" He used sarcasm to hide his embarrassment.

You sipped your tea and leaned back on your chair "I remember when you were just a little lad, sneaking around to brew your outrageous potions and getting burned then coming back to me with a pout and tear stained eyes demanding I give you my cooling balm"

He smirked crossing his arms "I can make it myself now, I don’t need to be babied anymore"

"Oh? So you don’t your favorite tea cup?" She laughed softly.

Severus frowned dropping his arms, his tea cup, the one you bought specially for him because the design reminded you of a cauldron, it was childish and looked out of place in your neatly organized cabin with all the good China sets.

But he still went for it, he wouldn’t pick that one round tea cup and take it for himself, you would tease him about needing a grown up one but he would defend himself saying he would do just fine with this one.

"Well, good to know some things just don’t change sevy"

"Don’t call me that I’m a grown adult! I’m taller than you!"

"Whatever helps you sleep at night sevy" fighting you was useless, he should’ve known better but he always felt light, he breathed out and let a small smile creep on his lips.

#imagine #severus x reader #severus snape headcanon #severus snape fanfiction #pro severus snape #severussnape #severus #severus snape x you #severus snape x reader #severus snape #snapedom #snape #snape fandom #professor snape #harry potter requests

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thewertsearch · 8 months ago

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In the core of Derse lies Aradia’s missing, presumed-dead Dream Self, dressed in rags.

Maybe her Dream Self survived because her realself hadn't awakened on Derse when she died. Their connection hadn't been established, so Dream Aradia hadn't yet started reflecting her realself's injuries.

Actually, if that theory's correct, it means that the John from Davesprite’s timeline may have survived through his own unawakened Dream Self - and that all Future Dave needed to do to get his friend back was travel to Prospit's core.

Her dream body is consumed by Jack's First Guardian flames. This creates a feedback loop similar to the one that destroyed Jadebot, with identical results.

She's awake, baby!

And she's a fucking God Tier, which is amazing and breaks so many rules.

First of all, God Tiering is supposed to merge your realself with your Dream Self by sacrificing the former. Aradia doesn’t have a living realself, and sacrificed her Dream Self instead. Plus, the sacrifice was instantly undone!

Second of all, this is supposed to happen on your Quest Cocoon, which Aradia is many miles from. She did appear to be sleeping on a Time symbol, which may have served as a substitute Quest Cocoon, but that just raises further questions! What the hell is going on!?

The only person more confused than I am is Aradia herself, who appears to have had no idea that this was going to happen.

Theories aside, let’s take a moment to celebrate. Aradia’s been completely resurrected, and her cheery demeanor has returned in full. This might be the most triumphant moment of the Act so far!

#homestuck liveblog #full liveblog #act 5.2 #3297 #s115

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separatist-apologist · 2 months ago

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What Died Didn't Stay Dead

Summary: Gwyneth Berdara has been promised to a brutal prince who imagines himself a god. Setting sail across pirate infested waters, she and Nesta Archeron hatch a plan to escape her arranged marriage before they arrive.

A gift for @alohaangels, whose kind words softened some of my grief.

Read on AO3

TW for depictions of sexual assault- reminiscing on the event, but it is graphic so please take care of yourself.

It was a mistake.

Surely some sort of joke.

Gwyn’s eyes scanned the piece of paper before her, looking for some tell-tale clue that would mark the missive as some kind of cruel joke. Some nobleman’s idea of amusing himself with a ruined man’s daughter.

Lady Berdara,

I have made my intentions plain to your guardian, and with her blessing, I intend to make them plain to you as well. I have been unable to stop thinking of you since the ball, hosted now several months previously. Your beauty follows me, an ever present guest I would not be rid of, distracting as your visage is.

Allow me to speak freely—I would like to be wed with haste if possible. I have enclosed two tickets to Alsfeld for you and a lady of your choosing. Send word, make the passage, and I will meet you at the Port of Alsfeld.

Say yes. I will accept no other answer.

Yours, faithfully,

Prince Edward II

Gwyn looked up at Merrill with disbelief, immediately frustrated to find her guardian looking back with a look of supreme smugness.

“I told you,” she said, rising from her chair to walk toward the window. Gwyn had been living under care since her family had been slaughtered, casualties of the ongoing and bloody war being fought by Edward the Senior. She’d been minor nobility, then, though part of the landed gentry all the same.

“This is a joke,” Gwyn replied, pushing away the rising tide of memories. She wished she had perished, then, and often cursed the unknown, faceless man who had spared her a bloody death right at the last second.

“It’s not,” Merrill replied, smoothing out the folds of her heavy cobalt gown. “He was taken with you at the ball, and he’s taken with you now.”

“I have no dowry,” Gwyn reminded Merrill, who must have already thought of that. “I work for my keep.”

“Money was set aside for you. I have been safe guarding it,” Merrill told her. Gwyn didn’t know what to say to that—she’d been told for years that her father had squandered everything, that the only way to continue living under Merrill’s grace was to work.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. You have an education, don’t you? Room? Board? Fine clothes and regular meals?”

“I…am grateful,” Gwyn forced herself to say, hardly grateful at all. She was angry—always so, so angry. The feeling was nothing new, just as swallowing it wasn’t, either. She knew all the right words, steps to a dance she’d long memorized. “I am so grateful for you.”

Gwyn wasn’t, though. Merrill had never been kind—a poor substitute for her already flighty mother. At least then she’d had Catrin.

Now she had no one and nothing but memories tainted in blood, smoke, and so much fear. And, apparently, a marriage she could not wiggle free from. Gwyn wracked her mind for anything that might save her—Edward was a prince twice her age who’d ordered her into several dances. His breath had smelled rank, his fingers tight and clammy, and he’d leaned in too close for her liking as he droned on and on about his many war victories.

Did he even know his family’s war was the reason she had to rely on the charity of others?

Gwyn doubted he cared.

“What about his last wife?”

“The Catholic?” Merrill scoffed. It was a rumor, of course—meant to discredit a woman so he could have a divorce without upsetting the general populace that loved her so. “Locked in a convent, last I heard. She gave only daughters and he needs sons.”

“I’m supposed to do that?” Gwyn gaped, blood turning to ice. She had to swallow against the torrent of memories rising through her, threatening to spill over the ornate cream rug in the form of her breakfast. She’d promised she wouldn’t—that a man would never again touch her like that, certainly not if she invited him to, and even that was questionable.

It seemed she had no choice.

“You’ll be his wife,” Merrill said dismissively, clearly tired of the conversation. It was the longest they’d had in waking memory, which meant at any moment Merrill was going to give Gwyn a verbal order to do as she was told, and a silent order to shut her mouth and be grateful.

Gwyn had no gratitude left in her. Certainly not for a man who intended to use her and then discard her if he tired of her.

“He has a wife—”

“He doesn’t,” Merrill snapped, tossing a lock of blonde hair over her shoulder. Was she bitter it wasn’t her? Gwyn would trade her. “Nesta Archeron has agreed to accompany you to Alsfeld and I expect you to go upstairs, pack appropriately, and smile at your good fortune. Not many men would consider marrying you given your past.”

“My past.” Gwyn dropped all pretense, her words hollow, voice flat.

“Yes, Gwyneth, your past. You should be overjoyed that a man wants you at all, let alone one so esteemed as the prince.”

“You told him?” Gwyn felt betrayal clawing at her neck. “That wasn’t yours to share!”

“The dowry he demanded was impossible to meet,” Merrill sniffed, eyes icy and unforgiving. “He was entitled to less knowing you were ruined.”

Ruined.

Gwyn rose from the chair she’d been sitting in, skirts ruffling loudly in her ringing ears. How Gwyn hated when Merrill said that to her—as if she were little more than a lamp that had broken and not a whole person that had been stolen from.

She couldn’t speak—she knew she’d cry, her anger making a mockery of her. Inclining her head, Gwyn merely made her way through the parlor, past the servants she’d once been close with. They wouldn’t meet her gaze, though she swore their mouths twisted with pity. She was the last to know, as usual, and it showed.

Making her way to her small bedroom, Gwyn flung herself onto the padded window seat to peer out at the sea. How long before she was on one of the ships in the harbor with only the wretched Nesta Archeron for company? She’d only met the woman once and Nesta had been so wildly unpleasant that Gwyn had immediately dismissed her without another word.

Now they’d be trapped aboard a ship together. Gwyn sighed, turning toward her dresser. She had a large carpet bag and a trunk—she’d put personal things in the bag and the rest in the trunk, assuming someone was going to rifle through the items in the trunk. Better to not give anything away.

Truthfully, Gwyn had very little. Merrill had never deigned to give her anything of value, always with the admonishment that she ought to be grateful. Gwyn’s gratitude died with Catrin, leaving behind only her rage. How a prince had found her fascinating enough to marry was beyond Gwyn—the night they’d danced, she’d been wearing one of Merrill’s gowns, promptly returned while it was still warm.

What would he do when he realized she was practically a servant? Maybe it didn’t matter—perhaps he’d outfit her in finery and remind the populace that, technically, her father had died a decorated war hero. Nevermind he’d been cowering in his final moments, on his knees begging not for the lives of the daughters being dragged away by laughing soldiers, but his own.

Gwyn’s anger grew hotter. She threw her items in the trunk, not caring if they were wrinkled. She let it consume her, balling up gown after gown so she could throw them with force into the trunk until she felt a little calmer. Less fury. She reminded herself to breathe, the same exercises she’d once done with Catrin.

It had been Catrin who’d once been filled with anger and Gwyn who had peace. She’d find her sister, raging about some injustice, and remind her to breathe until they were both smiling again. Catrin’s rage had sent her running from the house to try and save the children next door—and she’d been the first of the two of them to die. Wherever she’d hidden them, however they’d escaped…Catrin refused to say.

Gwyn, trembling and scared, a mere three minutes younger though sometimes it felt like three years, had obeyed when Catrin ordered, don’t say a word!

“We can break you,” the soldier had laughed, reaching for his belt. Catrin had turned her head, arms held over her head by another soldier. She’d screamed and fought, writhing like a wild, desperate animal while Gwyn silently sobbed, watching—knowing she would be next.

Tell us, the soldier had ordered, turning to Gwyn.

Don’t, Catrin had ordered again, fiercer than before. They’d placed a blade to Catrin’s neck and demanded again. Gwyn had looked at her sister, but Catrin only widened her eyes.

“Be brave,” Catrin had whispered.

The last words ever spoken between them. They’d laughed as they cut her throat, and laughed louder as Gwyn screamed, dragged to the same bed her sister bled out on. Gwyn hadn’t been brave at all—she’d begged them to kill her, too.

And they would have, had that man not come kicking in with that lethal looking sword. Walking to her dresser, she found the cloak he’d draped over her folded up at the bottom. Throwing it away would have been the better thing to do, but in the aftermath of what had happened, she’d simply tossed it in the back of her wardrobe. Afterwards, she’d had it washed, unable to stand the smell of whatever cologne that man wore mingled with blood and sweat. She could have thrown it away then, too.

She picked it up, admiring the well-made fabric and the heavy, silver and cobalt clasp that would have kept it pinned around her neck. Gwyn hadn’t dared to wear it, but it felt…wrong…to be rid of it, now. It was a relic of the worst moment of her life. She hated that stranger, his face concealed by a mask, though what little she might have seen had been blurred by blood and tears. He’d carried her out after brutally, and mercilessly, slaughtering every man who’d come into her house.

He’d tried to take her somewhere, but she’d started screaming again and so he’d left her huddled in a heap beneath a tree with a silver dagger laid at her bare feet. He hadn’t said a word, merely vanished back into the ether. Perhaps he’d been a long forgotten god come to seek vengeance. Or perhaps he’d simply been a mercenary unable to witness his brethern pillaging and raping.

She’d never know.

Still, sometimes she caught herself thinking about him, wondering where he was and why he’d intervened in the first place. Gwyn had the dagger, though she didn’t know how to use it, and tucked that into her bag along with a necklace that had belonged to Catrin she didn’t dare wear. She hadn’t been brave.

She didn’t deserve to.

Gwyn skipped dinner that night, which caused Merrill to rant through the halls about how spoiled and ungrateful she was. Gwyn blocked it out with a book, curled back in the window seat as she waited for the inevitable. She couldn’t sleep, chasing the sunrise with drooping eyelids. Merrill wasn’t far behind, bursting in with more energy than Gwyn was certain she’d ever had in her life.

Gwyn had never liked the small city she’d been isolated in. It was just big enough to give the illusion of privacy but small enough that everyone knew everything. Busybodies to the very last, which meant that as Gwyn was paraded through the busy early morning, all eyes fell on her, even if just for a moment. They’d flit in her direction before fans extended and women began chattering behind them, their peals of laughter echoing over the sounds of horse drawn carriages and booming voices announcing the prices of fish and produce.

Gwyn wanted to be the kind of person who’d stare back, eyes shooting daggers as she did. She wasn’t, though, even as her anger and humiliation seemed to reach a writhing fever pitch in her chest. She imagined all the things she’d say, should she have the opportunity—the way she’d cut them into ribbons until they felt as small as she did—but she kept her eyes trained on the muddy cobblestone streets before her. Causing a scene would only result in more problems for Gwyn, who always seemed to be blamed, regardless if something was actually her fault. Merrill simply did not like her, and resented being vaguely related to her father and therefore, responsible for her care.

Gwyn might have liked the docks and the quieter bustle filled with mostly men who didn’t seem to care a single jot about her, were it not for the icy stare of Nesta Archeron. She was alone, standing on the curb with her arms crossed over her chest.

Great.

Gwyn did look at Nesta, hoping her expression conveyed a do-not-try-it-with-me,but who knew how Nesta took it. Nesta was a Duke's daughter and came from wealth so obscene, Gwyn didn’t dare think about it. What horrible lord was waiting for her in Alsfeld—and who was worse, Gwyn mused privately.

It was fun to watch Merrill dip into a respectful bow while Nesta stared down her nose, unimpressed and maybe even bored by the whole display. “Lady Archeron,” Merrill demurred, looking as if she’d prefer to be anywhere else. “You’re looking well.”

“You don’t,” Nesta replied in that brutal way of hers. Gwyn had to bite back a laugh, reminding herself that once Merrill left, Nesta would turn that mannerless behavior on her.

“Well,” Merrill said as the salty air tangled a strand of her hair. “Take care of yourself, Gwyneth. If you have need of me, please write.” Gwyn nodded, certain Merrill would never respond to any letter. This wasn’t goodbye—it was a washing of the hands. Merrill had done her duty and now she was free of it.

“Remember duty,” Merrill added, perhaps guessing the slant of Gwyn’s angry thoughts. Nesta arched a brow but said nothing, lip curling over perfectly straight teeth as she watched Merrill flounce off.

“Her hat was ugly,” Nesta declared the moment Merrill was out of earshot. The own hat, perched neatly atop Nesta coiffed golden brown hair, was very fashionable with its light pink feather and the way it tilted ever so delicately. It paired well with the deep plum of her gown that seemed out of place right before the docks. Gwyn certainly felt underdressed in green, her gown from two seasons earlier and just a tad too big. She felt inadequate in new and frustrating ways.

“So is yours,” Gwyn snapped, stepping around Nesta as two burly armed, barrel chested sailors took her trunk toward a wooden ramp that led to the ship she supposed they would sail on.

Nesta blinked. “I told Elain it was ridiculous,” she grumbled, though she didn’t remove it. Nesta merely marched in step with Gwyn, following the men now charged with their care. Gwyn had expected a sharp tongued insult, not agreement.

“Why did you let her talk you into it?”

Nesta shrugged delicate shoulders, spine impossibly straight as she walked. She looked like the one who ought to be marrying a prince—not Gwyn. Gwyn looked like her maid at best, which annoyed her further. There was something she was missing to this whole arrangement, something that would come back to harm her before she pieced it all together.

“She can be very bossy when she sets her mind to something,” Nesta said, as if Gwyn knew anything about the Archeron sisters. They were sheltered and spoiled, appearing in the city only when something grand was happening. They otherwise kept to their estate, though there were rumors about how wild the youngest of the three were.

She sounded like more interesting company than the scowling Nesta. One thing, Gwyn supposed, was how unafraid Nesta was to give orders.

“Take us to our cabin,” Nesta demanded the moment their feet were on the softly swaying deck. Two sailors exchanged a glance but otherwise said nothing at all—they merely gestured for the pair to follow them.

“We’re not to be disturbed,” Nesta began, her words seemingly well-practiced. “You may bring our meals to us directly, but otherwise no man is to enter our chamber.”

“Who would stop us?” one of the sailors asked, clearly bitter about being bossed around by a woman.

Gwyn’s own temper got the better of her. “I will.”

Whatever they saw on her face kept them from saying much more. Gwyn waited until they were taken into a large stateroom they were clearly meant to share. Nesta turned, and the sailor, guessing her irritation, threw up his palms in defense. “You can share, or you can sleep in the bunks with everyone else. Your choice, princess.”

“Don’t call me that,” she hissed before slamming the door in his face. “Must you be so…” Gwyn trailed off, unsure what she even meant to say. Nesta understood, though.

“Because otherwise they think they can take liberties. That we’re helpless and soft and sweet—that we won’t say anything if they touch us. Now they know we’ll scream, and when we arrive at port, we’ll tell someone. They’ll think twice.”

“And with Merrill?” Gwyn demanded, arms crossed over her chest.

“Her presence offends me,” Nesta said with a shrug, as if it were a given. Gwyn couldn’t help but laugh, one hand on her stomach to keep herself from doubling over.

“Mine, too.”

“She thinks herself a great humanitarian, but she’s not. She made a lot of money taking you in, for all the good it did. Look at your dress,” Nesta said, reaching for Gwyn’s sleeve. Gwyn slapped her hand away, embarrassed and self-conscious.

“What are you talking about?”

Nesta stared for a moment, hand cradled to her chest. Those icy blue eyes seemed to be a little sad for only a moment before the emotion vanished, replaced with her usual steely gaze. “Lord Rhysand paid her a hefty stipend for your education. His father and your father were friends, I suppose.”

“No one…no one told me that,” Gwyn managed as anger and betrayal clawed up her throat. “I was working.”

So a Duke paid for Gwyn’s education, and her father had left an inheritance, all pocketed by Merrill. Gwyn turned for the door, ready to march off the ship and throttle Merrill but Nesta grabbed her wrist.

“There is no point. She’s not capable of shame.”

“So she gets away with it?” Gwyn demanded with outrage. “Does no one face consequences except me?”

“She doesn’t have to get away with it,” Nesta said slyly. “I overheard father talking, and he seems to think your marriage will elevate Merrill in a way few ladies ever achieve.”

“Of course it does,” Gwyn grumbled, sitting despondently on the floral patterned bed. “She probably orchestrated it herself.”

“I’m sure. That doesn’t mean you have to marry him,” Nesta continued, holding Gwyn’s stare.

“He’s a prince—”

“So?” Nesta demanded. “When we arrive, simply say no and stay with me and my aunt. With the new laws that require a ladies consent, you can simply decline.”

“He’s not just some spoiled lordling,” Gwyn whispered, though the idea was spreading through her like wildfire.

“He’s only a man,” Nesta replied, sitting beside her. “He’s not a god.”

But Gwyn knew what men could do when they didn’t get what they wanted—when they felt thwarted, especially by a lesser woman. It would become a matter of principle to punish her. To control her. He had a navy at his disposal, an army willing to kill on command, and more gold than anyone in the realm. If he wanted to find her, he would.

And when he did, he’d punish her for daring to defy him.

Still.

The idea had roots.

—-

Azriel heard the sound of boots echoing off swaying wood before he saw Cassian in the doorway. His friend flashed a grin, arms crossed over his chest.

“Ship sailed this afternoon.”

Azriel shifted in his chair, boots reclined on his desk while he toyed with his favorite dagger absently. Turning his gaze from Cassian, he couldn’t help but smile.

“Armed?”

“Barely,” Cassian replied, his amusement plain. “It’s a merchant ship.”

“Whose?” Azriel didn’t want to make too many enemies of the merchant class, some of whom paid money for safe passage and protection from other privateers.

“Archeron,” Cassian said. Azriel frowned, though it changed nothing. Rhys wasn’t one of them—not really. He could make his demands, could provide them with funding, could play pirate lord when it suited him, but he wasn’t out there day to day.

He didn’t know how hard Azriel had worked to organize this ambush. How he’d intercepted that letter. The spying he’d done, the dominoes set into motion. It was now or it was never. The walls of the palace were impenetrable, even to him.

“Doesn’t matter,” Azriel decided. It didn’t. He’d rather beg forgiveness than ask permission—Rhys would do the same, were he in Azriel’s position. “Sink the ship.”

“Aye, Captain,” Cassian said, his grin returning.

Azriel’s gaze turned toward the window overlooking the sea. With a soft exhale, he smiled, too.

Soon.

#gwynriel #im grieving and making it everyones problem #pirate!gwynriel

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3hks · 11 days ago

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Family Dynamics to Substitute for Dead Parents II

Does your character need something other than dead parents? How many orphans have you created at this point? Writing a family might seem like a hassle, but they're definitely worth it--after all, most everyone can relate to familial struggles, and they're one of the greatest character builders!

✒ "Responsible Sibling" - The case where the older sibling (typically) steps up to act as the guardian for their younger sibling(s).

✒ "More Stepparents" - Where one parent is gone and the other continuously brings home "a new parent". It seems fine after one--or even two stepparents--but by the fourth one, it becomes a huge problem.

✒ "Middle Child Syndrome" - When no one in the family particularly cares about the child, letting them do as they please. It's sometimes a good thing and sometimes not.

✒ "Helicopter Parent" - The opposite of the previously mentioned idea. This is where the parent(s) is so overprotective of their child that it becomes controlling and suffocating.

✒ "Ever-so-slightly Toxic" - Where the parent(s) are usually pretty normal, but occasionally get a bit toxic, confusing the character about whether to believe their guardian or not.

✒ "Picture Perfect Family" - A family that looks perfect to the outside world but could not be more flawed in reality (distanced, abusive, toxic, etc.).

✒ "Two-faced Parent" - A situation where the parent(s) hate their child, but their child has no clue. Great for (painful) dramatic irony!

✒ "Family Pressure" - When the character feels overwhelmed by the pressure to do well for their family. The stress could be directly or indirectly formed by their guardian(s).

✒ "You're a Disappointment" - The case where the parent(s) is always disappointed in their child, letting them know through subtle, double-sided, and passive-aggressive comments.

✒ "Exploiter" - Where the parent(s) raise a child purely to use them later on. (For money, to look good, etc.)

✒ "Influencer Parent" - The parent(s) is obsessed with social media, filming anything and everything, including their own children.

✒ "Parent(s) with Dementia/Alzheimer's" - If you're looking for (usually non-toxic) PAIN, this is definitely the one here... It's incredibly difficult to watch someone you admire turn into someone who struggles to recognize you.

✒ "Distanced" - A situation where the family is so distanced that it might as well be a bunch of strangers living in the same home.

Happy writing~

3hks :)

#writeblr #writing #writerscommunity #creative writing #writing inspo #writers on tumblr #substitutes for dead parents #replacements for dead parents #family dynamics #family dynamics for writing #family dynamics to replace dead parents

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tvslashers · 9 months ago

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i guess i just still can’t get over that she apologized to me. in a moment of talking about my dad of all things. Bc i was venting to her about how i feel like it’s my responsibility to keep his sanity under control and it’s always felt that way bc i knew she would at least kind of understand bc well. she knew him. And then she apologized for me having to grow up so fast. And how it was her fault a lot of the time. And blatantly admitted to choosing drugs over me when i was a kid. And how messed up that was. And how she’s glad i even talk to her at all and if i never wanted to see her she would understand. Not even in a guilt trippy way just matter of factly. It’s just such a 180 i feel like when I was in highschool she was smothering me over the phone every week trying to get me to live with her bc she knew my dad had completely lost control. I guess she was just scared but she has terrible ways of showing concern. It always comes off as frustration and anger. I’m still not over her not helping me monetarily when she could have. She has a very bootstraps mentality too which has always caused problems between us (im her only disabled kid). Well there’s a lot of stuff im not over but that’s just what’s bugging me the most in my adult life I guess. And i guess i hate hate hate that the person i wanted to spend the night with me the first night in the hospital was my mom. I hate so much that something in me craves her love and presence. I thought not having it for years and years would make me not care but it doesn’t matter. When im sick and scared I still want my mommy. Makes me soooo fucking mad.

thinking about my mom

#this version of my mom is so different than the one from my childhood I don’t even know what to do with it?#like my mom completely lacked any emotional intelligence when I was a kid. just all impulse basically.#but now she’s so different. and i don’t know what changed or when. or why.#but it makes me feel weird to be mad?#makes me feel weird bc my siblings got to grow with her #of course they got their own fucked up trauma but their relationships with her are so much closer #i had nobody. except for when I met my partner #but we were the same age basically so it’s like. not a substitute for a guardian lol #idk! idk!!

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tomorrowusa · 1 year ago

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« In a country defined by the ongoing existential battle over whether this will be a white nationalist society or a multiracial democracy, the majority of people reject the idea of making America white again. Most people in America prefer the Democrats’ vision of a multiracial America (however halfheartedly it may be expressed at times) to the raw, unapologetic white nationalism espoused in coded and not-so-coded ways by Republicans. With the sole exception of the 2004 presidential election, the Democratic nominee has won the popular vote in every single presidential election over the past 30 years.

Republicans understand this reality better than Democrats which is why they ferociously focus on suppressing the vote far more than Democrats emphasize expanding voting. »

— Steve Phillips at The Guardian.

Republicans will use every trick they know to suppress the non-MAGA vote. In addition to legal methods such as restricting voting hours and making absentee voting more difficult, they will work with their partners in Russia to spread disinformation to discourage moderate and liberal voters from casting ballots.

We need to do more grassroots work to get out the vote. There's no substitute for person to person contact to identify potential supporters and to make sure they vote. And the earlier we get started, the better.

At the very least, we need to be certain that like-minded people are properly registered. We should not be reticent about asking others whether they're registered.

Because voting is highly geographic, it's necessary to remind people that they need to register at their new address after they move. Even if you move across the street, you need to register at THAT address. After you've reminded the people who have moved, follow up two weeks later to make sure they've done so.

If friends think that voting is important to you, they are more likely to vote when the time comes.

I Will Vote

#register and vote #get out the vote #gotv #republican voter suppression #defeat maga white nationalists #register to vote at your new address when you move #we're not a majority unless we vote like a majority #election 2024 #steve phillips

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alittlebitofloveliness · 7 months ago

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idk if your requests for the numbered ficlets are closed but could you do #4 for ponyboy? Only if you have the time, don't wanna be a burden.

Outsiders Prompt Fic #10- No it ain't! It ain't ok!

HI hon! Not a burden at all, I had so much fun writing this one and I hope you enjoy reading it as much and I enjoyed writing it. (For those of you paying attention, yes, I know this is not the order I said I would write these in in but what can I say, inspiration struck.)

*************************

Something is wrong with Ponyboy.

He’s doing his best to hide it- talking with Johnny, goading Steve, laughing with Soda- and if Darry was still just his big brother instead of his guardian he probably wouldn’t have noticed, but he’s been the kid’s primary caregiver for almost a year now and he’s learned Pony’s tells.

His brother’s face is a bit pale, and he’s leaning into Johnny's side a bit more than he usually would. He’d eaten a decent amount of dinner, so Darry’s hoping he isn’t coming down with the stomach flu, but at this point in time he isn’t ruling anything out. He also isn’t about to make any rash decisions. Keeping a cool head had taken some practice after first becoming Pony and Soda’s guardian. At first, the barest hint of a sniffle had left him panicking, all too aware that mom and dad were gone and his little brothers being sick was his problem to deal with. The free clinic must have been sick of him calling those first few months, he’s sure of it. Now though, he’s learned to calm down some, and take things as they come.

He’s supposed to be going out this weekend. Tim Shepard of all people had talked him into it, mentioning he was heading down to Texas of all places and invited him along. He’d been hesitant at first, unwilling to get involved in any of the Shepard gang’s shenanigans, but Tim had assured him none of his gang was coming along and it didn’t have anything to do with his business, so Darry had eventually caved. Strange as it was to admit, he and Shepard had grown remarkably close over the past year. If you’d told him back in high school that in three years time his closest friend outside of the gang would be jailbird Tim Shepard, he’d have laughed in your face. Now though, now that he’s gotten to know Tim better, it makes sense. They’re two sides of the same coin, and Tim had been remarkably helpful when he was figuring out the whole parenting thing. Anyone who could keep Curly Shepard alive for fifteen years was someone Darry wasn’t ashamed to ask parenting advice from.

So he’d been looking forward to this weekend. Tim had sworn it would be a good chance for the two of them to relax and get away from their kids, and as anxious as he was to leave Soda andPpony by their lonesome, he also couldn’t deny the lure of a holiday with no responsibilities was incredibly appealing. So he’d agreed, and Tim was supposed to come by in the morning to pick him up.

If Ponyboy gets any paler though, Darry knows he’s gonna have to call and cancel. He’d never be able to relax if he knew Ponyboy was sick, and the last thing he’d wanna do is stress Tim out on his holiday. God knows Tim deserves a break even more than he does.

Besides, Pony gets clingy when he’s sick, always has, and Darry knows it’s been hard for him since mom and dad died. He himself notices their absence the most when he’s sitting at the table, filling out bills, or when one of his brothers has a problem he doesn’t immediately know how to solve; but Pony and Soda miss them most when they’re sick. Pony wakes up from dreams calling out for dad, and Soda still cries for mom when he’s delirious from fever. He can’t leave if Pony’s getting sick, he just can’t. He’s no substitute for mom and dad, he knows it, but it’s his job to look out for him now that they aren’t here and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t do his very best- and that includes being around for Pony to cling to when he isn’t feeling well.

Still, there's no need to catastrophize yet. Maybe Pony’s just tired from track practice and needs a good night’s sleep. He keeps an eye on his youngest brother as he passes back and forth through the living room, packing his bag. Pony seems to be holding his own. At the very least he doesn’t seem to be getting worse.

He finishes packing around 9:30, and parks himself in the recliner, watching as Johnny continues to trounce his brothers and Steve at poker, despite Soda’s many attempts to cheat. Pony yawns more and more the longer they play and gives up around quarter past ten, using Johnny for support as he shakily climbs to his feet.

“Think I’m gonna’ turn in before Johnny steals all the smokes I have.”

“You might have the right idea kid,” Steve glowers, always a sore loser, “we’re gettin’ cleaned out.”

Johnny’s ever so slightly smug grin doesn’t quite fit behind his hands of cards.

“What’s the matter Steve? Scared you’ll lose again?”

Steve lunges at him and they start tussling, knocking into Ponyboy as they do so. Pony stumbles a bit- more than he should, considering the boys' play fighting isn’t anywhere near properly rough.

Catching Soda’s eye, Darry can tell he isn’t the only one who noticed.

“Pony c’mere a minute.”

If he couldn’t tell something was up with Pony before, the kid’s badly disguised deer in headlights look would have given it away right now.

Beckoning him closer, Darry brushes his baby brother's mop of hair out of his eyes, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead.

Hm. Warm, but not as bad as he’d expected.

“You feelin’ ok?”

Pony bats his hand away, “I’m fine Dar.”

“Let’s get a thermometer to prove that, huh?” Darry shook his head, “C’mon little buddy.”

He wraps an arm around his youngest brother’s shoulders, answering Soda’s concerned look with a reassuring smile as he carefully sidesteps Steve and Johnny’s wrestling match.

“I’m fine Dar, I mean it, just a little tired is all.”

The heavy way he’s leaning against him tells a different story, as did the thermometer a minute later when he pulled it out of Pony’s mouth.

“You’re runnin’ a fever,” Darry tells him, like he hadn’t seen the result himself, “what else is up? You’re dead pale. Is your stomach hurting?”

“No.” Pony crosses his arms mulishly. “I told you, I’m fine.”

Oh so he’s going to be stubborn. That’s fine. Two can play at that game, and Darry always wins.

“You got a headache?”

“No.”

“Are you lyin’ to me?”

“...yes.”

He looks so young, all lost and grumpy sitting on the edge of the bathtub where Darry had pressed him when he was taking his temperature. Darry can feel himself soften, is sure it must show in his eyes. His eyes have always betrayed him when it comes to emotions.

“What else kid? You gotta let me help you.”

“Just my head,” Pony mumbles, “and I’m a little dizzy but I think it’s just ‘cause I’m tired.”

“I’ll get you some water and some aspirin,” Darry promises, “you get ready for bed ok? I’ll bring it to ya.”

He ruffles his hair, wincing at the heat radiating off his forehead, and goes to get a glass from the kitchen.

“Ponyboy alright?” Soda asks as soon as he steps into the living room, eyes bright with a specific kind of worry only their baby brother can draw out of him, and Darry claps a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“Just has a bit of a headache is all. You keep playin’ your game, I got him.”

Soda only hesitates a moment before nodding, dropping back down beside Steve. He’s gotten a lot better about that lately, about letting Darry and Ponyboy figure out how to get along better, and letting Darry do some of the more nurturing stuff Ponyboy needs. Darry knows it isn’t easy for him- Soda doesn’t like to share, especially when it comes to Ponyboy, even more so when it comes to taking care of him- and he appreciates it more than he can say. It’s far easier for him and Pony to get along and settle into their not-just-brothers-but-not-quite-a-parent dynamic, when Darry doesn’t always have to be the bad cop.

He fills a glass with water and makes his way to Pony’s room, where his brother is asleep already, auburn hair mussed and cheek smushed into his pillow. Darry smiles a moment, a strange feeling he’s had since becoming Pony’s guardian swelling in his chest, that isn’t quite parental but is somewhat stronger than simply brotherly swelling in his chest. Pony looks so sweet like this, so soft and young. He’s getting mighty big now, but it’s at times like this that Darry remembers how young fourteen really is.

“Hey baby,” he hates to wake him, but the kid needs meds, “up you get, I got you some aspirin.”

Ponyboy’s eyes blink open before he can shake him.

“I wasn’t asleep” he says, a note of petulance in his tone, ”I was just resting my eyes.”

“Ok.” Darry isn’t gonna fight him on that, just cradles his head while he swallows the pills and gulps down his water.

“There,” Darry takes the empty glass from Pony’s hand and sets it on the nightstand, “get some sleep alright? I’ll check on you before I go to bed, and if you’re not better in the morning I’ll call the clinic.”

“You’n Tim are leaving in the morning.”

“Ponyboy I ain’t goin’ anywhere if you’re sick,” he ignores the slight disappointment curdling in his stomach. He knew what he was doing when he signed those guardianship papers, knew what he was giving up. Doesn’t regret it either. “I’ll call Tim in the morning and cancel.”

Tim would understand. He’d never admit it, but Darry know’s he’d do the same if Angela or Curly got real sick last minute,

“No!” Ponyboy sits up so fast he nearly headbuts Darry in the nose. “No, you can't!”

“It’s ok Ponyboy-” he starts, reaching to try and soothe him, but Ponyboy squirms away, tears welling in his eyes.

“No it ain’t! It ain’t ok!”

“Hey, hey,” he reaches for him again, and this time Pony allows himself to get tucked into Darry’s side, “what’s goin’ on? Where’s this comin’ from? How come you don’t want me to stay with you?”

“It ain’t that!” Ponyboy gives him a wounded look, and Darry has never been so confused and worried in his life, “You just- you never go anywhere anymore and I know you were looking forward to this weekend away. More than that you deserve it, you’re always workin’ so hard and keeping track of me and Soda-”

“Pony, I don't care about all that. If you’re sick-”

“I ain’t gonna be the reason you miss your holiday.” Ponyboy crosses his arms, his face back in that godforsaken stubborn pout Darry loved and hated in equal measure, “I ain’t.”

“Ponyboy, listen to me,” he takes him by the shoulders, forcing him to make eye contact, “I am your guardian. More than that, I’m your big brother. It’s my job to make sure you're alright, and that’s gonna mean missing some things sometimes. I’m okay with that. It's part of the whole bein’ responsible thing.”

Ponyboy finally meets his gaze, stubborn expression melting away as his lip wobbles and his eyes fill with tears, the water a gloss over such a deep well of pain Darry feels his heart break before Pony even opens his mouth.

“I’m ruining your life,” his brother whispers, sounding so broken Darry can’t stand it, “You could’ve gone to college if it weren’t for me. You coulda gone somewhere and done something, and now you can’t even have a social life without me getting sick and fucking everything up.”

“Ponyboy,” he doesn't know what else to do but pull him into a hug, rocking him gently, “You aren’t ruining my life at all. You are my life, don’t you get that? You and Soda. I’d be miserable if I went to college or did any of those things because it would mean I’d have lost you guys, and I can’t even think about that, ok? And I still got a social life, I’m just lucky enough now to have a buddy who knows what it’s like to have to reschedule stuff and not get all pissy about it.”

“Tim gets pissy at everyone.” Pony mutters into his shoulder, but Darry can feel him grinning and knows he must've gotten through to him.

“Not at me.”

“That right?” Ponyboy pulls away, familiar sass returning, “you must be pretty special then, huh?”

Darry feels his cheeks flushing.

“Ok, y’know what little buddy? You’re sick, go to bed, sleepy time now.”

He ruffles his brother’s hair and flees the room, waiting in the hallway until the telltale rustling of Pony getting settled ceases, then peeks back in.

Ponyboy is curled peacefully on his side, eyes closed, chest rising and falling slowly.

Sure he’ll be ok, Darry creeps back to the living room. He’ll call Tim in the morning, but for now he’ll wait up a little longer so he can check on Pony once more before he goes to bed.

After all, this is what he signed up for, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

#the outsiders #ponyboy curtis #darry curtis #sodapop curtis #steve randle #tim shepard #johnny cade #tarry #if you squint #the outsiders prompts #the outsiders fanfiction

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silverview · 4 months ago

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maybe the details of art are common knowledge, but i only read up about it yesterday. it's interesting! it opened in the west end in 96 & was something of a popular hit

it's about three old friends who fall out when one of them buys an expensive painting that's an almost-blank white canvas (a quiet night in); one of them aggressively disapproves, calling it pretentious; and the third is caught in the middle trying to keep the peace

had a ton of casts – a new one every three months. (the effect of this is interesting – more on that below.) tlog were selected to be the last lot before it closed in 02. if you don't already know, who do you suppose played each role? it has nothing to do with the weirdly deceptive promo pics. answers & more below the cut

mark played the friend who buys the painting, steve played the one who disapproves, and reece played the guy caught in the middle. i wonder how that decision was made. i wonder if they considered any alternative configurations (bf had steve & reece switched, which i think makes a lot of sense). as always i'm like. but what does the character say about YOU

they got mixed reviews. nearly every review singles out reece's delivery of this monologue, though they disagree on whether it was good or not. perhaps surprisingly, they don't uniformly characterise it (or his performance in general) as particularly angry. not to be dramatic but i would kill and die to have seen it, just that monologue alone

so below i've collected the most interesting parts of surviving reviews. the last one is my fav. some of them have interesting things to say on the effect of the rotating cast, sort of the opposite of the in9 meta-character effect, which i think is pretty funny & fitting

BBC

Reece Shearsmith is a little too giddy with Yvan's furious diatribe about his impending wedding - the laughs are landing so hard that some others are being lost in the process. But he is a particularly touching and vulnerable go-between, desperately sitting on the fence in the conflict that erupts between his friends Serge (Mark Gatiss) and Marc (Steve Pemberton), and finding - as you do - that those who sit on fences are liable to get splinters.

GUARDIAN

[A] play as bland and flimsy as this requires actors who are not only heroically talented but who also have formidable technical skills. Pemberton, Gatiss and Shearsmith don't. They are likeable, even mildly engaging but you are always aware that they are putting on a performance. What's more, they are far less funny than the two other casts I've seen. Shearsmith, for example, flunks the timing of his long monologue so instead of making an audience rock with waves of laughter, he gets only one big laugh right at the end. The silences in the evening, in particular the famous olive scene, are not eloquent, just empty.

THEATREGUIDE

I've heard, though, that other casts have had other dynamics. With some, it plays as light comedy, satirising everyone's pretensions to high passions. Others make it a touching study in the fragility of friendship and all three men's hitherto-unrealised need for it. The cast changes every three months or so [...] Just be prepared for the fact that the show you see will be different in tone and effect from the one your friends saw last year, and will probably be a glib skating over the emotional issues and implications it raises. [...] And while the laidback, indeed colloquial, approach of Mark Gatiss (perky Serge), Steve Pemberton (laconic Marc) and Reece Shearsmith (wickedly neurotic Yvan) may not be to everyone's taste, it's undeniably perfect casting to complete the spectrum of wall-to-wall talent that's made the show such a feature of London's theatrical landscape. [...] Playing cheekily with rhythms of speech and timing, they create a very English rendition of what is essentially a French play, substituting the de rigueur dramatic devices and flourishes with frighteningly real personalities that transcend the dramatic crutch of Yasmina Reza's Continental-style philosophizing text and sub-text. Admittedly the first ever cast of Courtenay, Finney and Stott all those years ago set the benchmark for the production (though I found them yawnsome and wooden) - and the League have the advantage of tapping into the accumulated performances that followed.

i think "laidback," "colloquial," "cheeky," "English" and "real" might be euphemisms for northern – more on that below

CIX

Having now seen Art three or four times (to be honest, I forget which), I've begun to muse that in some strange way it's a metaphor for itself. It's not just the performance dynamics, our impression of the trio's relationship, that varies from cast to cast... it's the very sense of how much real content there is in Reza's play, of whether it takes its thematic concerns about inherent versus attributed qualities (whether of a painting or a person) very far or not. In a sense, the performers are the series of diagonal white lines painted on to the white canvas of the play. And like the lines in the painting on stage (or so we're told), they're not pure white: some are vaguely yellow, some are sort of ochre-ish... In the case of the League, the bizarrely unrelated publicity images make clear that what's hoped for is a kind of fake-blood crimson tinge. So although there's no real indulgence, director Jennie Darnell allows the three to turn in a slight caricature of the naturalism with which the piece has usually been played, that little unreality often seen in the kind of sketch comedy where the group cut their teeth. The elegant apartment set is a world away from the League's fictional town of Royston Vasey, but the casting of the individual members plays to respective strengths familiar from their various screen guises. As Serge, who has paid 200,000 francs for the picture, Mark Gatiss exudes an appropriately smug and supercilious cleverness. As Marc, who faces off against Serge by declaring the canvas "shit", Steve Pemberton is more mercurial, with an air of suppressed violence. Reece Shearsmith, the relatively cuddly one [sic], succeeds in focusing audience identification on Yvan, the less smart piggy-in-the-middle. All three are of course skilled performers, and you can see the rapport gained from up to fifteen years' collaboration in, for instance, the way Gatiss and Pemberton trade facial "mugs" as they first consider the painting. However, this very affinity with each other enables them to skim over deeper elements in the play. When Shearsmith gabbles out Yvan's great bewildered set-piece about the complications of his wedding arrangements, we applaud the high-speed delivery but don't pick up enough of what he says to engage with Yvan's travails.

kissing this reviewer on the mouth for specifically describing what he thinks their respective strengths are & especially for describing reece as THE CUDDLY ONE like... idk if it shows but i'm obsessed with how people see them, and how they see themselves & each other

EVENING STANDARD

Not so much a piece of headline-grabbing stunt casting as three trained actors flexing their thespian muscles [...] bona fide drama graduates, not comedy chancers. This immediately shows, from their poise, projection and presence. Only the dimple-chinned Pemberton as intolerant Marc comes close to his rogues' gallery of BBC2 personae during moments of rage when he cannot come to terms with Serge's purchase of an overpriced minimalist painting. By contrast, Mark Gatiss as the punctilious, pretentious Serge is the epitome of restraint, as cool as his sharp, charcoal suit. The comic moments are all in context. Shearsmith, as the boyish Yvan, is increasingly troubled by his imminent nuptials. This eventually spills out in a breathless pseudo-Pythonesque rant against marriage that is as funny to witness as it is difficult to say. But throughout, the trio respect Reza's text, sidelining their insatiable appetite for the grotesque that has made their their brand of humour so distinctive. This may, however, be problematic. Having sold out in the West End with their sketch show a couple of years ago, some of the threesome's intensely passionate fans may see Art as a follow-up and feel shortchanged. The eye-catching poster may compound the deception, the chopper, axe and chainsaw being wielded suggesting some Grand Guignol flourishes which never materialise.

BBC AGAIN

The northern accents do not quite ring true in the sophisticated setting of a Paris apartment and often lead to flat performances, where one gets the feeling their brand of wit is not quite enough to portray Parisian conceit. The strongest display by far comes from Mark Gatiss (Serge) - the eerie butcher in League of Gentlemen - as the tall, slightly effeminate doctor who acquires the painting, striking just the right balance of preciousness and acerbic wit. The diminutive Reece Shearsmith is adequate in his portrayal of Yvan, the put-down-upon soon-to-be-married stationer caught in the middle of the feud between his two friends. But the biggest disappointment comes from Steve Pemberton, who plays Marc, the critical compadre who takes Serge's indulgence for contemporary art as a personal slight. Pemberton, normally the trio's strongest performer, well-known for his brilliant turn as Pauline in the League of Gentlemen, seems ill at ease in the role. His northern persona cannot quite stretch far enough to inhabit the part of Marc, an angry homeopathic freak whose insecurity finds it hard to cope with his friend's show of independence over the painting. Like the painting, the play does not remain colourless throughout however. One of the highlights is Shearsmith's 10-minute tirade about the difficulties of coping with the women in his life ahead of his impending wedding.

yeah this one is definitely my favourite. casually calls them ALL scallies, then calls each of them out INDIVIDUALLY for being a) gay b) short c) shit. absolute legend. did they ever find this reviewer's body

related, from this article in the guardian:

"When we first did Art, a review said 'Yes, but can they act?' and that made me angry," said Shearsmith. "I remember thinking 'What have we been doing in The League of Gentlemen? It's not standup."

in 2013, reece said art was his favourite ever play to do. highlights from the replies

#tlog #the league of gentlemen #reece shearsmith #steve pemberton #mark gatiss #rs #art play

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k0fii · 2 months ago

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HSR + ALNST

So I may or may not have an entire HSR (Penacony Cast) ALNST au planned out in my head..

The basic listing of characters is:

Mizi - Trailblazer (Stelle)

Sua - Firefly

Ivan - Ratio

Till - Aventurine

Luka - Sunday

Hyuna - Robin (HyuLuka's romantic dynamic isn't applied here !! Just here me out on this..)

Reasons for casting (Although the AU is not one-to-one with every event and dynamic in ALNST):

Sunday in HSR is born weak in comparison to Robin who was born strong - he yearns for control and order because of this while Robin yearns for freedom. The differences in their ideology is seen clearly in the Charmony Dove scene - the reason I propose casting them as Luka and Hyuna is because of this ideological conflict.

Luka, like Sunday, vies for control and security - he was born with congenital heart disease and many of his actions are driven by the fear of death or for a need to hold power over something when he has, in large part, remained under the control of one authority figure (Heperu, and in this AU, Gopher Wood would act as the substitute.) Not to mention, their control also partly relies on gauging other people's reactions and using their trauma against them. With Luka, R5 and R7 are obvious examples and with Sunday, the whole interrogation scene. (It was wholly unnecessary for Sunday to bring up matters related to Aventurine's trauma - and so it becomes more a matter of control and having something over him.)

Both Luka and Sunday will always be bound by the stage they are rulers of.

On the other hand, Hyuna, like Robin, embodies the ideal of freedom. Her very introduction in All-In emphasizes that and her strong conviction in living for yourself. She's the very head of the human rebellion and has escaped Alien Stage - a disharmony in the way Robin was. When you look at Hyuna's character stats, she is a better performer than Luka in every way and has one of, if not the highest mental strength in the entire cast. Gopher Wood manipulated Sunday because he knew he couldn't manipulate Robin's unwavering will unlike he could with Sunday.

Both Hyuna and Robin will always break free of their cage to soar into the sky.

So, what would be the equivalent of the Hyunwoo situation if they're already siblings?

The Charmony Dove scene, or a close equivalent to it.

Moving on to the Mizisua castings - why Firefly and Stelle?

Mizi and Stelle are both cheerful and almost childish characters - among the cast of ALNST, Mizi has a truly pure heart, sheltered due to her upbringing. Her alien guardian treated her with care and Sua shielded her innocence by hiding her from the harsh truths they were set to face. As such, she remains bright even in current circumstances, even being naive to a fault. Stelle has frankly only spawned (again) into the universe recently with a naturally playful attitude and curiosity towards the world around her. Even when fighting against adversaries, it usually ends in a happy ending with minimal to no casualties at all and she has a loving family in the Astral Express who care for her.

Which is why, Firefly's 'death' thanks to Dormancy in Penacony was a rude wake-up call.

Because, for once, someone died in front of her and she was powerless to stop it. Not only that, it was someone she built a rapport and a deep connection with.

And just like Mizi after Sua's death, she was left distraught and even angry.

Sua and Firefly share a resemblance in the way that they hide secrets from both Mizi and Stelle. Sua, hiding the truth of Alien Stage and making Mizi believe in the idea of a tie and advancing together. Firefly, hiding her affiliation with the Stellaron Hunters and the truth regarding Penacony and her death. They do so not without reason but it is still a lie that ends up hurting the one left behind.

We can also see with the comic regarding Sua's sister that Sua is born or considered a weak child, doomed to be the white 'snow' that falls over the living children in Anakt Garden. Meanwhile, Firefly has entropy loss syndrome, a condition poised to reduce her to nothing in a set time. Despite this, both find hope and do try to continue living with the time they have.

Now, Aventio as IvanTill.

Firstly, the whole love whatever-shape-that is going on with the main 4 cast of ALNST isn't applied here - in the way that Aventurine doesn't love Stelle like how Till loves Mizi (Although it can be a plot-point, for the sake of his character here, I don't think it makes sense).

Till is a rebellious character, having undergone some of the worst treatment from the aliens because of this fact. Similarly, Aventurine has undergone the trauma of enslavement. (Aventurine's neck branding and Till's name branding are also very similar in position) Till was sold at a discount price and Aventurine was sold for only 60 Tanbas - they are both seen as less than and have gone all the way to the top despite that (Till reaching R7 as a finalist, Aventurine becoming a Stoneheart). Both of them, when they fought back against their oppressors, were painted as aggressive and dangerous (Till being subdued post R2, Aventurine's trial after killing his former oppressor).

But if Aventurine doesn't love Stelle like how Till loved Mizi in this AU, who was the person who was his light amidst all the abuse experienced (In a not romantic way)?

His sister. Family packages are a genuine thing in ALNST, siblings who are sold together - and although she remains dead in this AU, she is still the person Aventurine reaches out to - like how Till reached for Mizi in that one scene in R6. With the HSR interrogation scene in mind, Sunday reminding Aventurine of his family with the power of the Harmony reads like Luka manipulating Mizi and Till.

Admittedly, Ratio and Ivan do not share many similarities although both do have issues expressing emotion - Ratio struggles with the manner of his expression, oftentimes being too blunt and honest despite his rather high understanding of other people, and Ivan doesn't understand other people's emotions at all, which is why he develops a fascination for Till who openly expresses such emotion with ease.

And in their own way, both of them will spur the one dearest to them to continue living.

In Penacony, Ratio gives Aventurine the Note, imploring him to live on - despite it not being the sole reason for Aventurine's return, it does play a major part in it and Aventurine comes back, specifically stating that he is happy to be back.

In R6, although done in a much more hurtful manner, Ivan's sacrifice does spur Till on to regain his fire in R7. In R6, he is a shell of what he was thanks to the constant abuse he experienced and the loss of Mizi. However, when we first see him in R7, he is back to performing with a fervor - it's a logical conclusion to make that he does so, so that Ivan's sacrifice will not go to waste or be in vain as no other factor could've affected him as much.

As for Isaac and Dewey..Haven't thought about it yet! Until we get more info on them, it's probably staying like that.

Here are some extra snippets of ideas I've had!

(Regarding Unknown Till the End as a song for this AU)

(Regarding Black Sorrow as a song for this AU)

(R5 Ending)

(Anakt Garden +R6 Aventio)

#aventio #hsr ratio #veritas ratio #hsr aventurine #alnst #hsr robin #sunday hsr #firefly hsr #stelle hsr #stelle x firefly #honkai star rail

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