#and also a way to get more saplings???

[hassiegfrieddoneanythingwrong]

The 30M Download Campaign has finally come, and Oberon is the representative for it. (Really? A third Avalon Servant? 😒)

Here's the rundown, besides the usual rewards:

A x3 Super/Great Success when leveling up Servants, all Dailies are open and their AP costs 1/3.

Some more event CEs have been made available in Da Vinci's shop, along with some more event Command Codes.

The amount of Pure Prisms are doubled from completing Part 1, Part 1.5/EoR, Part 2, and OC.

Along with that, there's a way to refill PP stock, with a special kind of ticket (right now it's only restricted to three, so choose wisely).

Two more Mystic Codes (Anniversary Blonde and Sōya High School Uniform) will be free to get after clearing the LB prologue* (currently unsure if it is the LB prologue).

Three more CEs, those featuring Kayneth, Sola-Ui, and Kirei. Their effects respectively are: self invincibility for 3 times and buff removal resistance by 10%/20%, gain 4%/5% NP per turn, Quick, Arts, and NP gain by 3%/5%, and self star weight up by 100%/200%, Quick, Arts, and Buster up by 8%/10%. (Color coordinated for easier reading)

The next free SSR ticket is here as well, this time including the story-locked SSRs. The permanent ones included this time are: Dioscuri, Tametomo, Vritra, Odysseus, Taigong Wang, Nemo, Kashin Koji, Galatea, and Nitocris Alter. If you were expecting Bhima or Marie Alter, sorry but the cut off is Koji.

The requirements to permanently add them is leveling up your chosen pick to level 60 and bring them up to Bond 5.

Also, Oberon gets his own CC.

[mildmayfoxe]

i just broke my favorite HAIR CLIIIPPPPP

[thatonegayship]

What Bill wants for his big day:

So Bill doesn't have a birthday sure, but is there some sort of Bill Cipher Day? Demonic celebration?

..and if so, does dip know?

Oh man, there probably is! Bill's absolutely the kind of guy to have a whole Day Of Celebration devoted to himself. Likely it's not on any sort of earthly calendar basis, too, so it'll come up at some time when Dipper least expects it.

Because, c'mon. Bill's fantastically knowledgeable - but he's absolute shit at filling Dipper in on important information beforehand.

[grayandthyme]

my ground gives out beneath you | oneshot

masterlist

pairing: tommy miller x f!reader

synop: While gardening, you make the wrong move. Slipping through a door you had no right to be near in the first place. Tommy is mad. Really mad. He can't lose anyone else. Especially not you.

warnings/tags: fluff, slight angst, sexual suggestions, showering together, implied sex, use of swearing, mentions/depictions of violence, self-deprication. no use of y/n. reader is lowkey kinda silly for going outside but oh well.. gardener!reader.

a/n: the miller boys and getting angry about you almost getting hurt. typical. also I loooove writing dialogue for tommy... emotional sassy man.. wanna lick that mustache pls

w/c 4.6k (super short, kind of a drabble)

You wiped the sweat from your brow with the back of your hand, careful not to smear more dirt across your face—not that it mattered. You were already covered in the stuff: jeans caked to the knee, boots sunk half an inch in soil. Your fingers dug into the earth, turning old till with practiced motions, pressing it down again like it was muscle memory.

Jackson had its charm. Quiet. Steady. Safe enough that you’d stopped flinching at every shadow. And somehow, you’d found a purpose here. Strange little corner of peace in a world long laid to hell. Resident gardener. Crop overseer. The one who brought a pop of color to porches, or laid flowers at graves no one else could visit.

It wasn’t just a job. It was something to do. A way to keep your hands busy. A way to keep moving forward. You planted things. Grew things. Helped life come back in the smallest ways.

Then you went home. Washed the dirt from your skin. Letting the man you love gently scrub the rest from your back. Sat close enough to him that neither of you have to speak.

For the end of the world it was good. Sometimes, too good. Some days it felt almost normal.

But today wasn't one of those days.

Your eyes skimmed the seed packets laid out in rows—carefully labeled, sorted. One bag near-empty, light in your hand: tomato seeds, your favorite project of the season. You drummed your fingers along the edge of the garden box and stood, stretching the ache out of your spine.

"I'm gonna go grab the rest of the bags—you guys good in here?" you called over your shoulder.

A chorus of “Yes ma’am!” and “Thank you!” followed you out, and you slipped through the wooden corridor of the greenhouse.

Outside, the sun had started its descent behind the mountains. Jackson glowed in that late golden hour—the kind of light that made it feel like nothing bad had ever happened here. The smell of roasted meat from the Tipsy Bison floated on the breeze, kids screamed with laughter at the wooden playground, horses clopped along the gravel paths with saddlebags full of supplies.

You weaved through the garden plots—mounds of soil, rows of orange tree saplings, rusted shovels leaning like old men against fence posts. You passed rows of sprouting herbs and markers scribbled with names that felt like promises. Toward the farthest edge of the land, just before the great wall of Jackson rose up like a fortress, you spotted the stash.

Stacks of seed bags. Five feet high, months of scavenging and trading packed into burlap and plastic. A quiet kind of accomplishment.

You sifted through the bags, fingers brushing over worn burlap, each one so familiar that you could almost name the seed inside by scent alone—mint, coriander, marigold. It was second nature by now. Kind of pathetic, maybe.

Blowing out a short breath through your nose, eyes flicking across the row. No tomato seeds in sight. That same low-grade frustration began to simmer, a small, annoyed huff escaping you. Maybe hangry.

"The hell…" you muttered, dirt-smudged fingers raking through your hair, tugging strands away from your face. Definitely hangry.

That’s when you saw them.

Just outside the gate. A few bags—stacked a bit haphazardly—barely ten feet away, resting against the outer fence. You could practically touch them. Tomato seeds among them, you were sure of it.

A metal door stood between you and them. Heavy, rusted, barred from the inside.

It’s not like anyone’s out there, you told yourself. The walls were manned. Watched. This spot was under a watchtower, practically inside the town. It wasn’t like you were heading out into the goddamn wasteland. It was… what? Two minutes outside the line?

You didn’t want to radio someone to fetch it for you. That felt worse. Weak. Like asking meant you weren’t capable. That you were soft. Cowardly.

Hell, Tommy had gotten you into Jackson in the first place. Pulled strings. Gotten people to vouch. And ever since, it felt like you owed something. Like every seed you planted was penance for a favor you didn’t know how to repay.

Your hands were already moving before you could talk yourself out of it. You unlatched the thick metal bar with a quiet grunt and slipped the door open just wide enough to slip through. The hinges creaked like they hadn’t been used in weeks. Still, you stepped through.

The air outside was different. Feral. Thick with the smell of pine and iron. Just past the threshold, nature had taken over—overgrown grass curled around your boots, vines crept up the base of the watchtower, and fallen branches tangled in forgotten fencing. You’d said it before: this would be prime land for garden expansion. You’d even told Tommy. But no one ever followed up.

You navigated through the dirt and gravel with careful footing, the uneven earth crunching beneath your boots. Kneeling by the stack, you moved fast—hands brushing over the coarse burlap, the scent of earth and dried seed rising up to meet you.

"Gotcha," you muttered, fingers closing around the tomato seed bag and tugging it free from the pile. It was heavier than you remembered—forty, maybe forty-five pounds—but you managed to hike it against your hip, adjusting for balance.

The weight pressed into your side as you made your way back, sidestepping tangled roots and patches of wild grass. You moved slow, cautious, but confident. The door was just ahead, right where you left it. Still cracked open. Still safe.

See? Easy. No problem. You worried for nothing.

A snap. Not from beneath you. From the trees. Somewhere off to the right.

The seed bag dug into your side as you slowly turned your head. Not fast—fast would make noise. Fast would mean panic. And panic meant death.

You scanned the trees. The underbrush. The shadows stretching longer now that the sun had nearly dipped below the horizon.

You shifted your grip on the bag, inching one foot back toward the open door. Then it screamed.

That god-awful, bone-splitting screech—somewhere between a person and a demon—ripped through the air. From the treeline, it lunged.

Runner.

No time. You dropped the bag, stumbling backward as the infected barreled toward you, all limbs and rage, its mouth gaping open with the promise of ruin. Its hands stretched, fingers curled like claws.

Its arms missed you by inches, but its momentum dragged you both down in a vicious spiral—crashing through the underbrush. You tumbled, slamming through dirt and dead branches, pain flaring in your back and ribs. The runner snapped its jaws in blind rage, its limbs clawing at the earth beside you but never quite finding skin.

You slammed against the base of a tree, disoriented, vision split by branches. You kicked and swung out, again and again, keeping the thing’s flailing body at bay.

BANG.

The shot split the air. The runner seized, neck jerking. It dropped. Silent.

Your breath caught in your throat as you lay there, heart thundering. Then the sound of boots barreled down the hill—furious boots.

Tommy’s hands were on you before the world came back into focus. ��What the hell were you thinkin’?” he snapped, grabbing you by your shoulders, shaking once—not rough, just enough to remind you you were alive.

“No bite,” you gasped. “Didn’t touch me, I swear—”

“I don’t give a shit what it touched. You shouldn’t’ve been out here alone.” His voice cracked halfway through, like it betrayed him. His jaw clenched. “You know better. You know better.”

You blinked at him, eyes wide. His were burning.

“I almost put a bullet through it too late,” he continued, quieter now, but heavier. “You realize what that would’ve done to me? What it would’ve meant if I saw that thing sink its teeth into you?”

You stayed silent. There was nothing to say.

Tommy looked away, like even meeting your eyes hurt. He ran a hand down his face and muttered, “Jesus… You’re not just some fuckin' girl. You’re part of me now. And I ain’t got the kind of heart left to bury another person I love.”

He hauled you up—not gently—and slung your arm over his shoulder. His grip was tight. Protective.

“You want tomato seeds?” he growled, voice dark and cracked with anger. “You ask. I’ll bring the whole damn field if it keeps you behind the gate. But you don’t get to pull stunts like this."

"Not now. Not with me.”

You nodded, throat tight. The weight of what almost happened still ringing in your bones.

As he guided you back toward the wall, you could feel it in the tension of his body—he wasn’t just mad. He was terrified.

. . .

You’d misread him.

He wasn’t just upset—he was seething. Quiet, tight-lipped fury. The kind that didn’t need to be shouted to make your chest ache. The walk back to town was heavy with it. No words. No looks. Just the clamp of his hand on the back of your jacket, guiding you forward like a soldier escorting someone who’d stepped out of line.

You hadn’t even gotten to finish your shift. No chance to wave off the other gardeners. The stares were the worst—dozens of eyes trailing after you, low whispers cutting the air. Concern. Pity. Fear. You weren’t the survivor today. You were the reckless one, the fragile one, the woman who nearly didn’t come back.

Tommy’s grip never loosened. Not once. Like if he did, you’d vanish into the ground or go running back out again.

By the time you reached the house, your heart was pounding with the quiet shame of it all.

He finally spoke, voice flat and firm, the words razor-sharp in their simplicity.

“Go get changed.”

“We’ll talk later.”

And then he disappeared—into the hallway, into the silence, into himself. You stood there in the entryway, mud drying on your boots, hands still trembling from the brush with death, and it hit you.

It felt like punishment. Maybe it was.

A few moments pass, and you finally make your way upstairs to the bathroom.

You peeled off your clothes in silence, careful with every movement. Each scrape, each bruise, each patch of gravel-burned skin lit up angry and raw against the parts of you that were still whole. It all stung now—the sting of adrenaline gone, leaving nothing behind but pain and consequence.

You sat on the edge of the tub, sockless feet pressed to the cold tile floor, your arms folded tightly across your chest like they could hold you together. But they couldn’t.

The bathroom light buzzed above you, casting your reflection in the mirror like a ghost. And then, finally—finally—you let go.

A breath broke. Then a sob. Then another. And another.

No gasping. No theatrics. Just that hollow kind of crying that seeps up from your ribs, thick and unrelenting, like grief had been waiting patiently behind your teeth.

It wasn’t about the fall. Not really. It wasn’t even about the runner. It was the look on his face. The way Tommy hadn’t spoken to you. It was knowing, deep down, that you scared him. And that scared you more than anything else. It was an accident. You tried to convince yourself it was an accident. That you didn't go through with it because you were tired of being Tommy's sheltered girl. He's lost so much, how could you add to that?

You’re part of me now. And I ain’t got the kind of heart left to bury another person I love.

The sobs didn’t stop—they just changed. Softer now. Like something had cracked wide open inside of you and there was no stuffing it back in.

You slid from the edge of the closed toilet, knees curling beneath you as your bare skin pressed against the cool, aged wood of the floor. Arms braced out in front of you, hands shaking against the boards like they could hold up the weight of the world. Like they could hold you.

But they couldn’t.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that. Time blurred at the edges. Pain and shame blurring with it.

A knock.

Soft. Careful. Still heavy.

Tommy.

He didn’t say your name. He didn’t need to.

You didn’t answer right away—couldn’t—but you heard the way he shifted just outside the door. Boots scuffing against the floor. A sigh, quiet and worn.

“I ain’t gonna ask to come in,” he said finally, voice low, rough around the edges. “But you’re hurtin’. And I’d rather be in there hurtin’ with you than standin’ out here pretendin’ like I ain’t.”

Silence.

“I was mad,” he added, slower this time. “Still am. Don’t mean I don’t love you. Don’t mean I ain’t scared shitless at the thought of you not comin’ home.”

You swallowed hard, head still bowed. The words splintered something in you, but not in a way that hurt. In a way that made you feel seen.

You reached for the towel near the counter, dragging it close, wrapping yourself in it like armor.

“C’mon in,” you whispered, voice wrecked.

The doorknob clicked. The door eased open.

Tommy stood in the frame, his expression unreadable—somewhere between fear and fury and a heartbreak he’d never admit to. But he stepped inside without a word, sinking to his knees beside you.

“I thought I lost you,” he murmured, eyes glassy, but jaw tight. “And I can’t. You hear me?”

“…’m sorry…” you manage to gasp, the words catching and breaking in your throat like brittle glass. Each sob lurches out of you, wild and raw, dragging your chest tight. The tears keep falling—hot, carving burning paths down your cheeks.

You’re still on the floor, still bare, shivering from the cold and guilt. The wood beneath you bites at your skin, goosebumps rising in waves. You feel stripped open, not just of your clothes—but of everything.

Pride. Defenses. Sense. Though the entire thing was your fault.

Tommy doesn't speak right away.

He just kneels there, next to you. His fingers twitch—tight, twitch, release—over and over, like he’s working through something bigger than he knows how to say.

Then, quiet and flat:

“Don’t apologize for survivin’.”

You blink up at him through the haze of your crying, eyes swollen, lashes wet.

“That’s what that was,” he continues, voice a little rougher now. “You didn’t go out there ‘cause you’re stupid. Or reckless. Or tryin’ to piss me off.” A bitter huff. “Though you damn well managed that last two.”

He pauses, jaw ticking. His gaze doesn’t quite meet yours. It hovers just over your shoulder, as if looking straight at you might shatter him, too.

“You went out there cause you thought you had to. ‘Cause no one ever taught you to let someone else help. You don't owe me anythin'." His voice softens, quieter than you’ve ever heard it.

“Well, I’m here now. I’m right here. And I ain’t lettin’ you bleed alone on a bathroom floor. Got it?”

You don’t answer.

But you nod.

And that’s enough.

Tommy reaches for the towel, tugs it a little higher over your shoulder, making sure you’re wrapped tight. Then he shifts, lowers himself beside you, pulling you gently against his chest. You curl into him—still trembling, still raw—and he just holds you there, like he’s trying to put all your broken pieces back in place with nothing but his hands and the steadiness of his heartbeat.

“You’re safe,” he murmurs. “You’re safe now. And I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

You sink into him like soft wax against a flame—malleable, undone. His arms encase you, dark and steady, holding you like a thing he refuses to let shatter. You let your fingers roam in small, quiet passes—mapping the constellation of moles and sun-darkened spots that speckle his skin like old stories. Scars like soft warnings, sunspots like prayers. He feels real beneath your hands. Solid. Warm.

Your voice is barely more than breath.

“Tommy?” A pause. The weight of his name clings to your tongue. “…Is it a bad time to ask if you’ll… shower with me?”

For a moment, there’s just the sound of the house breathing around you. Wood creaking. Pipes humming. Your chest rising and falling where it rests against his.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes scanning your face—searching, measuring. Not for lust. Not even really for permission. But for intent. For what you need.

His voice is quiet. Rough, like gravel smoothed down by the years.

“Darlin’,” he says, “I’d carry you in there if you asked me to.”

"I'm a big girl, I can walk…" You jest, a small laugh slipping out from your crying demeanor.

His eyes are soft as they meet yours. Thumb brushing across the back of your hand before he drifts to undo the buttons of his flannel. There’s something hesitant in the movement, like he’s waiting for you to tell him to stop. He doesn’t want to push you, doesn’t want to make you feel anything more than what you’re willing to give.

But you can’t stop the way your body moves towards him. How your lips lift, barely brushing against his as you reach up to gently pull his shirt from his shoulders, your fingers trembling as you guide it down his chest. His breath hitches, a low sound escaping him when your lips meet his neck, soft, fleeting. Like each soft kiss is an apology.

I'm sorry for being stupid.

There’s no hurry. No franticness. Just the weight of everything you’ve been through, pressing in, and the need to feel something real. Something that isn’t broken. You press your body against his, and he inhales, his hands coming up to your face, brushing your tears away, though you’re not sure when they started again. Maybe his presence.

You pull back for a moment, your breath shaky. You don’t say a word. But the look in his eyes tells you everything. It’s soft, but it’s fierce. Like he’s terrified of what’s been lost and what could slip away in an instant.

You kiss him then. Slow, soft, desperate in its quiet way. Your hands slide over his chest, fingers slipping down the curve of his torso, feeling the way his muscles tense beneath your touch. He doesn’t stop you.

It’s not about sex. It’s about the quiet, desperate need to be together in this chaotic world. To remind each other that you’re both still here. That you’re alive.

When you finally break apart, you let the fabric fall between you both. His shirt, your clothes—discarded in a pile against the old wooden floorboards. His arms circle around your waist, pulling you into the shower with him, close under the hot water. Feeling the weight of everything you didn’t say, everything you didn’t need to, pressing against you. You kiss him again, this time deeper, pulling him closer, seeking solace in his warmth, in his scent, in the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours.

"I'm sorry," you whisper again, the words barely rising above the hum of the water. They cling to your throat like thorns, fragile and raw, curling out with a trembling breath as your fingers curl into the warmth of his skin.

"I'm so fucking sorry," you repeat—choked, hoarse—like it’s not a sentence but a prayer. A desperate offering to something bigger than the both of you. Maybe to him. Maybe to the pieces of yourself that still believe you deserve to be held.

Tommy doesn’t say anything at first. Just rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed, like he’s trying to breathe you in. His hands move over your spine, slow and deliberate, anchoring you there like you might otherwise drift apart. The warm drip of the water.

“You think I don’t know what that guilt feels like?” he says lowly, voice gravel-worn and edged with something close to ache. “I’ve carried it so long, I forgot what it feels like to walk without it.”

You keep your face pressed to his chest, lips parted but speechless. The silence says everything you can't.

He exhales, slow and tired. “I can't bury you. That ain't somethin' I can do… You go, and I go with it. There'll be nothin' left of me."

There’s no venom in it. Just truth. Just the kind of pain that sounds like anger because love doesn’t always come out gentle.

“I ain't mad you went out there,” he continues. “I’m mad 'cause you didn’t think twice about what it'd do to me. About what I'd be without you.”

Your breath catches. He feels it.

“I ain't like the others, never have been,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “I don’t shut it down when I care about somebody. I feel it. I feel all of it.”

You look up then, blinking through the mist, your thumb brushing over the scar on his forehead.

“I didn’t want to be a burden.”

Tommy’s jaw clenches. “You’re not a burden. You’re mine. My girl. My woman—" He hesitates, a deep inhale, "And mine don’t die alone in the goddamn dirt.”

He says it like a vow.

"If you asked me to lay down n' die, I sure as hell probably fuckin' would…"

His words don't burn anymore.

You kiss him again—slow and firm and full of every word you can’t manage. And he lets you. Holds you like the world might split if he doesn’t.

Your fingers find his hair—thick, dark—and you curl them there, anchoring yourself in the strands like they’re the last solid thing in a world built on rot and ruin. A gentle tug, not out of desire but out of need. Something quiet and aching. Like you're trying to make sure he stays.

The kisses taper off, each one slower than the last, until your foreheads rest against each other and the only thing left between you is breath. Steam swirls around your tangled forms, the water falling soft.

You're both still, tucked into each other beneath the muted warmth. Spaced out. Safe, for now.

And then your voice breaks the hush, small and hoarse but real: “How’d you know I was there?” You pause, fingers still laced in his hair. “I thought you were out on patrol.”

Tommy exhales through his nose, his arm tightening slightly around your waist.

“I was,” he says, voice thick with something unspoken. “Checkin’ the perimeter like I’m supposed to.”

He pauses.

“But then I saw one of the watch guys… leanin' over, squintin’ toward the south gate. Looked nervous.”

His jaw ticks. You can feel it against your temple.

“And I don’t know what it was—just somethin’ in my gut. Cold, sick feelin’. I ran. Didn’t even think. Just ran.”

His voice quiets, but it hardens too.

“Don’t ever make me feel that again.”

You swallow, guilt catching sharp in your throat.

Tommy shifts then, just enough to look at you. His hand comes up, thumb brushing a drop of water from your cheek.

“I know you’re strong. I know you’ve survived a helluva lot. But don’t you dare think you gotta prove it to me by gettin’ yourself killed.”

There’s no accusation in his voice, just a worn-out sorrow, like someone who’s lost too much and refuses to do it again. The silence returns, but it’s softer now. Heavy with feeling, but not drowning in it.

The water runs warm for a little while longer, soaking into your skin like ointment against old bruises. Tommy doesn’t say much more after that. Doesn’t have to. His touch stays—steady, grounding. You stay curled against him in the falling water until your fingers start to prune and the steam fades into the cold edges of reality.

Eventually, he murmurs, “We should get out. Water’s goin’ cold.”

You nod, not really wanting to move. But he helps you, carefully untangling your limbs, stepping out first to grab two towels from the wall hook. He tosses one over his shoulder before turning to wrap the other around you, gentler than you expect. The fabric scratches your scraped knees, but you don’t flinch, it only stings a bit.

You dry off in silence, your breath fogging the mirror, his silhouette moving behind you as he runs a hand through his wet hair. He’s quiet, but there’s still a charge in the air between you, something unspoken and taut—less like a rope about to snap, and more like one that just pulled someone back from the ledge.

He watches you in the mirror, eyes flicking to each fading bruise and open scrape across your shoulder and collarbone. “You got lucky,” he says, voice low, gruff.

“I know.”

There’s a beat where you think he might say more, maybe even get mad again. But instead, he moves in behind you, pressing a hand flat against your back.

“You hungry?”

Your eyes dip in the mirror, watching his hand round your hips, tough calloused fingers resting right below your bellybutton.

"I don't know," You exhale, eyes flicking back up to meet his face in the mirror, "You angry enough to not give me what I want?"

His eyes practically dilate—soft fingers once resting on your stomach, now curling into a deepened hold. Pushing your waist against him. The angular feeling of his bare body pressing against the taut arched form of your hips against the granite. His free hand comes up to brush some of the hair from behind your back, over your shoulder. Soft kisses peppering shoulder blades. His lips trace up, the feeling of his facial hair tickling against soft vulnerable skin. A gentle kiss to the lobe of your ear, and a whisper.

"Don't ask for shit you can't handle."

. . .

You curl toward him instinctively, limbs tangling with his. One arm under your head, the other slung across his ribs. His hand settles between your shoulder blades, thumb grazing slow circles into your spine.

He smells like soap, saw dust and sun-warmed cotton. And for the first time in hours your chest doesn’t ache from holding it all in.

Minutes pass like that. The silence between you is full—but not heavy. Not yet.

Then, his voice, low and rough in the dark: “I heard the runner before I saw you. Screechin’ like it was already eatin’. Thought I was too damn late.”

You don’t say anything. You just press your forehead harder into his collarbone.

“I’ve seen what those things do to people. What they leave behind.” His voice cracks a little. He coughs, as if to clear it. “You don’t get to do that to me.”

“I wasn’t trying to,” you whisper.

“I know.” A pause. “But intent don’t mean shit when the ground gives out beneath you.”

You tighten your grip around him.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur again, but he shushes you this time, mouth brushing your temple.

“Not tonight,” he says, voice softer. “You’re safe. That’s what matters.”

You let yourself believe him. Let your eyes fall shut to the rhythm of his breathing. Let the warmth of him hold the pieces of you together while you rest.

Tomorrow will ask more of you both.

This isn't fixed.

. . .

[cosmica-galaxy]

♣--Ex!SMC Underling!Reader x Pure Vanilla Cookie--♣

Genre: Can be Romantic or Platonic Warnings: Manipulative/Partially Abusive SMC Word Count: 3,173 Words

You’re tired. You are so…so…tired. You have tried everything to please your master and you never found anything that could ever bring him any happiness nor praise. What were you doing wrong…?

You were loyal to Shadow Milk even before he fell from grace as the Sage of Truth. You weren’t some…nobody welp that he happened to take in from off the streets. You were there when he fell…when he became the beast of deceit. His large web of lies spread chaos in the surrounding region…and you were a minion that was destined to spread it as far as you could across Earthbread. It wasn’t just you that served as a minion, but you also had two fellow loyalists that would help do Shadow Milk’s bidding. Black Sapphire Cookie and Candy Apple Cookie. Black Sapphire Cookie would spread rumors far and wide, cause couples to fall apart or fight, and would break apart friendships and relationships with such grace…and your lord would give him so much praise for his deeds. Candy Apple Cookie would deceive, assassinate, and infiltrate so many places to deal with any forms of resistance to your lord’s rule with such savagery and devotion…and he would praise her as well. Then…when you went out and performed so many deeds in the name of deceit ...you have told so many lies, broken so many friendships, and even had kingdoms fight one another over petty lies and deceitful tactics to please your lord. But…he would barely look your way. However, he would always take notice of your mistakes rather than your accomplishments. The moment you messed up, he would berate you. Shadow Milk would always comment about how you were such a worthless minion and how he could literally replace you with a puppet and have better results. But that was him on his good days. On his bad days, it was worse for you. He would physically abuse you for your failures by forcing you to act out plays as a puppet. Strings would pull you roughly around the stage, forcing you into painful positions, and you would take very real attacks from other members of his ‘cast’ during his tales. Beaten, battered, wounded, and breathless…Shadow Milk would laugh at you, as well as the “audience” he would conjure up. Among the crowd were his two disciples, Black Sapphire and Candy Apple. While Candy Apple Cookie seemed to enjoy your torment, Black Sapphire seemed to be more…reserved in his reactions. “Aww…are you all done? Learned your lesson yet?” Shadow Milk would taunt from above your entangled form. Yet, like a beaten submissive dog, you would always crawl back to your master. Agreeing and begging for more chances to prove your worth time and time again. Much to your master’s dramatic disgust-filled reaction, and then he would drop you from his strings. Then Shadow Milk would bring up the statues in the spire courtyard…all the time. Always telling you that if you wanted the empty pedestal to be filled with your stony visage, you had to earn it like Black Sapphire and Candy Apple did. And you would always try so hard to do as he demanded. To earn your place in the garden of deceit and to finally be recognized as a valuable member of his following. But, that was during the time of the Beasts’ reign over the continent you once called home. When the Witches intervened and your lord was broken and sealed away in the seal guarded by a silver sapling, you waited for your master to return with such eagerness. But many springs…summers…autumns…and winters passed. Many moons later…you suddenly find yourself doubting why you were waiting in this forsaken spire for your lord to return. His sealing had given you plenty of time to think and wonder…just…why? What were you doing wrong? Then, one fateful moonless night…you had an epiphany while staring at the empty pedestal in the garden of deceit just outside of the spire. You…were never going to get recognized as an honorary minion of deceit.

Only during that moment on the moonless night did you finally understand the truth…you were being constantly deceived…and you felt it in all of its cruel irony. Shadow Milk Cookie cared for you less than his other underlings…but you were useful for all the hard work and labor that the other members didn’t feel like doing. You were just being strung along by Shadow Milk…like a puppet on a string. He would dangle the carrot in front of you and you would pursue it relentlessly, and would get no closer to your goal. Your world became shaken and suddenly…your devotion in your lord of lies…waned. You and the other minions of deceit would regularly talk or hang out at the spire during your master’s absence–until after that night. You began to shut both of them out of your life slowly and steadily. You would stay away from them at dinner, hide in your room all day, and you even swapped your sleeping schedule to avoid them entirely. Candy Apple wasn’t as bothered by your sudden isolation, but Black Sapphire Cookie would always try to check up on you at least once in a while. Yet, you refused to reach out or indulge in the rumor spreader when he came knocking on your door. He always asked if it was about Shadow Milk Cookie being imprisoned…but you would never reply. If only he could understand the betrayal and heartache you were enduring because of your revelation in the garden that night. Then one full moon night, after all those tear-filled sleepless nights and silent suffering of what you were going to do that you endured, you decided to make the difficult choice to leave the spire entirely…to leave the chaos of deceit that you had grown to know for so long behind. You had packed your bags with all of the necessities, packed food and drinks, and opened the window to the outside. Your demon-like wings spread wide and your bag close to your side. You could only look back at the room that once served as your home one last time before you turned around and flew out the window. You slipped away to the far borders of the Beast of Deciet’s territory. Stopping on a moonlit hill to look over what used to be your kingdom and your place of residence. There was only one thing left to do. You look at the insignia you wore, the crest with the slitted eye that held your pledge to the lord of deceit himself, and you ripped it off. You stare at it with a mix of uncertainty, fear, and hatred.

For a moment, you hesitate. But…you already came this far. 

There was no going back now…besides…what would await you at the spire anyway? An abusive lord that would eventually return to give you more empty promises? A life of never being good enough for him? An empty statue pedestal that would never be filled? 

You were no longer going to be some Beast’s loyal little puppet. You raise your hand up high…and you sling the deceitful jem that held your pledge towards the ground with force. It shatters. With the shattering came the pain of you being severed from the powers of the dark side of the moon, the otherworld, and even your own master of deceit. 

You wince and grit your teeth as your corrupted form is burned away from existence by a golden light and you could only let out breathless gasps when you finally feel the weight of your pledge of servitude that was marked upon your very soul be lifted away from you–like a heavy ball and chain that was finally cut from your leg and how that allowed you to fly away freely. You have done it. You had freed yourself from the Beast and liberated your soul from his influence. You had the chance to be reborn anew. Your wings remained, but they now held a different shape, and you took that as a small blessing from your shift away from the path of deceit. You gathered up your things and finally turned away from the place that served as your cage for the last time. You disappear into the jungle of Beast-Yeast and never look back towards the spire ever again. . . .

That was years ago now.

You had taken on a different name, a different appearance, and began to travel the continent of Beast-Yeast for a majority of years.

You became known as a rather talented traveler. Going from place to place and seeing all that Beast-Yeast had to offer…until the day of the Dark Flour War.

You had remembered when the skies had darkened, the moon turned red, and the continent itself shook with such fury. You won’t lie…you hid away for most of that era, as it reminded you of the time when you used to serve…him. How kingdoms would fall, how lies would reap what was sowed, and how easily others crumbled when pushed to certain limits. But…the war had passed and life continued on like not much had happened. You continued with your own soul searching journey that you undertook in solitude. Traveling, meeting other cookies, fighting dangerous beasts, and finally getting to a point where you felt like you could cross the licorice sea and discover what lied beyond this land that you had now explored over the years. Plus…you would do anything to get farther away from the hellhole you crawled out of. You managed to make a decent boat, cross the sea during the calm season, and then you began your explorations in the land of Crispia. You explored the mighty mountains of the dark cacao kingdom, drank the fine berry juice in the dragon-ruled Hollyberry Kingdom, sampled the various delicious cheeses of the parmesan desert (apparently there used to be a kingdom here…but it got wiped out long ago), and finally you began to make your way over to a rather far away kingdom. However, you were surprised that you got ambushed during your walk through the chasms that supposedly led to a fabled “vanilla kingdom” by a Cookie who used raisin crows as companions. She tossed raisin buns at you, which you caught and began to eat without hesitation. “Thank you! I was quite famished!” You had exclaimed and continued to eat the raisin bun, much to the Cookie’s surprise. “You…aren’t from around here. Who are you? Where did you come from?” The cookie interrogates, her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Me? I’m just a traveler. Going from place to place and meeting all types of cookies. As for where I came from…well, it’s pretty far away. It doesn’t really matter where I came from…since I didn’t belong there anyway.” You explained. “I promise that I mean you no harm, unlike those unfriendly waffle robots I ran into a little while ago…” “The waffle bots attacked you as well?! . . .I see that you are injured. You said that you have no home, right…? . . . Follow me, I know someone who can help heal your injuries.” That was how you met him.

At the time, he was known as “Blind Healer Cookie”. A cookie that helped heal a group of injured and famished cookies. You have never met someone so…kind before. He was the polar opposite of your old master, the one you had deserted so many moons ago. The moment that Black Raisin Cookie lead you into his tent, you felt a strange feeling of nostalgia. Regardless, the cookie smiled at you while he healed the sick and injured in his tent. “Oh? Who is this?” The kind cookie inquired and he welcomed you into his tent after spotting your injuries. “Oh my, you’re hurt…please come in and have a seat. I will be with you in a moment!” You had sat down obediently and waited patiently. Thankfully, your injuries weren’t as nearly as severe as some of the cookies in the tent. You could afford to wait for your treatment. “This is a drifter. They claim to hail from a far away land…and that they don’t have a home. Like most of us.” Raisin Cookie explains in your place. “Oh…that’s a shame.” The friendly cookie smiles warmly at you. “Do you at least have a name?” You tell the cookie your name. “What a lovely name! I can see you now, please allow me to assess your injuries.” “Oh…they’re not that bad. If someone needs assistance, you can help them first!” “. . .Traveler, your arm is leaking strawberry jam with a deep gash! How can that possibly be a not that bad?” The healer cookie had asked you in worry. “. . . I’ve had worse.” You mutter out and look away as the healer looks at your deep injury with concern. “Goodness…you must have had quite the journey to get this far…” “Well…I don’t really have anywhere else to go. I was on my way to the vanilla kingdom, but I just ran into trouble on the way there and those waffle bots gave me this nasty cut. I will probably move on after I heal so I don’t use up too much of your resources.” “Nonsense! If you ever need a place to rest your head, you are free to stay here in the village with Raisin Cookie and I. Any cookie is welcome here!” “. . . Thank you, Healer Cookie.”

From that moment on, you stayed with the healer cookie in the small unimpressive village. You truly had no reason to stay, but you didn’t want to travel with such an injury for a while. Yet, the longer you stayed…the less you wanted to leave. Especially if Healer Cookie wasn’t going to go with you. Instead, when you got well enough, you began to help Black Raisin Cookie defend the village from the onslaught of waffle bots that would come every red moon. Your survival and combat skills have served you well over the years, as it has kept many a cakehound, cake wolf, and even a ferocious ridge lion from devouring you. Many of the villager cookies have even taken up calling you a “knight”. You also tried to help understand where the robots were coming from, and they seem to be originating from the island floating in the sky. Which you later found out to be the fabled Vanilla Kingdom…but why would a kingdom send down so many robots to hurt cookies specifically? You wouldn’t get an answer to that until a ragtag bunch of Cookies by the name of Gingerbrave, Strawberry, and Wizard Cookies came hurtling into town. One thing led to another and the next thing you know, you’re helping fight off an invading force of cake monsters that had taken over Healer Cookie–no…Pure Vanilla Cookie’s old kingdom. Your sword skills served the group well and you never strayed too far from Pure Vanilla Cookie until he was separated from your group during a fight in the bedroom. Once Dark Enchantress Cookie revealed herself, and your imprisoned friend, you flew into a rage that you haven’t ever felt before. The team joined you in your assault on the Cake Witch and you all sent the beast reeling. Pure Vanilla even broke out of his confinement and assisted you all  when you needed it the most. In the end, the enchantress and her unwanted lackeys fled the kingdom that now rightfully belongs to Pure Vanilla Cookie and the Villagers that housed you while you healed. You could only feel delighted when you see Gingerbrave, Strawberry, and Wizard cookie off as they continue on their journey across Crispia to bring the letters that were written by Pure Vanilla to the other surviving ancient heroes. Then, you get an unexpected proposal from the king himself as he addressed you by your name to get your attention. “I was wondering if you would accept this offer of mine. You see, I think you would make a great knight for our kingdom. If you want to…would you like to become the first Vanilla Royal Knight?” You could only blink in response and your wings fluttered slightly in excitement.

Admittedly, it took a lot of time for you to start opening up to anyone at all. Let alone to learn to trust again after your abandonment of the Beast of Deceit. But something about Pure Vanilla just made you feel…warm and safe. Maybe it was his kind demeanor or his devotion to his subjects that made you feel this way…or maybe it was because he was so willing to give what you were craving so much from Shadow Milk Cookie.

A sense that you belonged. “. . .I would…I-I…” “Ah?! Are you okay?! You’re crying…” “I…am I?? My apologies…I just…do I deserve it…? Have I earned my place h-here?” “Shh…” Pure Vanilla Cooke quickly embraces you and strokes your trembling back lovingly. “Of course! Why wouldn’t you belong here? We all love you very much and the only thing we would hate about you…is if we had to see you go.” For the first time in your ancient life…you lean into a figure that was giving you the affection and recognition that you seeked so desperately from the Beast you used to serve. “So…will you stay?” “. . .Yes, my king.” From that moment on, you had fully shed your past life as a follower of deceit. 

You have taken on a new identity, a new title, and now…a new kingdom to call home and a new king to follow, Not a king of deceit…but a king of truth.

You served as his strongest knight that fought off any lingering waffle bot threats and guarded the edges of the floating kingdom with your wings serving as your method of transportation. You now wear a signature vanilla kingdom set of armor that was crafted for you specifically, dressing your once tattered clothes into a fine suit of armor. Not only that, but you were given a powerful sword to replace your old and worn one. 

Now you spend your days standing protectively at his side as Pure Vanilla went about his business in the kingdom. Whether or not he was in a meeting, checking on his devoted villagers, or even watering the vanilla flowers in the garden.

You were always nearby and watching over his kingdom with rigorous and unshakable loyalty. You were no longer a pawn of some puppeteer to tug around and be forced to dance for entertainment. Though, you do wonder from time to time how Black Sapphire is doing…but he and Candy Apple Cookie were in the past…and that is where they can stay. You have changed.

You now reside as a resident of the new vanilla kingdom and a servant to a king who actually deserves your loyalty, tenacity, and devotion to your duties. And the king would return your effort with so much kindness, praise, and words that always reassured you… That you would always belong here with him.

[scoutofmymind]

can u please write something about how like reader felt while luigi was missing for 6 months. like would he reach out, would she go with him etc. also i love ur stories 🤍🤍🤍🤍

Run — { Luigi x Reader }

Content: sfw, angst, friends to lovers, slight situationship vibe, reader is an artist, kissing, heartbreak, explores ideas of guilty Luigi.

Wc: 2,345

Notes; Luigi vanishes - no warning, no footprints, just the sudden hollow where your life used to fit against his, opening to six months of silence before his letter appears under your door, bearing coordinates to a payphone five blocks away.

You didn't know where you'd be six months later when Luigi drove you down to the lake in his old Bronco, your spot shotgun worn from all those midnight trips for ice cream, the two of you off-roading through patches of corn fields out in the boonies — afterward he'd drop you off at home in the city, then drive himself back to the suburbs, unless he fell asleep in your room despite insisting he couldn't stay because of morning classes.

He always found it hard to leave you.

June warmed the brown leather beneath you, the window cracked to let in the summer air sweetened with hay as Luigi sped down the winding back roads of the countryside, rambling about his sister's new donkey they'd keep at the farm — the Mangione's second, more humble mansion with its livestock and respectable Christmas tree operation.

"You know you're my best friend, don't you?" He'd turned to look at you, the old truck thrown into park at the Dairy Queen after you'd convinced him the donkey could wait.

"Yeah." You nodded, cheeks full of ice cream, brows furrowed. You didn't notice then how his face had flushed red, embarrassed at blurting something so obvious it had never needed questioning. "Who else would you have time for?"

School, tech clubs, part-time job, and you.

Those were the pillars Luigi had built his life around, and for years, it had worked.

You and Luigi could fill a room with laughter —obnoxious howls and high-pitched giggle fits that echoed off walls — or sink into comfortable silence, Luigi drifting toward sleep while you lost yourself in whatever new book he'd brought for you to borrow from the university library.

Your own schedule mirrored his in its fullness, though school took a backseat to your collection of side hustles, your primary source of income selling art pieces at local markets where you'd drag Luigi along to showcase your most treasured works.

"That's a good point." He shot you a grin, spoon dangling upside down from his mouth as he finally broke his gaze from yours to stare out at the tall grass swaying beyond the windshield. "I just hope you know that."

You shift to pull your knees up in the passenger seat, turning to face him with your back against the door. "Feeling sappy again, are you?" Your foot stretches to nudge his knee, the leather creaking beneath you. "S'alright. I like when you get all soft."

Just the week before, Luigi's heart had been sitting too close to the surface, everything managing to touch a nerve — the way his mother spoke about his future over Sunday dinner, how his professor had dismissed his latest project idea, and even the changing spring weather that threatened the saplings he planted last fall.

Eventually, he recalibrated, but that raw tenderness still surfaced in waves.

"Yeah, maybe." Luigi shrugged, leaning over to dig his spoon into your ice cream, stealing a taste. "I just think it's worth saying. A reminder never hurts."

You'd never wanted to invalidate Luigi's feelings — and while you loved to tease him, you'd never dismiss what he shared. He was a natural at expressing himself when he chose to, and you knew if he voiced something, it meant those feelings ran deep.

"You're right, Lu." You say softly, letting your knees drop as you lean toward him, patting his thigh. "Thank you for telling me." He turns to you, his lips curling into that familiar grin. "You're my best friend too. Obviously."

"I know it's obvious," he groans, stealing yet another spoonful of your ice cream, your reflexes failing you when you jerk the cup away. "Let me just fuckin' say it." The late afternoon sun catches in his dark curls, the sun setting over the field.

You wave your hands in surrender, "Alright, alright." A laugh spills from your lips as you lean forward, spoon stretching toward his cup, missing entirely when he pulls it just out of reach. The melting ice cream drips onto the weathered console between you. "C'mon, lemme try."

He shoves a heaping spoonful into his mouth, eyebrows lifting in that familiar challenge, dimples deepening as a muffled "Come get it" drifts across the console, and the invitation draws you across the seat into his lap, the old leather protesting beneath your shifting weight while his free hand automatically found its place at your waist to steady you.

It wasn't the first time you'd tasted ice cream from his mouth, sweet and cold and mingled with laughter — but it would be the last.

And by some cruel twist of fate, that sun-drenched afternoon in his car, with melting ice cream and shared breaths, would be the final time you'd see Luigi's face in person.

After that day, he'd only exist in grainy security footage and missing person flyers.

It's a specific kind of agony, one that lives beneath your ribs.

You searched every corner of his life — the obvious hiding spots and the secret ones only you knew about. The Bronco yielded nothing but old receipts and a forgotten hoodie that still smelled like him.

You harassed mutual friends until they stopped answering, reached out to people who barely knew him, desperate for any trace.

"If Luigi doesn't want to be found, he won't be," Andrew told you, defeated after failing to track any of his devices that had sat abandoned in his room, right there on his desk to be found. Wiped clean. Stranger-cold.

Even your face was gone from his lock screen, erased like everything else.

Sometimes you wondered if you imagined him entirely.

It would be easier than accepting how methodically he vanished, how carefully he erased himself from your world. But then you'll find evidence — a movie ticket stub, a photo booth strip tucked into an old book. The careful progression from strangers to friends to best friends to that unnamed thing you became.

The way you'd end up tangled in his sheets, his hand gentle at your throat, or how you'd hang up on him three seconds into a call because he knew exactly how to push your buttons.

It couldn't have been real — how could someone who claimed to love every scattered piece of you leave without taking any of them with him?

Therapy wasn't optional anymore.

Your friends watched you spiral into something darker than even middle school heartbreak, something that wrapped around your organs and threaded itself through your bones.

This wasn't the kind of pain that faded; it evolved, grew thorns, made itself at home in your marrow.

But talking helped.

Six months without Luigi became possible, then probable, then real — not because you wanted it, but because the alternative was letting yourself disappear, too.

The letter arrives alone on a Tuesday, no bills or wedding invitations to keep it company, just your name in that familiar scrawl that makes your stomach drop. "What do you think?" you whisper to Mario, who's wagging his tail like he knows something you don't, nudging the envelope across the hardwood with his nose.

Luigi named Mario when you got him as a puppy six years ago; Mario, because he thought they’d become more of a duo than the two of you had been.

And that, they did.

"Mar, quit it," you mutter, wrestling the envelope from under his paw where he's planted himself like a furry anchor. The paper is damp from his nose, and it takes four tries to open it without destroying whatever's inside. Your hands won't stop shaking. "The fuck is this."

Eight words stare back at you.

December 3rd, 8:15PM. Pay phone outside of Murphy's on 12th.

Mario presses his cold nose against the back of the paper as you stare down at it, inhaling deeply like he's trying to memorize something. His tail wags so hard his whole body sways, but then a whine escapes him — low and confused.

You know that sound; It's the same one he makes when he finds one of Luigi's old shirts in the back of your closet, when he can smell what he's looking for but can't find it.

The paper crumples in your fist as Mario leans against your legs, still whining softly. Six months of therapy, of learning to breathe around the hollow space Luigi left behind, of convincing yourself that moving forward meant letting go — and here he is, eight words dropping into your life like a lit match.

Still, you march yourself there.

Mario decided somewhere in these six months that he needed to be more than just a wagging tail and sloppy kisses. He took Luigi's place as protector, navigator, watchful eyes scanning every shadow as you cut through familiar alleyways to Murphy's corner.

Your phone reads

8:20

"Shit." You glance down at Mario, who's pressed against your leg, his head tilted back to study your face with those knowing brown eyes. "Fuck this." The words taste like surrender as you pocket your phone, but Mario plants himself like a furry statue, refusing to let you move.

"Mar, c'mon." Your voice cracks, but he stays rooted until that first metallic ring cuts through the night air. The payphone looks ancient, probably witness to a thousand desperate conversations, a thousand promises made and broken against its scratched plastic shell, and whatever the fuck this is going to be.

Mario's ears prick forward at the second ring.

His tail, which hasn't stopped moving since you left the apartment, goes suddenly still.

The third ring echoes off brick walls, and you realize your hand is already reaching for the receiver, and before you can even press the phone to your ear, his name escapes like a prayer: "Lu — Luigi?" Your voice wavers between accusation and hope, sharp but fragile at the edges.

Through the static, you hear breathing — that familiar rhythm you could still map in your sleep.

"You know you're my best friend, don't you?"

The words hit like a physical force.

You squeeze your eyes shut, tilting your head back against tears that threaten to spill. "Where are you, Lu?" The receiver trembles in your white-knuckled grip like it might hold some piece of him. "I'm sorry I showed up late."

"I knew you would." His voice is soft, almost lost beneath a symphony of distant horns and city life —sounds too big, too foreign for the quiet streets you both grew up in. "8:15 is an odd time, hm? Figured more like 8:30 would be when you actually showed. Surprised you answered this one."

"How are you?" You keep your question careful, safe — one that won't send him running back into silence, into six more months of nothing; and now this strange urban backdrop paints him somewhere far beyond your reach.

“I miss you.” Luigi says softly, words he’d said plenty before, but they had never carried this sort of weight. “That’s how I am, I guess.”

Why did you leave me, then?

Please tell me where you are.

Whatever it is, Lu, we can fix it.

“I miss you too.” Is what you say instead, the line keeping him here with you feeling much like a fading spirit, destined to disappear any moment if you didn’t watch your step. “Mario is lost without you.”

“Ah, he’s a big boy.” Luigi sniffles softly, and you can tell he’s trying to hide it. “Been taking care of you, hasn’t he?”

Your head bobs in a nod he'll never see, and suddenly grief hits like a physical blow, doubling you over in the cracked vinyl booth. A sob tears through you, raw and feral, ripping up those poisoned vines of betrayal that have wound themselves through every hollow space he left behind.

"Please come back, Lu. I can't—" The words strangle in your throat as you curl deeper into the booth's shadow, pressing your forehead against the phone hook.

You're trying to fold yourself smaller, to disappear from the fluorescent exposure of Murphy's front windows, from the pitying glances of late-night sidewalk wanderers who pretend not to notice the spectacle of your breakdown.

"I can't, baby." Luigi's whisper barely exists, a breath caught between static and silence, but you strain toward it like a dying plant toward light. "It can't work that way — there's nothing either of us can do about it."

Questions bloom like bruises under your skin.

Is he sleeping in a real bed?

Has he shaved?

Who's making sure he remembers to eat?

You bite down on your lip until you taste copper, trying to dam the flood of 'why's' threatening to spill out. Each suppressed question burns like bile in your throat. He's already thrust the blade in deep — watching him twist it with such gentle hands makes it somehow worse.

"I just needed you to know I was safe." His voice shifts, crystallizing into something harder, something that sounds less like your Luigi and more like whoever he's becoming. "And that I love you. I needed you to know that."

"I love you." The words fall into a sudden void as the city sounds cut out on the other line, replaced by a sharp fizz of static, and then nothing.

You press the receiver harder against your ear, as if you could force his voice back through sheer desperation, and the tone eventually starts its monotonous song, but you can't make yourself hang up.

You wait in that phone booth for an hour, then two.

The neon signs paint wet streaks of color across the glass, and your legs go numb from standing, but you wait for a call back.

It never comes.

Monday morning's headlines make everything brutally clear.

His name in bold print.

The investigation.

The evidence trail leading nowhere and everywhere at once.

And suddenly you understand why he couldn't stay, why he had to hear your voice one last time, and you wish to God you didn't.

Because now you know he wasn't running from something.

He was running toward it.

[autisticlalna]

how to watch Skyblock Kingdoms!

because i'm dragging all of you down with me.

what is Skyblock Kingdoms?:

Skyblock Kingdoms, or SBK, is a Skyblock survival server made by VikingPilot where 18 20 players are split into groups of 2 and have their own island to take care of. each island has a unique wood type, and have a monopoly over that wood type! trade between kingdoms is allowed and encouraged, but any saplings belong solely to their original island-- with the exception of oak, which is a freebie anyone can have.

the teams are theoretically a mix of seasoned skyblockers and people not as familiar with it, but in practice there's more novices than experts so comedy has quickly ensued.

what's the story?:

in most cases, SBK is more of a casual improv vibe. think Hermitcraft rather than Empires. what this means is that there's no overarching story everyone is following, but some players have bits they've decided to commit to that, in typical MCYT fashion, are spiraling. some perspectives stay away from the action, some are playing along with whatever bit is tossed their way, some have their stories to tell, and Avid is the reason i'm having to rewrite this paragraph.

we've got capitalists! we've got OSHA! we've got witches feeding the void to try and appease it so it stops eating their bridges! we've got signs of the timeline falling apart! we've got a fortune-telling wizard! we've got something trapped deep down in limbo! we've got somebody cursed to be a monkey by british sun tzu! we've got selling your soul for a weekly lootbox! we've got a kingdom being overtaken by snow and sculk! we've got an airline with a 75% mortality rate! we've got a lawyer?

as of this version of the post (Avid's episode 17, Marma1ade's episode 15, Viking's episode 13, Vintage's episode 13), the first major story arc has wrapped up and things are going in a very interesting direction.

what's the format?:

there are edited videos being released regularly on Youtube by most of the creators, but a couple of POVs are stream-only so far. however, you can easily keep up with the server shenanigans without watching any streams-- there's some stuff that doesn't make it into videos, but not anything that would leave you locked out of the loop.

you can find all of the episodes out so far in release order in this one massive playlist by Doovid! thank you Doovid <3

on top of videos and streams, SBK has songs written and performed by Avid for his episodes! please listen to Through the Void, it's really good. there's also an animation for it that's used as his intro, which is also really good. if you want to listen to cool tunes made for SBK by one of the creators, you should watch Avid.

who to watch?:

depends on what you're looking for!

if you want a focus on building, then Fixxitt and KingElffe are both working on large-scale projects that are downright stunning to see in Skyblock. if you're interested in the Void storyline, then your best bets are Avid, Marmalade, and Trog-- and if you want lore in general, you can add Rubyco, Vintage, Milkman, and Anathra (and potentially Viking) to the list. if you want something chill, then Doovid, M1G, Kale, Anathra, and Leon are pretty laid-back. if you enjoy cinematic editing, then you should check out Avid, Trog, Doovid, Leon, and Viking. if you're here for comedy, then you'll want to check out Viking, Doovid, Milkman, Leon, CodeNeon, and Kittrix, but honestly everybody gets in on that one as they mess with each other constantly. and that's still not covering everybody!

i recommend watching everyone's episode 1 to get a feel for their style and go from there. Anathra, Artemis, Neon, and Leon's perspectives start around the Ender Dragon fight, and Fool and Tea are stream-only.

who's on the server?:

as mentioned, some of these POVs are stream-only!

Dark Oak (VikingPilot + Fixxitt 412) - industry on a massive scale Cherry (Rubyco + vintage_applesauce) - friends with everyone Jungle (AvidMC + Doovid) - the universe has it out for them. Birch (TheFoolsFam + SadMilkman) - the villain is always capitalism Bamboo (M1G + KaleHameron) - space samurai shenanigans Mangrove (Marma1ade + Teaish7) - witches with a void problem Acacia (Dr. Trog + Kittrix) - triangle-loving chaos-causers Spruce (AcornBandit + Anathra) - very chill (both definitions.) End (CodeNeon + LeonSBU) - have been here the whole time! Mushroom (KingElffe + Artemis8bit) -

tl;dr Watch Skyblock Kingdoms.

[chirpos]

Kodaka's love for Makoto Naegi

(auto-translated)

"Naegi-kun" is trending. That adorable hoodie...!

Naegi-kun... I heard that at first you were criticized for being too herbivorous... but I'm glad you're the main character!

Today is Naegi Makoto's birthday! The sapling grew into a big tree of hope. Hinata carries the burden of despair, while Naegi carries the burden of hope. The ending of Hope Arc will always be special to me.

Today is Naegi's birthday! I wrote about this in my Famitsu column, but the name "Naegi" contains the feelings I had when I was creating Danganronpa. This work is a sapling now, but I hope that it will grow into a big tree someday. This is the first and last time that I put my own feelings into a character, so to me, he is as important as Monokuma.

Naegi-kun is trending. I'm so happy. I'm dying of joy. I want to repay Naegi-kun someday.

Thank you! Naegi-kun! You are my ultimate hope!

Also, I wanted to make Makoto Naegi "a matchstick for the other strong characters." In other words, I wanted to make him the only life-sized character among the unique characters. But... the character ran on its own and that's how it turned out. It was the first time I'd ever seen a character run on its own, out of control.

Because of all this, I don't really feel like I created Naegi myself... He doesn't feel like "that character" but more like "that person." It doesn't feel like I created him through calculation, it feels like he was just born into me.

When I think back, things started to change around the line, "I won't get over it. I'll just drag it along and move forward." That line was not in line with my own way of thinking at all. I feel like it was around that time that the person called Naegi was born.

Because Naegi is still alive, I can honestly write about him as if he were a completely different character at the very beginning and at the end of the story, but as the same character. As a writer, I'm usually intimidated by such growth and change, but with Naegi, it didn't bother me at all.

In that sense, he is a special character to me. I thought about creating lines for Naegi, but since it would be completely different depending on which kind of Naegi it is, I thought it would be better not to do it, so I gave up.

[itsabea]

March x sad Reader

Description: March tries his best to comfort you after you have a particularly busy day and end up exhausted

Warnings: not proof read, hinting at depression(reader), slight angst, swearing,

this is purely self indulgent- but then again, almost all of my writing is-

You had been so busy today, exceedingly more so than usual. First of all, it was raining, which you didn't mind because it meant your crops were already watered - but things only got more hectic and busy from there on on out..

You collected, put away, sold, and replanted your crops, then went to go fishing for a salmon for Jo's Request that you had accepted about a month ago.. Only to realise about an hour an a half in that it was currently Summer. Now with much less of your energy, you went to the general store to buy some more seeds and a few fruit trees, which left you with a total of 5 Tesserae as a result.

After going back to your farm and planting the saplings and seeds, you realised that it was only two more days until the end of the season. And so, you went back to fishing to try and catch the rest of the Summer fish you need for the Museum. Admittedly, most of that time was spent walking to and from the ponds to the beach, as that's where the rest of the fish you needed were found.

Once it hit 5:30, you realised that it wasn't just the third to last day of the season.. It was also a Friday. Sighing and slumping your head back, you defeatedly headed home to get ready for your weekly visit to the Inn. Hauling the bag full fish with you on your back, you got back to your farm and placed the not so important ones in your shipping bin, only to realise that you needed one more pond fish to finish that collection.... And it only showed up in the rain..

You were tired. It wasn't that you didn't enjoy your new life in Mistria; helping out the town and it's people. Or that today was bad; you had many content and joy filled moments between it all. But you were tired. So, so, tired..

Right now, nothing was more appealing than curling up in your bed, and crying.

So that's what you did. You put away your items, got showered and dressed into your pyjamas, and you laid down in your bed and cried out the remainder of what little was left of your energy.

You didn't even end up falling asleep afterwards like you usually did when crying in your bed.. Which upset you much more than you realised it would.

I mean.. Why get up just to do it all again tomorrow? The next day would likely end up being longer than today as well.. Not that today wasn't enjoyable- But it wasn't as enjoyable as others... People need you around town though, they always tell you that- You're not that important - the townsfolk don't rely on you to live....

You curled up in on yourself more, lying on your side as the tears began to flow down your cheeks again. It felt hopeless. Everything felt like it wasn't worth it anymore. And you continued to cry in your home until a knock sounded on your door.

At first, you thought you had misheard and simply sighed out a sob. But after a much firmer knock, you realised that it wasn't just you hearing things. Tiredly getting up, you assumed it was Adaline or Eiland, popping by to inform you about a new job that needed to be done around town. Or maybe Celine or Hayden needing some sugar or something?

Either way, you knew all four options were kind enough to excuse your tired, red eyes and pyjama clad form, so you didn't bother trying to make yourself the slightest bit presentable before opening the door. Which was a big mistake on your part, because March was the one that stood in your doorframe, looking down at you with a frown you could barley see through your slightly blurred vision.

"Why are you here?" March said suddenly, looking too the side as you rubbed at your eyes to try and clear them up. "Uhm- I live here?" You responded, no energy left to think up or question his presence on your farm.

After a huff and an exaggerated eyeroll, March rephrased went on to rephrase his question. "No- Why aren't you-" But he cut his words short when he watched your head bob forward like a sleepy child. "What, did you get tired from playing in the dirt all day? I can't believe you-" "Fuck you." You said back, one last tear rolling down your cheek as whatever energy you had that was keeping you standing left you.

In that same instant, you felt a falling sensation as your vision went black. You were tired.

Every so often you'd end up seeing glimpses of your home, but it was somehow moving? Your doorframe.. Black.. Your ceiling... Black... Your ceiling light.... Black.... More ceiling..... Black.....

Every time you saw black, you felt relieved and slightly less tired, especially compared to when you could see your home. And then, a warm sensation surrounded you, like you were being wrapped in a big hug that left you yearning for more.

When you reopened your eyes, you found yourself tucked into bed. The blankets were up to your ears as you laid on your side, about to roll over when you finally noticed the red head of hair resting on top of the blankets in front of you. Humming out, with a slight groaned mumbled, you went to speak up but were promptly cut off.

"Shup up and go back to sleep." March said, lifting his head from its resting position to look at you with stern, yet soft eyes. Feeling your tiredness envelope you, you closed your eyes but felt the cogs in your brain ticking. Why was March here? What was he doing? And why were you in your bed- You suddenly remembered falling into March in your doorway, and him carrying you to your bed before tucking you in.

You felt bad for cursing at him now, but you were also much more confused about why he was even at your farm in the first place. "March-" You started, only for said male to cut you off. "Shoosh. I said, 'go back to sleep'." He retorted, and if your eyes weren't still closed, you had a feeling that he'd glare at you again.

You didn't end up going back to sleep, but you did have a very calm conversation with March as you continued to rest with your eyes closed.

"I'm sorry." March said, being the first to speak after he told you to sleep for the second time. "Why-" "Shut up, you're supposed to be asleep." March said, cutting you off as moment of silence followed before he ended up answering your question. "I know I can be.. A rude asshole - a lot of the time.." March admitted as you felt him start to play with the top of the blanket slightly.

You didn't dare make a single sound as he continued to talk, telling you about how everyone at the Inn was starting to wonder where you were, and how Reina came to the conclusion that you might be over worked.. "-Then Olric offered to check up on you and-" March paused before continuing, having now moved his arm back down from the hem of the blanket as he ceased his delicate fiddling. "And.. And I told him I'd go instead."

The fact you were now frowning didn't go unnoticed by March, who must've been watching you to make sure you didn't open your eyes again. "I know, I know.. I don't why either.... You just-.... You made everyone worried.." March said, trailing off as he went silent again.

After feeling the blankets shift slightly beside you, you peaked your eye open to see March was doing, only to get told off again after seeing March's head resting on his arm directly in front of you. "Sleep." He said, but you had already closed your eye when you saw his eyes intently watching yours.

Your face ran hot with heat from the proximity, which was apparently very visible to March. "Fuck- Please don't tell me you have a damn fever.." He grumbled out, using the back of his free hand to touch your forehead as he continued to complain. "If you went diving and didn't fucking keep warm I'm taking you to Valen." March half threatened, prompting you to frown as he retracted his hand from your forehead.

"Your shipping bin smells like fish." He clarified before you felt him move against the blankets again. This time you felt weight remove itself from beside you, which had you shooting your eyes open with a desperation for company. March looked at you blankly from where he still sat on the floor beside your bed, leaning back on his arms as you watched him open his mouth to tell you off again.

"I'm sleeping..!" You said quickly, hearing a huff emit from the red head in front of your once more closed eyes.

"So.." March started after seconds more of silence. "Why weren't you at the Inn?" He asked, making an exhausted sigh leave you before you spoke. "Tired." You said, waiting for a moment before elaborating on your day. "Tended to crops.. Fed animals... Fished for a stupid non-existent Summer salmon.... Spent all my money on crops.... Planted them.... Went fishing again, but for the Museum.... Died inside.... No energy.... Cried in bed.." You said, starting to tear up again when March spoke up.

"I know it goes against what I always say to you.. But you do a lot around here- Too fucking much to be honest.. And I-" March paused for the umpteenth time that night as you pried your eyes open and looked at him.

He was sitting in the exact same position as when you last opened your eyes, only now he had his head turned from you. Yet, his eyes keep their sights on you, and this time he didn't have the heart to tell you off. March ended up breaking contact with your eyes, his face reddening slightly as he spoke.

"You're enough- More than enough.. You're honestly too much but- Sigh...." March quickly darted his eyes to, and away from you before he continued. "You're a lot. You're so much.. You mean so much- To literally everyone." He said, making another, single tear fall down your face. But this time you had just enough energy.

"Thank you.. March." You managed out, smiling as a few more tears fell down and onto the pillow beneath you.

March wasn't sure what had you crying this time, unsure on whether he did good or bad with his words. But he was by your side once more the moment he watched those tears form into droplets in the corners of your eyes. With a sigh of relief, March relaxed after seeing the slight smile on your face, only to watch it fall the next second as a soft snore left you.

Finally.. You were asleep.

[sunmoon-starfactory]

The Giving Tree - Optimized

Surprise! We are not dead yet and today we have a big optimization update! This update reduces the "The Giving Tree" set in size by more than 50% (106 to 36,2 MB). You also get a cute little bag planter which doubles as a Texture Main. (Surfaces -> Misc)

Technical details: Each tree consists of 4 files: sapling, growing, mature and felled. Because of the way the files have been optimized, you have to make sure that you do not delete the sapling file for the trees you use. Trees are standalone, but the sapling is always required. As is the planter bag.

As a manual has not been written (yet), you can find more information about this set and its usage at The Keep

Update instructions: All files have been modified and renamed, please REMOVE all old files.

Download The Giving Tree

View Set at The Keep

[quitealotofsodapop]

I also mentioned this before in DMs, but I want to point something out.

Wukong gave Macaque a peach popsicle after the fight with Azure. At this point into their relationship, they're only jsut to the point of beginning to reconcile, not quite trusting each other yet, but the first thing Wukong does is give Macaque a peach flavored treat. Is this because he's just extending an olive branch? Did he somehow get his hands on more immortal peaches and made modern treats out of them to make it so they last longer for his friend who needs to regularly invest them to manage his chronic sickness? A little bit of both?

Ref.

Wukong 100% planted a divine peach tree or two on FFM from whatever pits he had left over.

I *love* the idea that when Wukong realised his bestie-turned-rival was alive again, he started thinking of ways to add the Peaches of Immortality to modern day snacks/sweets so Mac wouldn't have to wait potentially months or even centuries for a new dose.

In the lore; the special Life-Extending Peach trees in the Celestial Realm supposedly only fruit every 3,000 years (300 celestial years?), and two other variants that take 6,000 (makes you light as air and youthful) and 9,000 (super boosted first variant) years respectively. This is why so much of the harvest is converted into Peach Wine that the immortals can sup on throughout the orchard's fallow season. And why the Peach Banquet is so important to the Queen Mother. There *is* a possibility that there are other sections of the royal orchard that were planted at different times to make the waits a little shorter tho. Irl peach trees take about 3-4 years to grow to fruiting sizes, so the Immortal Peaches could take a few hundred years to sprout anything on Earth - unless someone crossbred them with local peach trees to shorten the amount of time needed.

Also! Hilarious thing I discovered while looking up peaches; the specific trees Wukong is assigned to as an Peach Orchard Attendant are called "Pan Tao/Coiled Peaches" aka "Doughnut/Saturn Peaches"! My fave variant! Ironically in chinese mythos "Saturn" is an earthquake star god - A Stone/Earth Monkey to look after the Earth God's Peaches.

Wukong seems like the sort of guy to plan way ahead when it comes to his fave fruit. Even as a little monkey I could see him eating a Peach of Immortality and deciding to plant the pit or graft a few sticks onto a FFM tree so those on earth could enjoy them. The grafting (basically Frankenstein-ing a divine peach fruiting branch onto a normal peach tree) in particular would produce a tree with hybrid fruit!

The hybrid fruit could act like a "lower dosage" for Macaque's condition, and still treat him albeit requiring more frequent consumption.

And with Wukong's special interest in medicine and herbalism; why stop there?

He could use the little islands around the archipelago for breeding new variants of peaches and other prunus fruits he can graft on to. He'd be more interested in the medicinal/healing properties than the "makes you live for hundreds of years" part, so he could accidentally make an entirely new breed of Peach that massively boosts physical health/treat rare illnesses, but also be safe for anyone not wanting the burden of living so long.

In Wukong's mind, if he could no longer treat Macaque, then he would help treat he entire world to the medicinal properties once exclusive to the Celestials.

Note: in the events of the AU, Heaven def finds out. Mostly because Wukong accidentally info-dumps during his appointments/check-ins with Lao Tzu + Nezha finds one of the FFM orchards during his bodyguard duty of the monkeys.

Xiwangmu is willing to let the peach theft be bygones IF... Wukong gives her a sapling or two for her personal orchard. The variants he's managed to cultivate are super tasty after all, and Lao Tzu wants one for his own medicinal research.

(We ended up calling them Vitality Peaches in the dms. XD)

Wukong wouldn't stop at making wine from his peach orchard; he'd make jams, desserts, canned peaches, dehydrated jellies, dried peach crisps, persipan/marizpan from the kernels, vitamin gummies, and ofc Popsicles from the juices and pulp. The Brotherhood could have eaten entire dishes made with the stuff and not realised it!

So when he confirms that Macaque is back home for good? He busting out the modern treats. He remembers Macaque not caring for the texture of ripe peaches, so a nice cooling popsicle is an easy thing to pack for the beach party without making it obvious that Wukong wants Mac to start having some again.

If Macaque learns that the peach and plum products he's been eating are in fact medicinal, Wukong can easily bluff and say the shadow monkey's immune system is 1300 years out of date and that he'd rather not have Macaque get super-sick from a modern sniffle.

Macaque secretly thinks the concern is sweet, but he really doesn't like being tricked into taking medicine. Just ask him next time okay Peaches?

Macaque will eventually figure out his condition from some digging around and his own summons to the Underworld to review his Draft Scroll. And he will be pissed that Wukong didn't tell him. Then he will hug him.

I ended up on a peach rabbit-hole while writing this as you can see.

[apiswitchcraft]

understanding norse runes: a historical and modern perspective pt. 2

Here's part two! If you need clarification on anything please lmk! <3

For part 1 click here, and part 3 here.

ᚺ hagalaz

ANGLO-SAXON:

"Hail is the whitest of grain;

it is whirled from heaven's loft

tossed about by wind gusts,

then melts into water."

NORWEGIAN:

"Hail is the coldest of grains:

Christ created the primaeval world."

(not the Christian Christ, just an epithet for Odin)

ICELANDIC:

"Hail is cold grain

and driving sleet

and sickness of serpents."

INTERPRETATION: Starting out strong, hagalaz thankfully only has one meaning, and that's "hail." Unrelatedly, this rune is also one of the first overtly negative runes (of course, the meaning truly depends on the surrounding staves you pull, but nevertheless), representing uncomfortable change, possibly a crisis. Associated with the goddess Hel, it represents both her aspects: the cold goddess of death, and the plentiful goddess of life. Hagalaz shows us that change is on the horizon, but that it will be a time of learning, of becoming evermore wiser. Similar to The Moon card in tarot, this stave also represents the secrets of the runes, the dark side. A side we nevertheless have to confront in order to overcome great stressors. Doubtlessly, this transformation will cause us some pain, but hail is considered the seed of possibilities. Though in solid form it may hurt or harm us, when melted it may nourish the struggling sapling. It has great potential, especially considering this is the ninth rune, a number that appears repeatedly in Norse Mythology. This stave has us confronting our worst fears and suffering, and telling us to learn from them, to become a better person. We have to create our own inner harmony, despite whatever may get in our way.

KEY WORDS: Disruption, upheaval, catalyst, potential

ASSOCIATIONS: Hel, the Norns (specifically Urdh, the past), Heimdall

ᚾ nauthiz

ANGLO-SAXON:

"Need is nearest to the breast,

yet often proves to children of men

a source of help and healing

if they heed it betimes."

NORWEGIAN:

"Need leaves little choice;

the naked man is chilled by frost."

ICELANDIC:

"Need is distress of thrall-woman

and state of oppression

and hard work."

INTERPRETATION: A rune often associated with the Norns, especially Skuld (the future), nauthiz is all about "necessity" and inevitability. The future is inescapable, but it can be used to our advantage. To understand this rune, we have to understand our own needs and purpose(s) as well. Usually, these are outside of our control. A lack of food caused by war creates a necessity for food. It is outside of the individual sufferer's hands. However, it can spur a person to act in whatever way they can, it's the spark of what is called the "needfire," vital to cause and effect. Need defines action defines life. Yes, this rune can be interpreted as a negative one, no doubt. But, again, runes are not as simple and straightforward as Tarot. If you pulled kenaz with nauthiz, you might look more closely at the "needfire" aspect of this reading, or if you pulled wunjo you might see this as more of a needs to an end. Which, really, that's all this rune represents: the needs to an end. You are not stuck in this state of lack, rather it is the lack that will turn the Norns' bow-drill to usher in a new era. Whereas hagalaz is more of a rigid, set in stone, nauthiz is about moving on from that suffering.

KEY WORDS: Necessity, inevitability, the future, constraint, hardship

ASSOCIATIONS: The Norns (specifically Skuld)

ᛁ isa

ANGLO-SAXON:

"Ice be overcold, unmeasurably slippery,

glisteneth clear as glass, to gems likest;

a floor by frost wrought, fair to be seen."

NORWEGIAN:

"Ice we call the broad bridge;

The blind man must be led."

ICELANDIC:

"Ice is bark of rivers

and roof of the wave

and destruction for doomed men."

INTERPRETATION: Isa, true to its similar pronunciation, just means "ice." In this way, it has two divinatory meanings: one as an unmoving, unwavering shield, and one as a static, frozen object/individual. It can help to lessen disturbances and chaos, to soothe the fires of the earlier runes. This stave can mean stasis, but it can also mean clarity, a deep concentration. Stuck in the ice, you would have an awful long time to think, no? Rest is important for all things, but especially so in times of chaos. When the fires of kenaz or thurisaz get too hot, isa is there to cool things down. Furthermore, though, this rune can represent an unwilling stagnation, a frustrating situation or relationship. Stuck quarreling with a lover, this rune would be emblematic of how the reader would be feeling in that moment. Similarly, we can take this rune to represent the present, the Norn Verdandi. As a rune of advice, the reader is being told to watch and wait, to get a lay of the land before continuing onward. As much as a swirling blizzard can freeze you out, an igloo can keep you safe from the perils of frostbite, so it all depends on the adjacent runes in the reading. What do you need before you can continue? What is the crux of what's holding you back? All of these are things you need to consider.

KEY WORDS: Stagnation, pause, waiting, patience, preservation

ASSOCIATIONS: The Norns (especially Verdandi)

ᛃ jera

ANGLO-SAXON:

"Summer is called joyful, when God lets,

holy heaven's king--shining fruits

be born from earth for rich and poor."

NORWEGIAN:

"Harvest is a blessing to men;

I say that Frodhi was liberal."

ICELANDIC:

"Harvest is a blessing to men

and good summer

and fully ripe crops."

INTERPRETATION: An often encouraging stave to pull in a reading, jera's literal translation is "year." In the harsher climates of the North, it is easy to lose track of the four seasons, and have the warmer and colder months blend together. In this way, jera represents not only summer, but also a good harvest. Every year, as the wheel of the year makes its rounds, crops must be yet again sown, cared for, and yielded. The old is reborn and the young turns to old. A symbol of dance, play, and marriage, this rune can also be associated with Freyja and Freyr, two deities strongly associated with the summertime. In divination, jera advises us to see everything as a constantly moving cycle. As soon as bad things come, they will leave, and good things replace them. Nothing is permanent, not even our most cherished. If blocked or neglected, a poor harvest is almost assured, and suffering is indicated. But when nurtured the right way, it can heal the deepest wounds and give rebirth to the greatest joys. An emphasis is also placed on creating new relationships and strengthening existing ones. Cherish your friends and family whenever possible.

KEY WORDS: Harvest, cycle, repetition, plenty

ASSOCIATIONS: Freyja and Freyr

ᛇ eihwaz

ANGLO-SAXON:

"The yew outside is a rough-barked tree,

but strong and firm, guard of fires,

by deep roots upheld, joy to the home."

NORWEGIAN:

"Yew is the greenest of trees in winter;

when it burns, it sputters."

ICELANDIC:

"Yew is bent bow

and brittle iron

and Farbauti of the arrow."

INTERPRETATION: Eihwaz is known as the "yew," and often represents Yggdrasil, the World Tree that Odin hung himself from over nine days and nine nights for the knowledge of the runes. Because of this, this stave often represents spiritual enlightenment, and connection between the physical and metaphysical realms. As the yew was consistently used for bow-making, this is a rune also associated with hunting and the wild (and furthermore masculinity, but I find that to be a bit sexist). A bridge between life and death, sky and earth, the heavens and the Underworld, eihwaz is a great rune for communing, divination, or necromancy. It is a connection between paradoxes, between opposites, and is also associated with graveyards. But no matter what, these connections have to be made thoughtfully, and with great trepidation. Carelessness has no place in this space, as it could just as easily turn from good to bad. -==32

KEY WORDS: Enlightenment, transformation, connection, paradox

ASSOCIATIONS: Odin, Yggdrasil

ᛈ perthro

ANGLO-SAXON:

"The chess piece means play and laughter

where in the middle, the warriors sit

in beerhall blithely together."

INTERPRETATION: Considering it was a letter commonly used, perthro has a fairly ambiguous meaning of "lot cup" or "game piece." Either way, the literal interpretation involves the drawing of lots, and chance. Divination wise, perthro is said to represent both the dice and the mode of throwing the dice, simultaneously mysterious and all-knowing. Considering this wealth of knowledge that perthro is said to contain, it is no wonder that it is heavily associated with Mimir, who is renowned for his wisdom. Furthermore, because of it's association with vessels (odd, I know), this stave also represents with the female womb and childbirth. For this reason, it is also associated with Frigg, a seeress and goddess of childbirth. Frigg, though she is said to know all, she also tells nothing. This doubles down on the mysterious, hidden powers of perthro, being both the runes themselves and their meanings. Additionally, being a rune of fate, it represents the Norns as a whole, and their powers.

KEY WORDS: Fate, luck, mystery, secrets, feminine energy

ASSOCIATIONS: Mimir, Frigg, Norns

ᛉ algiz

ANGLO-SAXON:

"Elk-sedge is found most often in fens,

waxes in water, wounds grimly,

with blood burns whatever warrior

that goes to grasp it."

INTERPRETATION: Aha! My favorite rune, how exciting. A rune meaning "elk," algiz is a powerful protective symbol. Considering the imagery of an elk, we can draw connections to god of the hunt, Freyr, who is often depicted with antlers. From Freyr we can then discern meanings of sexual awakening, the fighting spirit, and divine communication. With it's three pronged appearance we can create a number of different interpretations: the elements, a sacred forest grove, masculinity/femininity, the Yggdrasil, and even the Bifrost. I've also seen people consider it as a double-edged sword of a stave, a protective symbol but only as long as you have enough power and discipline to wield it. This is especially pertinent if we consider this as a rune of divine protection, as it would be doubtlessly foolhardy to demand protection from the gods while giving nothing in return. A weapon that can be wielded by you or against you.

KEY WORDS: Protection, guardian, sanctuary, the hunt

ASSOCIATIONS: Freyr

ᛊ sowilo

ANGLO-SAXON:

"Sun to seamen is a hope on high

when they ferry over the fishes' bath

until the sea-horse brings them to land."

NORWEGIAN:

"Sun is the light of the lands;

I bow to heaven's doom."

ICELANDIC:

"Sun is shield of the sky

and shining ray

and destroyer of the ice."

INTERPRETATION: Alright! Last one for this aett, sowilo means "sun." Not only the literal sun, this stave represents the force of the heavens, the wealth that it provides and the harm that it can cause. It brings illumination and clarification, as it also shows us where our path lays--what our goals may be. If we consider a connection between the sun god Apollo (a bright, beautiful youth) and Baldr (also a bright, beautiful youth), then new aspects can be revealed to us such as victory, strength, life force, and energy. It encourages us to have hope in our future, and to look towards the horizon. Just like the wheel of the sun whirls around the cosmos, so too does sowilo encourage us to break our stagnation and act. What we desire is within our grasp, all we have to do it reach out and grab it! This rune is one of great positivity and encouragement, and is a pleasure to see in a reading.

KEY WORDS: Success, illumination, achievement, energy

ASSOCIATIONS: Baldr

[waokevale]

A Clarification to Wormwood's Age (And why he's fully fledged without a shred of doubt)

So, as we all know or have heard some at point, there are still people out there, who think the peculiar lunar plantation is an infant, solely due to the way he speaks, behaves and of conviction that he was literally born yesterday. Which by all means is false.

That's why I'm here to finally dismantle that belief. I'll present you with several compelling arguments of mine based on throughout research I did on his character overall, and if by the end of this post, you'll still hold firm to that same opinion, then I'm afraid that's out of my hands by that point.

If you're willing to stay for the duration of this thesis, and hear me out, I'll be very greatful. And please do listen, so we may not make any more misconceptions as such about him in the future.

I'll be splitting this post into 5 segments, one with additional subcategories.

General Appearance

Behavioral Pattern

Intelligence

Character Interrelations

Canon Information

First of, let's start off with the obvious:

General Appearance

If we're going to interpret his appearance based on 'human qualities', then physically, compared to actual child characters, Wormwood's design is vastly different.

The easiest way for me to prove that, lies in one of the recent animations: (Swine & Dine), where all the (live) children are gathered in one place, alongside Wormwood and Wes.

Here, you can distinctly pick apart the difference between the three preteen characters, Walter, (who's likely supposed to be a teenager on the younger side; around 13-14), and the last two.

The most obvious difference is the jawline. Wormwood, for one, has a massive jaw, easily rivaling that of Maxwell's (while technically, this feature isn't reserved solely for adults, it is moreso common to see an adult with a define jawline, rather than a child.)

This, alongside his torso being usually depicted as an inverted triangle (at least in the official animations), seem to be features added intentionally somewhere post his release, as he looks much more childlike in his animation video, where he's still technically a sapling per se.

Even Several of Wormwood's skins showcase, that he is in no way meant to be seen in a juvenile way.

The best example of that being his Victorian skin.

Look me dead in the eye and tell me that's a child. That is one of the most indisputable old man portrayals, you can get from an anthropomorphic plant character in media. Do not try and argue, how a child is meant to look like that, because neither of the four actual child characters has a skin, which makes them appear that much significantly older than they actually are.

So what reason would Klei even have to make his skin look so apparently elderly, if they saw him as a child?

More examples of his mature skins could be said for the Roseate and Guest of Honor. While they're not outright elderly, as is the former, the general vibe is similar to that of other adult characters' portraits.

Now that we've compared him to human characters and their characteristics, we should take into consideration what he actually is. Let's remember, that at the end of the day, he's partially a plant organism and partially an inorganic crystal from the moon , certainly he ages much differently than us humans, or even most other constant species for that matter.

I'm pretty sure he was also formed with a fully developed body (since he seemingly bloomed shortly after forming, which is a trait reserved primarily for mature plants)

But then again, appearance alone isn't enough to make one truly adult, is it? Thus we're moving on to:

Behavioral pattern

Few things you'll immediately realize about Wormwood is his alleged naivety, playful nature and seldom use of grammatical correctness. Due to this, many immediately assume that he's a child, which is understandable, but not a good enough reason to make such an assumption.

There are many factors involved in building one's disposition, and in Wormwood's case, there's plenty of reasonable causes for his behavor:

As previously stated, he's quite literally a sentient amalgam of vines, brought to life by a jewel from the moon. His origin far disparates that of any known being, especially a human.

His mind develops much differently than that of an average person. This correlates with the point above (since its a big green gem in his chest and not an actual brain). Plus, he likely hadn't had the chance to have a proper education. While he seems to have picked up on a lot of mannerisms from the pigsfolk in Hamlet, I doubt anyone went out of their way to actually school him.

He's feral. The majority of his upbringing, he likely spent surviving in the jungle. In a way, he reminds me a lot of Tarzan (A human, who grew up raised by a troop of gorillas after his parents were killed. He can communicate with the local wildlife just fine, but deeply struggles understanding and relating to the outsiders; other humans, who one day arrived on his land.) That's likely the reason why Wormwood refers to certain creatures with mimicking the sounds they make. Perhaps he can understand them to a degree, or at least is trying to.

Just because he doesn't speak English, doesn't mean he's slow. It is plausible he speaks a different language, while English doesn't come naturally to him. As is the case with Wolfgang, who has similar speech impediment issues and struggles with saying full sentences, but that's quite literally because English isn't his mother tongue. It's been a running gag that Wolfgang is the embodiment of a European man, and whichever country/countries he might've originated from, it's definitely not the UK. As might be the case for Wormwood and whatever constant language he actually thinks in.

He has certain traits akin to people with autism/Asperger's or ADHD (Nonverbal communication, delayed language development, lacking social cues, sensitive nose, short attention span, hyperactive and somewhat impulsive behavior, wild or overexaggerated movement, struggle with fitting in, little sense of awareness etc.) And I'm speaking from experience with this one, he's quite relatable to me, and many of my friends on the spectrum.

With that let's move on to the third segment.

Intelligence

Just how smart is he truly?

Wormwood isn't regarded for his high intellect, that's for sure, but remember, intelligence isn't defined by just the book smarts society imposes on us. Therefore it doesn't always correspond to a person's age and experience.

Wormwood, while definitely not on a level of a Harvard graduate, is extremely intelligent and a quick learner at that.

Let's digest what we generally know about intelligence and what it really means for Wormwood.

With the main question at hand : What differentiates a child mind from an adults'?

While he certainly shares some personality traits with Webber, their mindsets are rather different.

I'd like to present my point with a simple method.(From that one Quora post, believe it or not, it was the most convenient out of all the theories and tests I found) Dividing that, which is known as thought process into five subcategories, of which are:

Cognitive Development

Life Experience

Responsibility and Independence

Emotional Regulation

Social and Moral Development

So let's start with Cognitive Development/Psychology

(Definition : The process of growth and change in intellectual/mental abilities such as thinking, reasoning and understanding. That includes: the ability to interpret information, verbally communicate ideas, appropriately apply words and gestures to given situations, recognize and differentiate various sounds, comprehend your surroundings, use past experience to resolve current or future problems more efficiently, etc. TLDR: How thought process changes with age ; Talking, hearing, reading, remembering, problem-solving, understanding, You get the point. )

By this point, Wormwood's acquired plenty of general knowledge of the world around him and what to expect from it. (In some cases, he seems to know things without realizing it, or simply wishes to not provide more info of what he's already aware of.)

He is capable of understanding various different things, applying appropriate words to them, when given the chance. He often struggles to properly phrase what he means, but you can still get around to grasp it.

And you know what? He's especially good at deducing things not every character can point out. Here are some of the more obvious to least obvious things he's mentioned:

Leaky teacup - "Can't drink from it"

Beaten Beater - "Hmm... Can't use it"

Start tower kit - "Need to plant it on the water"

Compass- "which way?"

N- "North

S- "South"

E- "East"

W- "West"

NE- "Northeast"

SE- "Southeast"

NW- "Northwest

SW- "Southwest"

(The direction one would seem pointless to add but let's remember that there literally are characters in this game who don't know which way is which cough cough Winona cough)

Clippings - "Can sell this hair"

Sapphire Medallion/Tenpiece oinc – "Can buy things now"

(the plant understands capitalism 👍)

Winona's GEM-erator (out of fuel) - "Oh. Needs sparky"

Telelocator Focus (missing gem)- "Needs Purple Shiny"

Telelocator Socket (missing gem)- "Where shiny things?"

The Queen of Moon Quay: "Oh...she thinks Night Ball is friend hair?"

(He might know who They are after all)

Beast of Hunger (1) - "Oh. Not alive"

(This, plus any other quote of his mistaking a statue or an object with distinguishable features as alive, does not make him dull; this world literally has statues coming to life. He simply uses a reasoning he acquired from living in the Constant.)

Rose-Colored Glasses – "Friends show Fixer friend secret things"

(Most character, barring Maxwell, Wendy and Wigfrid don't know about the glasses' true purpose)

Ancient chest - "Put stuff in there!"

(One of 4 characters to have an inclining what to do with it)

Greater Gestalt- "Protect"

Enlightened Crown - "Helps hear them"

(Okay, he definitely knows who They are)

Hound Corpse (reanimating) - "Coming back"

(He seems the least bit of surprised or disturbed by this, compared to everyone else)

Antlion (upset) - "Oh no. Needs gifts"

(interestingly, no one else seems to mention why the Antlion is upset)

Mysterious Energy- "Seed"

(...?)

Distilled knowledge- "Plant this in funny floor"

(he's the only one to have figured out what to actually do with it)

I think what we all can realize from going through his quotes, is that he's in no way as clueless as he initially seems. He has his moments, but so do the rest of the survivors.

Life Experience, Responsibility and Independence

This plant has lived through a lot, but then again so have the rest, a lot of them have faced countless hardships most of us can't even fathom.

From what we already know, the fandom generally believes he is very naive and trusting, which really isn't the case. The thing is, it's not that he's naive, he may not react especially negatively to a creature or thing because he's used to seeing bizarre things, or because he's not afraid of them, unlike the majority of the survivor cast, who are alien to the constant.

Barring the in-game mechanics which force characters to be competent regardless of their experience, we're going to focus on his reactions to mobs and items that might pose actual threat to him or others, or are considered as questionable by him.

Inflatable Vest - "Safe?"

Shadowcraft plinth - "Scary hands helping?"

Fish steak - "Watch for bones"

Candy Apple - "Careful! Don't eat stick! "

Platapine (sleeping)- "don't wake it"

Sentrypede husk - "Sleeping. Shhh"

Sea Stack - "Oops! Watch out!

Great Tree Root - "Oh! Don't bump into friends!"

Worm hole (open) - "Deep. Dark"

(When deerclops is near) - "Something scary coming!"

Pressure plate - Hmmm...Odd rock"

Dread mite (about to explode) - "Look out!"

Shadow Reaper - "No...Wants to hurt friends!"

Depth Worm (lure) - "Hmm... not safe"

Depth Worm (burrowed) - "something hiding"

Meat bulb - "Careful!"

[The fish quotes in DST + the candy Apple are giving me an image of him saying that to the child characters (and definitely Woodie for the latter)]

Independence-wise, the one thing I especially took notice of, is how much the child characters seek guidance from the adults in the group, mentioning them by their formal titles too. That's especially frequent with Webber, Wurt, and Walter, though Wendy rarely does this. On one hand, she claims she considers toys and fun to be behind her, but contradictory, enjoys playing with other children and some of the adults. (Besides we canonically know she's 10-11 years old)

Wormwood isn't known for wanting to seek guidance either. He's sometimes confused about how certain things work and thus will ask about it, but that's understandable given his predicament. (As @thebleedingalien once mentioned, he's like an extraterrestrial experiencing bits and pieces from 2 different worlds at once)

He doesn't really care to play with toys either, (barring a couple of instances, one being Bernie and the others; toys with wheels and Antlion's sand castle. But c'mon, I know some of you grown adults own toy cars/collectibles or build sandcastles when you have the tools, you can't lie to me and say neither of these things is fun. Plus, this post is literally about a video game character, and those, not too long ago, were considered childish.

And besides, adult characters in this game also goof around. There's the whole sand castle building thing in Shipwrecked, which curiously Wormwood doesn't have a strong opinion on.)

But if we were to compare his maturity to other adult characters…

(Wilson) [aside his many, many jokes]: Silk- "It comes from a spider's butt."

(Willow) Portal Exit - "It's fun to watch OTHER people fall on their butts."

(Wolfgang) Coral Nubbin - "Haha. Rock is bald."

(WX-78) Regular Jungle Tree (normal and stump) - "THIS DUMB TREE HAS A DUMB FACE"

(Wickerbottom) Weregoose - "My! What a silly goose!"

(Wigfrid) Plant (ready to be picked) - "Ugh, vegetables. I'm nöt sure what I expected..."

(Woodie) Ghost - "Boo! Ha ha!"

(Winona) Kingly Figure - "It's BUST-ed! Ha!"

(Maxwell) Frazzled Wires - "I might hide those in WX-78's bedroll if I get bored"

(Wortox) [But if we were to pick an example of many] Potato Sack- "Hyuyuyu, wouldn't it be fun to hide inside and give him a scare?"

Yeah, I think he's good.

In this section I don't really have much else to say. He can be cautious, he can be daft. He joggles the braincells alongside the rest of the survivors. But all in all, I would not consider him any more reckless or goofy than either the child or adult characters. Independence wise, while he can absolutely manage just fine on his own, his desire for companionship far outweighs that.

And since we've already talked about maturity, let's move on to:

Emotional Regulation

Despite common belief, Wormwood is not overly emotional. While, yes, he is excitable and easy to impress, he doesn't usually display intense negative emotions, unless something (more often than not wooden) is destroyed, or unless a plant or a creature he likes, suffers. But then again, in those situations, it's logical to display panic, worry and grief. Imagine if your family member or friend suddenly caught on fire and burned before your eyes... Yeah, I bet no one morally adjusted would be the slightest bit of composed in those kinds of situations...

Worse yet, the majority of the Constant is filled with plants, most of whom are his friends, the closest to his kind, beings which display varying amount of sentience...

In actuality, the children, including Wendy, display a shift in emotions much more often than Wormwood does.

Then there's Willow, WX-78, Woodie (birds) and Maxwell, who all have even less emotional stability.

In comparison, I'd say he handles most situations much more maturely and nonchalantly.

Social & Moral Development

Ah yes, the ability to difference right from wrong, morality, patos or however you would call it. Now this one's a little tricky, on one hand, while he may react strongly to a plant's demise, his reaction varies, when it comes to animals and structures. Sometimes, he doesn't really bat an eye, frankly, other times, he displays intense amounts of grief.

I guess that's the definition of selective empathy.

Curiously, he has 2 separate quotes for a pigeon. One from Hamlet, where he seems a lot more distressed when it perishes, and the other, from The Gorge, where he simply states the fact "Oh. Dead."

I'd like to think this was intentional to sort of give him that fading care many of us experience as we grow older.

Here's another example:

[Hamlet] Glowfly (dead) - "(sob)"

[DST, Host of Horrors update] Koalefant Carcass - "Braump...? Not anymore"

Regarding the other survivors; for the most part, he sympathizes with them. Though he doesn't panic much when they die from average constant shenanigans. He knows it's not permanent or consequential.

He does show sympathy, when some of the others' precious belongings get destroyed or damaged.

Winona's Catapult (burnt)- "Fire bad"

Winona's Spotlight (burnt)- "Oh. So sad"

Mighty Gym (burnt)- "Oh... poor muscle man..."

Or in some instances, when a character strongly disapproves of something/is emotionally hurt and he takes notice of that:

Nautipilot - "Robot friend doesn't like Pull Rock"

Mocking Bird - "Mean tweeters, hurt friends' feelings!"

What's interesting, is that, while he calls many creatures his friends, he specifically avoids calling Maxwell that. He even considers Lucy, Willow and Woodie his friends, which is just... wow. May he harbor a grudge against him for what he did to the other survivors? Something more personal? Or is it moreso related to the fact he's fully siding with the shadows... Most likely the former.

Overall I would say he's definitely more empathetic than not, and one doesn't have to care for every living being after all.

Character Interrelations

Regarding what other characters think of how old he is...

It's debatable, keep in mind, the characters don't have to be fully aware, or can misinterpret his age based on his behavior alone.

Most people just refer to him as "plant", unsurprisingly.

There's characters like Winona, who seem to intentionally downplay his age. Winona in her quotes refers to both Wormwood and Wilson (who's officially in his 30s) as 'bucko' (a lively, young fellow. Or in some cases a friend, or another version of buddy). As for her quotes for Bramble trap and Compost wrap, she refers to Wormwood with the terms 'lil plant fella' and 'little guy'. She pretty much just teases people who are younger than her or seem younger. Or she genuinely believes he's actually that young.

There's plenty instances of people calling him a variation of little, small or sapling, which might just be how they see him. Keep in mind, just because a character may think he's on the younger side, does not mean their interpretation is the absolute firm belief you should uphold.

Then, there's Wolfgang and Wurt, who both firmly believe that he's a grown adult.

(Wolfgang) Generic - "Is leafy green man, %s! Hello!"

Firestarter - "Leafy green man did a fire booboo."

Syrup of Ipecaca - "Will leafy green man be sad if Wolfgang doesn't have a taste?"

(Wolfgang only calls him little once in his quotes, because he calls everyone little, children though, he refers to as very tiny + boy/girl/child, so there's that.)

(Wurt) Attacker - "Ow! You mean old weed!"

You might think; why would I care about what a child and a man who's considered to not be so bright think? Well, my previous point about language barriers explains that. Besides, Wurt is a constant-born creature who builds an entire kingdom in her play style, by no means, is she clueless. She also refers to Deerclops and Antlion as 'She', while most of the other characters use he or it.

What's interesting is that Wickerbottom also tends to avoid referring to him with youthful terms, aside the obvious general one she uses for everyone and everything. If anything, she's more patronizing towards Woodie, Wilson, Winona and Wigfrid. (All of whom are in between their late 20s-40s)

Lastly, we have:

Canon Information

While there isn't much information relating to his age, there are hints in the game canon that explain that.

In the game's compendium, where reside the survivors' profile, backstory and description, three of the four kids have 'young' in their introduction. Barring Walter, who instead has 'boy' which is as much of a youthful term. Wormwood's simply stated as 'an amalgam of vines' not a seedling, sapling nor a young/little plant.

From his backstory, we know that:

"A green gem fell from the moon, landing on an ancient stone monument in the middle of overgrown rubble. Over a long period of time, a vine encircled the gem and eventually formed a humanoid figure sitting on the monument. The figure, Wormwood, opened his eyes and looked at his hands. (...)"

(Now this simply explains, that a lot of time has passed as he was forming, unlike what's shown in his animation, where his body instantly forms.)

There's also this part of his bio.

“Though the circumstances of his creation were unusual at best, Wormwood came into this world full of optimism and curiosity, ready to make new friends and see all that life had to offer. But as time wore on and he experienced the cold sting of rejection, he came to learn what the moon above had always known: Wormwood the Lonesome does not belong here.”

It's implied that a while has passed since his birth. Everyone assumes that he was just created recently and that he doesn't know anything, but as I've shown you previously, he's very perceptive when it matters. He has the knowledge and experience, even insight or a hunch. He is able to determine things others can't. Ever since Hamlet happened, his quotes gradually became somewhat more apathetic towards creatures dying, as opposed to the worry and care he previously displayed.

I wouldn't say he's exactly an adult the same way the human characters are, but he's in no way a child as many presume him to be.

(It actually kind of reminds me of how certain Greek gods are created; some are formed as adults, some grow and then eventually stop, and some come to be under very strange and specific circumstances, Aphrodite. But overall, you can't exactly compare their maturing process to that of a human.) Meanwhile, Wormwood is an alien plant with a crystal for a brain

So by the end of this post, are you still inclined to believe he's a child?

Was this completely unnecessary and took far too long to construct? Yes.

Do I regret making this? Nah.

[lu-is-not-ok]

Any particular thoughts on Fanghunt Hong Lu?

Yes, one very specific thought in fact.

Fanghunt Hong Lu is the most violent Hong Lu ID we have had thus far, being one that not only revels in violence like Tingtang Hong Lu or Hook Hong Lu, but also one that is actively shown torturing his victims in some genuinely stomach churning ways.

He is also the one Hong Lu ID which, while mentioning his Family, is one that doubts the very nature of what a family even is the most clearly.

This, to me, highlights a very noticeable pattern among Hong Lu's IDs.

When a Hong Lu ID is shown to be actively under his Family's control, he's either completely uninterested in violence (such as Liu) or so bored with the role he's forced into that violence is the only way he's able to push back against that boredom (K Corp and W Corp).

On the other hand, a Hong Lu ID that seems to be heavily disconnected from his Family is often one that is actively enjoying the violence he inflicts and is notably kind of fucking unhinged (Tingtang and Hook).

Fanghunt Hong Lu adds another nuance to that spectrum, being an ID that still has contact with his Family, but one who isn't specifically in a position chosen by them and who is led to doubting what a family even is by his experiences.

He shows us a possible outcome of a Hong Lu who has to actually reckon with reality and doubt what he knows about his circumstances, and the results are not pretty. After all, like I said earlier, Fanghunt Hong Lu is the most violent and most hate-filled Hong Lu we've seen up to now. He pulls out a guy's fucking teeth one by one for fuck's sake.

...And this made me think a bit. We actually have quite a few Hong Lu IDs with a Wrath Sin Affinity by now. However, Fanghunt Hong Lu is only the second we have with a Wrath Skill 3. The other one being, of course, Liu Hong Lu.

Both Hong Lu IDs with a Wrath Skill 3 seem to be to some extent aware of something being wrong regarding their Family, in very different ways that lead them into reacting to it very differently.

Liu Hong Lu seems to be aware of the fact he has no real control over what happens when he's under his Family's watchful eye, leading him into being the least violent Hong Lu of them all. He's aware of what his Family is doing to him, but he's unaware of it being abnormal.

On the other hand, Fanghunt Hong Lu seems to be unaware of the specific horrors of his Family. Rather, he's become aware that Family itself is a concept that he can't quite understand. He's seen Bloodfiends who abandon their previous families to be with their new Bloodfiend families, and it's a point of focus for him. What even is a real family?

...This, I think, is where Liu and Fanghunt Hong Lu differ the most. Liu Hong Lu knows he's being hurt, but he doesn't see any way out, that it's just how things are supposed to be, so he simply tries to live through it.

Meanwhile, though Fanghunt Hong Lu doesn't have that piece of the puzzle, he does have a different one - the seed of an idea that he could escape. Proof that one's "Real" Family doesn't have to remain their only family. He just doesn't yet realize what he'd want to escape from, so he channels the feelings he's experiencing because of that information against the immediate source of it. Instead of using that idea to free himself, he directs his anger towards those that actually tried it and succeeded.

I don't mean to keep pushing my "Hong Lu will go apeshit in Canto 8" idea, but like... The more info we get about him, the more likely that possibility becomes. After all, Fanghunt Hong Lu is a clear example of the fact that a Hong Lu aware of an escape route from one's Family could become extremely violent. That added onto the potential of Lorenzo's story told by the Priest being a parallel to Hong Lu, and the fact that the Sapling of Light Hong Lu is likely going to parallel is Chesed... It's all a lot.

[xenodile]

Really though, FFXIV was both very smart and also shot itself in the foot when Shadowbringers introduced a character that exists to solidify the Warrior of Light's connection to the First. Like Feo Ul signing an almost literal fey bargain with the Crystal Exarch and WoL where in order to enable WoL's ability to travel between the two worlds seamlessly, Feo Ul gets unlimited access to another world and to watch the WoL literally every second of the day. It's a great way to explain otherwise jarring or tone-deaf game mechanics and make them work, while also allowing for new narrative possibilities, which are then worked into Il Mheg, Feo Ul becoming Titania, and all that entails.

But it creates a new set of issues where Feo Ul is now present in literally every single moment of the MSQ because They are bound by their contract to the WoL. Feo Ul can show up and start talking at absolutely any time in any context after Shadowbringers, and after a while, it becomes strange that They don't. Like when wild fuck shit starts happening to the WoL's soul in Endwalker, THEIR sapling's soul, Feo Ul really isn't gonna say anything? After how possessive They were of the WoL in Shadowbringers?

I just want Feo Ul to be relevant again, they're a fun character and it's a shame their actual omnipresence in the Warrior of Light's life doesn't get used more often.

[enemywasp]

i want your billdip headcanosn i recently watched gravity falls and i see such potential for them but id like to hear otherintwrpretations

The JOY I got at receiving this ask!!! Billdip has been my otp for years I've got so many.

Dipper is obsessed with finding answers and intrigued by basically everything, which is of course what drew him to Bill.

Bill finds the Pines family in general fascinating, they're his playthings and Obsession in his own way. Pinetree is the only one who he's really focused on though, the way he talks back and is determined for answers entertains him more than anything

Dipper needs Bill, he's the only one he can really decipher and understand as he's been bullied and outcast his whole life.

He's also the only one who can keep his busy mind occupied

Bill keeps Dippers nightmares at bay as he's got a lot of troubles from his adventures, doesn't mean he won't give him his own little dreams on occasion with a special cipher touch

Bill teaches Dipper magic and runes, mostly out of curiosity but he ends up silently impressed at how much he is capable of as a human.

They fight and argue a LOT. They're at complete different ends of morality, and that makes them clash. Though Dipper finds himself less and less concerned by Bill's behaviour as time passes, and if Bill happens to gain a soft spot... who can say anything.

I think there relationship would be initially built on a deal, something that protects the rest of the Pines family for certain. But Dipper is Bill's. He can do what he want with him.

They do have soft moments, despite it all. Dipper sharing stories of humanity that Bill would never truly understand, and the demon in turn sharing tales of the past and the universe itself.

Bill initially just wanted to use Dipper and manipulate him through whatever means necessary but instead he fell hard.

Bills only capable of a very obsessive kind of love, anyone who gets too close to HIS sapling should be wary.

Dipper has a moral crisis about weekly, he's dating a demon. Who tried to destroy his entire family. But god he can't pull away and Bill makes some very compelling arguments.

If and when Bill would be able to get his own human form it would be built specifically for Dippers pleasure and want.

Being human does make Bill seem more human, though he is of course still himself sometimes he finds himself feeling a new kind of fondness he never knew before

Dipper also sometimes forgets until he pushes too hard and his demon side makes it clear where they stand. Bill will always be the more powerful one in the relationship and Dipper will always be HIS.

I think I'm going to leave it there for now. But I could probably rant forever about these two. I tried to keep this broad so I can definitely do more specific hcs in the future.