#i exaggerate they’re not actually that bad now that i have a system

[quillquiver]

Just hopping in on air quality stuff, here!

I always thought that, when the Grey was released in the deeper fissures, it caused an epidemic in Zaun itself but largely stayed there; because of its geographic location, it makes sense to me that a dense gas would remain in the Underground. And I think that @sorceressofthesky is definitely onto something with the rise of industry in the fissures alerting Piltover to the Grey as an issue—and while I don’t doubt Cassandra’s young, wide-eyed enthusiasm to help, I also think that the likelihood that Piltover decided to assist to save people is probably a smaller piece of the overall puzzle of protecting their source of cheap labour. With the Grey, people get sick and die. By filtering the air of the worst of its toxins, you get a healthier workforce (no need to send your people down to do a dangerous job that will likely make them sick/kill them) and can keep industry out of sight and out of mind. This to me was an allegory for globalized western industry! The same way Canada outsources most of its mining to South America, Piltover outsources to Zaun.

From there, it isn’t a huge leap to assume that the filtering system is adequate but not good; you’d want something fast, cheap, and would really be looking to get rid of one problem—the Grey—without considering the long-term effects of living in a fissure and the other gases and pollutants that come with that landscape (especially when you’re dealing with the by-products of industry). I’m sure Cassandra meant well, but I’m also sure that no one consulted with Zaun; the entire project brought to mind the idea of the white saviour, with Piltover going in to clean the air they ruined in the first place and then patting themselves on the back for a job well done. I feel like, to actually create a system that properly filters Zaunish air, you need a ton of different filters of various thicknesses and materials—but to get rid of the worst stuff, all you need is to create a vent system to suck the toxic stuff away.

Which brings me to air quality. I’m in the Pacific Northwest of Canada and I’ve lived through like 6 really bad fire seasons now - and I mask, but every year it gets easier to breathe smoke in summer. Without the Grey making people sick, I think it’s likely that Zaunites have just become used to the air within a generation or two. This is also probably why Silco can handle the Grey; he was working when and where it ran rampant, and his body adapted. Can he breathe it indefinitely? Probably not, but he can for a time.

The Grey is a different beast, but humans live in cities with poor air quality all over the world without masking or falling sick—though they’re at an increased risk for illness. I think that this is more the comparison between the Piltover and Zaun in the series: the air is bad in Zaun but not toxic, which means that it’s more comfortable to use a mask/filter if you’re used to the “good air” from Piltover. I also think it’s likely that propaganda has over exaggerated the risks of breathing in Zaunish air… which is why by the end of the series, nobody’s really wearing a mask in Zaun. And I really do think it’s propaganda: the Piltover council is a mercantile guild, and those merchants either rely on trade or industry… if any part of that industry is happening in Zaun, it’s in their best interests to keep the status quo across the bridge. If Pilties started crossing and banded together with Zaun to demand better living conditions, that would be a problem.

Which is also why I think Silco’s interactions with the council were brief at best. I totally agree with the points already made, but I’ll take it a step further: if you were on a council and quashed a small uprising from your poorest citizens, would you not immediately figure out the names of the uprising leaders? And then keep tabs on them? I think that this is the most likely chain of events: Vander and Silco are upstart revolutionaries that plan and execute an uprising that fails horribly. The council needs to react but keeps things quiet; it cannot be a big deal in Piltover that half of city is primed for revolt, they need to diffuse the situation immediately. They ask for to parley with Vander and Silco at a neutral location. After seeing his friends die and being thrust into fatherhood, Vander is desperate for a peaceful solution to this—Silco, however, is out for blood. The diplomatic solution presented is what we see at the beginning of the show, which Silco sees right though and is disgusted with. He makes it very clear to Vander that with or without him, he will not stop fighting for Zaun, even if he has to kill them both to do it—at this point, all Vander can think about are Vi and Powder. He is responsible for them and if they’re gearing up for war it’s more than likely that everyone will die. In an effort to prevent more bloodshed, he tries to kill the person he loves. Vander is now working with enforcers and Silco is being constantly looked into to ensure he doesn’t try anything again.

I dunno if all of this made sense, but after reading all y’all’s awesome meta, just wanted to add my two cents!

@sorceressofthesky

I hope it's okay that I pull this out as the threads can have a tendency to get very long :)

Personally, I find it super hard to buy that that Silco was the one who talked Caitlyn's mom into building the ventilation systems after he took over from Vander.

Part of it is: if Silco was that good at talking to the council and getting them to do pro-Zaun things, why would he stop talking to them? Especially since season 1 shows how easily the council can be swayed into granting Zaun independence. I always read it as Silco not being interested in the council and not paying much attention to it, maybe because he has a low opinion of it. If he was already that involved with the council in the past, it just seems like big events from Jayce becoming a councilor, Heimerdinger being ousted or the Piltover reaction to the bridge massacre would be something he would show more interest in then he does.

The other part of it is that the Kiramman vents just … feel older? From the pathos of Caitlyn being handed the Kiramman key like it's a family tradition to the picture that presumably show the vents being opened. Either by a young Cassandra or by some even older ancestor. It just seems like if the vents were being built not just within Caitlyn's lifetime but also while Caitlyn is already pretty grown, it just seems like that would have come up?

The women is opening the vents together with miners in the background, evoking more the young Silco and Vander era.

And she's wearing the same or a very similar outfit to the portrait in the middle which is why people think either very young Cassandra or Cassandra's mother.

I'm not sure if I find the idea that Cassandra wouldn't know about the plight of the undercity just because tha very sheltered girl like Caitlyn didn't know all that plausible. We know she is sheltered because Cassandra even ordered for her to do boring prestige guard duty than even encounter just crime in Piltover. So if she has never been to the undercity and the papers don't write about it, how would she know?

And while the Pilties maybe are unlikely to casually care about the plight of the Zaunites, árguably them caring if it impacts their business is well in character (there's this really cool WIP by @out-there-tmblr that is just doing a plot about how the mines dug to deep, the Gray is getting worse so miners are start refusing to work those particular shafts so the Piltie engineers are coming in to install vents that imo feels plausible in "that's what Pilties would do" way).

And again, if Silco was responsible for it, why wouldn't he show up in those pictures compared to the Kiramman woman posing with miners? (it doesn't help that modern Zaun feels like it's more about factories than about mines)

So yes, I definitely leaning towards the vents being older based on the look of the Kiramman woman. But it being done within Vander and Silco's youth I think is an interesting idea.

I personally find it generally confusing how bad the air situation is. Yes the enforcers wear masks in Act 1, but none of the locals do. Then we have the sumps. The implications are that the sumps are low and "the bad parts" right?

So a headcanon could be something like:

Silco and Vander and some of the chem barons are young => The Gray is bad.

Cassandra installs the vents => air quality gets better. Maybe sections that weren't livable before are livable now.

Silco and Vander take their mining knowledge and maybe carve a middle section, somewhere between the upper levels that are already lived in by people and maybe too expensive and the sump that is still dark and shitty to live in.

There being more air systems in Silco's time could be advances in technology or it could be the factories causing a new, different type of pollution?

(an interesting facette here is the AU where the air is clearly much better but the implication is that it's done with more plant/nature based technology rather than more chemtechy one)

[complete side note, due to the 3 years Heimer has been there my head canon for the AU is that Silco and Vander reunited over Vi's death, together they made political advacements and that after a while in Heimer arrives and gave them a boost in regards to technology]

Silco saying to the chem barons he brought them up and gave them "a taste of topside" could also be explained by

the literally moved them from the lower levels to the higher levels (either by moving them to the lanes or by making them so rich that they can live even in the areas above the Lanes, just like their meeting tower is very high up even while Silco is the one who stil lives far down) after Vander was killed because they for some reason were stuck down there

or all people that lived lower moved to the Lanes when Silco and Vander "built the lanes".

or maybe a young Silco was among the miners that convinced the Kiramann's to build the vents

Finn's line is interesting, because it doesn't sound like Silco pulled him from the mines/depths. It sounds more like he was around during Vander's time watching from the sidelines and not liking how Vander was doign things. As opposed to he lived elsewhere and was lifted up.

But he also looks a bit younger, so he has a different backstory than the others (but there's generally the problem that I think the Caitlyn files said that at least one chembaron is actually a Piltie, so wouldn't at least that guy have a different backstory than the other chem barons? so when he's giving his speech to the chem barons there's at least two people in the room to whom that speech doesn't really apply?) . After all we have the "You're too young to remember what the undercity was before it became an "enterprise"."

So this exchange suggests:

there was a time where the Undercity was a lot more primitive and Vander does remember it but Finn is too young

but already under Vander the undercity became more like an enterprise (maybe because Vander and Silco turned the Lanes into a more smuggling/trade based economy rather than a mining/producing based one, or maybe also because of the protection money) at least in Finn's eyes, or at least he thought it had the potential to be one if run better

Another thing I find confusing is okay, so there's the region where the shimmer addicts live, right? And the implication to me was that is the bad part of Zaun? The part where the air is bad, where the lowest of the low live, that's why Jesus!Viktor goes there to make his commune.

But according to season 1, this is where Vi, Powder, Connel and Felicia lived. Ie the place where presumably all the fluffy Powder and Vi as kids memories from the Remember Me flashback take place. At first I thought maybe that place was like just a shack where maybe they just played and Felicia made the height charts, but it looks like a comparatively nice house with a staircase and ornaments?

Again, if this the shitty place of the Undercity, why would Vander and Silco's cherished friend live there when the Last Drop was available?

Benzo talks to Vander about "rounding up the collections",

Yes, just like Sevika talks about doing the same for Silco in season 2.

IMO both Silco and Vander were taking protection money. I personally think that they both can be seen as as a system of proto-taxes and it's more a question whether people got anything back from it. Maybe that's a reason why Vander seemed to be more popular with the people, if people saw it more as Vander building up infrastructure/houses for them while with Silco the money goes more towards building up factories or making weapons. (with factories likely being useful infrastructure as well, but maybe people don't see it because it's more indirect).

But that's kind of an interesting question in itself: What does Vander spend his money on? He seems to be living a well enough maybe "middle-class-y" lifestyle with his kids, but Vi certainly doesn't feel rich, hence her rants about how they have nothing compared to Pilties.

I would presume he has an income from the bar. So if he the bar money and the collection money, was is the money being spent on? Paying the guys who do the collections? Maybe they serve as guards/police against those unwanted elements that according to Jinx's season 2 line started fighting as soon as Vander was gone? But if Vander has like organized supporters, why on earth did Vi think it was a good idea to collect her kid brothers as support to spring Vander free from Silco rather than fetch whatever remaining allies Vander might have had? Or at the "guys" Benzo speaks off more like loose contractors, maybe not even particularly powerful people and people pay their taxes just out of fear of Vander?

(I have played around with the idea that maybe Vander spends the and Silco is more the "I will build a factory that gives you employment so you can make your own money" guy) collections on more charitable things like families in need () and that's why people remember him fondly. But with the whole "build the lanes" thing, maybe there's a chance that there are still building projects/they are still expanding? I think a big thing with the whole "building the lanes" in an engineering way that I just don't pictured neither Vander not Silco as that much of a construction/engineering guy, but who knows. Maybe just Zaunite ingenuity again)

[bumblebree1903]

Every time I get excited to DM I’m tragically reminded of things like session prep and making statblocks.

[jedi-enthusiast]

Leftists in like 2016-2021: I can’t believe people are denying that the civil war was about slavery! And trying to say that COVID wasn’t real or was exaggerated! People died!

Leftists now: The Holocaust didn’t happen and if it did then those dirty Jews Zionists just exaggerated the whole thing!

———

Leftists in like 2016-2021: Yeah, let’s all punch Nazis! Fuck those white supremacist assholes!

Leftists now: Well, actually, maybe the Nazis were right about the Jews—I mean, they wouldn’t have committed a genocide against them if they didn’t do anything to deserve it, because we all know hatred and bigotry are totally logical.

———

Leftists in like 2016-2021: “One bad cop” is a product of a flawed and bigoted system, and that means the system needs to change! And if there’s a Nazi in your group and they’re not being kicked out, then you’re all Nazis!

Leftists now: One Nazi in our protest doesn’t mean that we’re all being bigoted, even though we’re spouting the same shit they are. Also, we’re just gonna ignore the fact that Nazis are trying to recruit people from our group because we’re being so antisemitic.

[black-queen-rising]

The people taking this dialogue as a legitimate “character flaw” or literally just at face value at all and not as a continuation of the blatant disrespect the writers have not just towards Rhaenyra as the heir of twenty years, but towards anything that could even vaguely be construed as “women’s work”, is the most perfect encapsulation of just how entrenched misogyny is into the very heart of our pop culture and how the popularization of fantasy has managed to worsen our societal view of soft power by painting it as not only weak, but frivolously feminine, unimportant, and a waste of time.

Since the beginning of the show the writers have almost exclusively portrayed Rhaenyra as disinterested if not opposed to her role as heir, as a politician, and a woman in power broadly all against the original canon and all glaringly, not to make her look worse or better or likable or incompetent (they do all those things, almost every episode, with however they need her to affect the plot in that given moment because they’re incapable of having the characters drive it organically) because it’s not truly about her at all. It’s simply because they cannot fathom a story where a woman is politically adept and as a result either 1. evil or 2. boring, and that is fundamentally because once again they are so biased and against portraying anything that could even vaguely be construed as women’s work or at all “feminine-coded” in an even neutral-but-interesting way they do for (stereotypically) masculine-coded activities like sword fighting, horse back riding, dragon riding, hunting, archery, not to mention just the concept of the political conversations that drive these stories, let alone an actually positive way.

They have taken a story that at its core was always an indictment of structural misogyny and how it will literally cause societies to tear themselves apart over nothing. But because they decided at the outset they wouldn’t and couldn’t portray the structural part of said misogyny without scaring away their intended audience, and decided instead to base this all around ultimately meaningless ~team discourse~ (because literally everyone meeting their downfall as a result of the consequences of systemic misogyny is the point) their alternate path has been to over-exaggerate and ultimately turn to spectacle every single woman involved’s individual suffering at the expense of everything else about their characters. It doesn’t matter if that was the intent or not the principle result of this adaptation has been the continual disempowerment and degradation of women and their agency combined with an almost impressively voyeuristic portrayal of their suffering.

The women in this show are not allowed to have interests or hobbies unless it’s to serve to make them seem “bad” in someway, whether that be the discomfort around Helaena’s bugs, the total lack of any positive representation of Alicent’s religiosity, or how the women dragon riders are broadly painted as aggressive, violent, and unnatural. I don’t even have specific examples to list from the other “team” because in order to be portrayed as “likable” to the general audience the women of Team Black are barely allowed to have personalities, let alone distinguishing interests or characterizing hobbies. The agency and autonomy they have been stripped of, collectively, from both historical precedent and actual ASoIaF, is almost entirely in their refusal to allow women’s work to be portrayed positively. There are no balls, no sewing circles, no garden parties, no trappings of power and contests of will in the jewels and gowns Rhaenyra must now loathe to be (their deeply narrow and biased view of) “likable”, there are no female mentorships, and no female friendships, and at every chance they have had to portray these things at both a societal and personal level they have chosen to veer away and instead reinforce their suffering. They have removed women’s avenues and halls of power from this story, while making it very clear there are no others that exist in this world, and they cannot participate in the men’s; if they could this story wouldn’t exist. So we are left with a group of people who are supposedly driving this story, who this story is supposedly about, but they are internally and externally isolated, largely removed from the public eye, angry or distressed to be there on the rare occasions they’re present, disempowered, stripped of personal agency and will, and we’re still told they have power. But if we search for it the only logical conclusion is that any power which does not center on how much suffering they have been through, or how much more they may be dealt, is not only gone, it was never there in the first place.

I don’t enjoy Rhaenyra’s quasi domestic abuse any more than Alicent’s visceral sexual shame and I don’t enjoy the infantilization of Helaena’s character any more than the erasure of Rhaena’s and it is deeply concerning how many people look at these decisions, and nod their heads and say “yes, this is realistic, and not only is it realistic it’s, GOOD, because without horrific psychological and physical abuse and ultimately a complete reduction to every female character as peace loving victims of powerful men’s cruel machinations we could never even SEE how misogyny is so damaging.” And the mindset that drives people to claim that those of us who call out how this is, the definition of benevolent misogyny and say we’re crazy, that we can’t see the complexity, that actually we’re the ones somehow falling back into sexist tropes, or asking for a black and white story when instead the black and white has simply become an insultingly reductive view of evil men versus helpless women and when all else fails, accusing us of wanting a boring story because it’s either not focused on gratuitous individual female suffering, or is focused on the kind of political power every single featured female character on both sides of this conflict wielded in the original book instead of evil man conversations and eviler man dragon-battles, is at its heart why we have come to a place in pop culture where one of its most marquee properties displays and embodies these problems so glaringly in the fucking first place.

[whumpiary]

soft landing (part 2)

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4 content warnings: referenced drug and alcohol use, referenced intimate partner violence, caretaker pov

-

They barely make it to 10am before Mal’s fishing out a container of mango sorbet from the freezer. Despite the time, it feels like the right kind of gastronomical accompaniment for the kind of day they’re in for.

They sit on the couch together, foot to foot, with a shared blanket over their laps. Gonzo, their half-blind ginger tabby, lounges between them like a big orange throw pillow made of fur as they pass the tub between each other, dead asleep and purring like a motor.

Mal keeps stoking the conversation gently to keep the door open on it. Nothing heavy. Idle chit-chat on and off that’s easy enough to keep up while they both half-watch Golden Girls and politely ignore the elephant in the room.

“How’s work going?”

“Yeah, better. Turns out when you’re honest about your learning disability instead of being a dumbshit, people are actually pretty chill about it.”

Mal smiles, a line of sorbet curling onto his spoon like a little rose as he scrapes it along the top, “Who’d have thought, huh?”

“Lou.”

Mal laughs. Sounds about right.

“So yeah,” Cass continues. “Way better. Off probation, getting more shifts. Turns out the manager’s kid has dyslexia too so she was actually really fuckin’ cool about it. Suggested some changes to make things easier. They just keep me on the floor now and someone else puts the orders through if I’m having a bad day with it.”

“Sounds like a good system.”

“Yeah. And Mandy said she prefers it that way anyway because I’m good at keeping customers happy,” Cass says, hands busy braiding the fringed trim of the blanket. He glances up with a half-grin. “Shoulda heard her the other day. She introduced me to the new hire as their resident psychic.”

Mal’s eyebrows shoot up, “Oh, so she-“

“Nah, she doesn’t know or anything, just a joke. Thought it was kinda funny though.” He pitches his voice up in an affectionately mocking echo of his boss’ voice. “I’m telling you, he knows what the customers want before they do! Just don’t know how he does it.”

Mal laughs and passes him the sorbet as he turns his attention back to the TV. On screen, Blanche is swanning onto the screen, all dressed in orange and completely mortified by something outrageous. He rests his head on his hand, elbow propped on the back of the couch as a yawn stretches the back of his throat.

Probably just shy of the twenty four hour mark for awakeness about now, he’d reckon. Should probably go a coffee if he’s planning to company-keep for the next few. But if he makes a coffee now, getting to sleep later is gonna be- 

“Did I tell you I finally met the owner?”

Mal blinks himself back into the conversation with an inhale, clicking the context together as he turns his head with a smile, “Ah the mysterious Andrew. How was he?”

Cass’ nose wrinkles a little as he stabs at the sorbet with his spoon. He glances across with a half-baked and knowing smile, “He wears a three piece suit.”

Mal cringes, hissing in over-exaggerated disapproval, hand to his chest like he’s been shot. “Oof. Oxfords?”

“Loafers.”

“Wow, that’s worse.”

Cass laughs, sorbet spoon upside down on his tongue. “Right? Way worse.”

“He was alright though?”

“Yeah, he’s alright. Kinda full of himself but he’s a good guy. Nice. Like he makes jokes about being top dog and shit but he still helps do the dishes if he’s in when we’re closing.”

“Oh, that is nice.”

“Yeah,” Cass says. Getting to the next scoop of sorbet seemed more like a minor mining expedition, stabbing at it with his spoon.  “He’s been really cool actually. He’s got another shop so he’s gonna keep an eye out if something more permanent shows up for me.”

“Hey, that’s great. Got someone in your corner.”

“Yeah,” Cass says again. He shrugs, sorbet halfway to his mouth. “Anyway, I’ve been sleeping with him.”

“Oh.” Mal says, after a few beats. He scrambles a little for a response. “Well, that’s…”

Cass cuts him off with a snort, bitter and derisive. “You don’t have to do that. You don’t have to pretend it’s like… a cute, quirky thing or whatever. I know it’s fucked.”

“Mate, I’m not judging-“

Another shrug. “You can if you want.”

“I’m not,” Mal assures. “Really. It just-”

“Yeah,” Cass says, frowning. He chews at his cheek. “Yeah, no, I know.”

He scrapes at the top of the sorbet, frowning at it, before stabbing at it aimlessly with the spoon again. 

“So that’s where-” He shrugs. “-Last night. This morning, I mean. That’s where I was coming from.”

“Right.” is what Mal says. What he means is Well, shit.

Cass snorts another laugh, no humour to it, just bitter self deprecation on an exhale. He shifts forward and abandons the sorbet tub on the coffee table and Gonzo raises his head up with a chirp to see if it’s something he’s interested in pilfering.

“I don’t want you to think he’s some sort of, I don’t know, predator creep or something. It’s not like that,” Cass says. His fingers interlace with Gonzo’s orange fur, a shadow of a frown on his face. “He’s a good guy.”

Mal must react in some sort of minute way because a moment later Cass gives him a sideways glance and a self-effacing grin.  “I mean, taste in men aside, obviously. He’s, you know, he’s a chill guy.”

The light tone of voice can’t seem to stick to the end of the sentence. Cass' smile flickers. And then fades.

Mal watches as a drop of condensation collects on the side of the punnet before running down the side to the coaster beneath it. He waits for more. Then he prompts, “... Is there a but attached to that sentence?”

The first flash of the look he gets is a glare, but that doesn’t stick either. It slides down the wall, greased up with grief and anxiety, landing somewhere in shame.

Cass’ hands can’t seem to figure out what they want to do with themselves, shifting between picking at his nails to toying with the blanket to fiddling with the leather bracelets around his list Lou had gotten him last Christmas. He shrugs, twisting and twisting at them. 

Mal keeps his voice soft, “Is now the time I should be asking that question again, mate?”

“What question?”

Mal hesitates. He glances up from Cass’ hands to his face. “Should I be worried?”

Cass looks down, pulls his knees in tighter. His foot hangs off the edge of the couch cushion, bouncing like an idling engine. He twists the bracelet so tight around his finger Mal can see the skin of his wrist flush pale where blood is cut off.

“Cass?”

“I’m not…” he shakes his head and smiles, self-effacing. Ashamed, if Mal had to guess. “Look, I know it’s kind of fucked but I’m not good at judging that shit. What’s… like, what’s worry-worthy and not.”

Mal can practically hear the spiel Lou would give if she were here. Nothing cruel, necessarily, just a laying out of facts like evidence in a final address.

Cass rocking up out of the blue. The injury. The hesitation to share. The fact that they’ve seen a lot less of him the last couple months. And now the reveal of a secret relationship with someone holding power — and assumedly a few years — over him. Whether the last was malicious or not, with Cass’ history and the shaky, skittering look of him, it didn’t leave many other conclusions to be drawn than Be Worried Now.

But Lou’s not here. So Mal offers something a little less sledgehammer. “You’ve got a good gut, mate. What does your gut say?”

There’s a long pause, so quiet that Mal can hear the fridge whirring from the kitchen, its little tick tick tick as it moderates its own temperature. Gonzo stretches between them with another little chirp.

Cass chews at his cheek, twist-and-releasing his bracelets, “...I don’t know.”

He sucks in a breath, a tell-tale shakiness to it that gives Mal his cue to look away. From the corner of his eye, he sees Cass tip his head back like he’s trying to stop a blood nose from running, blinking rapidly. It hits something griefy and fond in Mal’s chest. Lou does the same thing when she’s trying not to cry.

He thinks of the way Cass had rubbed at the back of his neck earlier. Echoed habits of loved ones, collected over time. Affectionately imprinted, subconsciously reproduced.

Mal reaches for a box of tissues from the bookshelf beside him and puts it down wordlessly on the coffee table. He straps on his knee crutch as he stands, reaching to pick up the sorbet with the other. “Just gonna chuck this away.”

Cass gives a jerky nod and Mal hears the telltale little fft of a tissue being taken out of the box as he heads into the kitchen, puts the sorbet back in the freezer and clicks the kettle on.

He makes himself a cuppa with the blend 43, thinks better of making Cass a tea, and grabs him a glass of water instead. When he heads back in, Cass is curled up tight in the corner of the couch, blanket tucked up under his feet, tissue box cradled in the crook of one elbow, eyes red and puffy.

“Sorry.”

“You’re alright.”

“I’m so fucking embarassed.” 

“No need,” Mal says as he sits, glass of water on the coaster. 

Cass sniffs, twisting the tissue in his hands like he’s making the world’s shortest length of rope, matching the three or four already crumpled in his lap. “I’m so stupid, I’ve been so fucking stupid.”

“Hey, come on-”

“No, I’m a fucking dumbshit. Complete fucking-” he cuts himself off with a sharp inhale of breath. Mal finds himself holding his breath as he waits for the exhale. When it comes it’s shaky. Kind of defeated. Cass keeps his head bowed, frowning deeply at his hands. “Sorry.”

Mal shrugs, “All good, mate. Take your time.”

Cass nods and takes a shaky breath. In the end, he takes barely any time at all.

“It’s not how it sounds,” he says, voice crackling a little as he speaks. “He didn’t like… take advantage of me or anything. It wasn’t like that.”

“I believe you, mate,” Mal says quietly. Though… if there gets to be one more insistence of that particular fact it’s going to start to feel a little thin.

Cass picks at the tissue, turning it to confetti in his lap. “It was meant to be just this fun thing, you know? Bit of flirting, then a bit more than that…” 

“I just wanted…” he shakes his head, cheek twitching in what Mal can only really take as a sort of self revulsion. “I’ve been so fucking lonely, you know? Like you guys are great, don’t get me wrong, but-”

“It’s not the same,” Mal chimes in. “I get that.”

“Right,” Cass nods, the back of his hand wiping under his nose. “And he was just… there. Wanting me. Flirting. And I… I’ve fucking missed it. It sounds pathetic but I just… I want to be wanted like that. I… I need to be wanted like that sometimes.”

Mal sighs, the weight of that twisting in his chest. He thinks of Josiah… then pushes that thought away. Not right now. “That’s not pathetic, mate. It’s human.”

“Wanna know what line he used to pick me up?”

Not really. “Yeah, go on.”

Cass gives him a side-long, dead eyed grin, “What’s a boy like you doing working in a place like this?”

He holds Mal’s gaze, like he’s waiting for him to laugh. When he doesn’t, Cass’ nose wrinkles a little and he looks back down at the tissue in his hands.

“Like it was that tacky, the writing was that clear on the wall. Like… day dot, first handshake. I fucking knew. He knew too. These guys, they just-“ he shakes his head, face crumpled in heartbreak. “They smell it on me.”

Mal opens his mouth to object but thinks better for it. He can feel the ramp up. He can feel what's about to happen. . Cass' voice is soft. Deflated.

“He hit me last night.”

Mal very carefully doesn’t shift where he sits. He doesn’t let the white hot fury that flares in through his chest show on his face. He stays still and calm and quiet.

“It was just a slap. Nothing that bad or anything. But he hit me.”

Mal takes a slow and even breath. Inhale for a count of six. Hold it for four. Exhale for six. 

“So, your shoulder…”

Cass keeps his head down but his voice is sincere, “No, I really did fall into a wall.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it was… You know, he moved and I flinched and it was a whole… thing. But that was what happened. Tripped over my feet, landed funny. That wasn’t a lie.”

“Okay,” Mal repeats. “I believe you.”

The words tumble out of Cass like raindrops down a car window, rolling together and picking up pace.

“Look I’m not a fucking idiot, alright I knew it was kinda fucked up, that he was- you know. But I could, I could handle it, and it felt… it felt good that I was ha- I was handling it, and then-”

He sucks in a breath, shaky and rage-filled. Does the Lou-Bako-head-tilt, up to the ceiling again, blinking back tears. When he looks forward again he takes a slow breath that blows his cheeks out, seemingly determined to keep it steady. 

“And then he hit me. And it was like waking up from a fucked up dream. Like, I’ve been living in this fucking bubble and it just…” He makes a gesture with his fingers, pinched closed and then flowering open in slow motion. Kaboom. “And then I could see every fucked up thing all at once.”

Like sensing Cass’ distress, Gonzo wakes up beside them with a little chirp, stretching out and twisting around until he’s on his feet again. He looks around with his good eye for all of about three seconds before hefting his full seven kilos of fluff and fat onto Cass’ lap. Cass breathes a laugh, claggy and wet from crying and scratches at Gonzo’s cheek with a finger, and the old ginger thing raises his chin in approval.

“Sorry,” Cass says after a bit, his deep frown in direct contrast to the blissed out contentment of the cat in his lap.  “Sorry, I- I need to stop doing this to people.”

Mal waves him off, “Aw, come on. Since when am I just people?”

He means it as a joke but Cass looks at him sideways. Ah.

Still not actually a friend. Just the trusted party of the trusted party.

“Right.”

It doesn’t not sting. 

“Look, I-“

Mal puts a hand up, “You don’t need to worry about my feelings, it’s all good.”

“No I just mean- Lou, Jos. They signed up for this. For… me. My mess. My shit. They… for whatever fucking fucked up reason they… But you didn’t. We’re not- I mean you’re just…”

Mal exhales, half-humour, “The in-law?”

Cass huffs a laugh, twisting at his tissue “Yeah. Guess so.”

The laugh track from the TV feels tinny and strange in the context of it all. Cass' eyes trace the screen like he's looking through a window, to another world entirely.

“I… I work for this guy, Mal. I have a job, I have a real fucking job and a lease and I’m actually getting my shit together for once and I’m…” He leans forward, eyes squeezed shut, muttering into his hand. “I don’t know what I’m meant to do now.”

“We’re gonna figure this out, mate,” Mal says gently, leaning forward to put his hand on Cass’ knee. Cass looks at the hand and then across at him with a face full of hope, grief, confusion. Mal nods. “You and me. The others if you want. We’re not leaving you alone in this. We’re gonna figure it out. Alright?”

Cass barrels towards him. For a moment, Mal thinks he’s being shoved away, that the contact and the sincerity were too much of an overstep and he’d breached some invisible boundary. But Cass’ arms latch around his waist. He heaves a sob.

When Mal shifts to hold him back, it's like Cass finally lets the wall between them come crumbling down.

[yellowocaballero]

it's called stress writing?

Ah. You know how sometimes you're really stressed and writing stupid shit helps relax you and you've had an idea in your mind for forever? But nobody will ever see this story because it's so cringe?

FE3H OC kids time traveling. In my defense, the urge to cross over your own AUs with canon is famously irrepressible. Or I haven't been able to repress it, which might as well be the same thing.

Here's a bit of it.

“Do you think they can smell fear?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. They can only sense it.”

Luca rubbed his staff, dragging a finger over the smooth curves. “Subconscious perceptions of stimuli such as smells can often feel like extrasensory perception…”

“Do you use words I don’t know on purpose?”

“It calms me down.”

“Extrasensory perception?” Mother asked. “What’s that?”

“Worry about it in twenty years.” 

Sara resisted the urge to pet Mother’s head or something. There was no need. She barely looked any younger than Sara’s actual mother. Uncle Felix once estimated that she stopped aging in her mid-to-late twenties. Sara had corrected him - she looked like she stopped aging. Royal anti-aging cream was effective, but it didn’t work miracles. Uncle Felix had looked a little pained.          

“I studied abroad in Almyra for a year,” Luca said apologetically. Wow? Did he? Sara had only heard about it fifty times. “Look, Mother. Is this really - I’m sorry, do you mind if I call you that?”

Mother shrugged. Her expression didn’t change. She wasn’t famous for her expressions, but this was so, so, so much worse than usual. Normally you could catch her by the tone of her voice, but even her voice was empty. She was like a doll. “No. But you ought to call me Professor in public. Everybody else does.”

Just to be safe, Sara hazarded, “How do you…feel about all of this?”

Mother looked at her blankly. Blanker than usual. Much blanker.

“About two teenagers showing up in your dormitory saying that they’re your children from the future, and that now you have to hide them in your classroom until Sara figures out how to un-time travel us.” 

“It’s a problem.”

“Mother, that’s not really what I asked…”

But Mother just stared at them. Goddess, it was so creepy. “What do you want me to say?”

There was no time. Or far too much of it, or far too little. The first Blue Lion filtered in, and class had begun. Or, as Luca muttered under his breath - ‘showtime’.

The Officer’s Academy looked mostly the same. It was missing an entire classroom, but Sara hadn’t gotten a good enough look to see if it was missing anything else. Sara knew for a fact that the first floor dormitories were exactly the same - Felipe said his friends would moan about how old and crappy the ventilation system was. The elite kid dormitories were, obviously, shiny and new. Felipe had bitched about the inequality until Terry pointed out that he lived in the elite kid dorm. Derrick had mildly shared trivia on how it was disproportionately Kingdom nobility.

Sara hadn’t gotten the opportunity to see the rest of the monastery. Until today, Mother had only moved Sara and Luca around in the dead of night. She had smuggled them downwards in Abyss, driving Headmaster Yuri wild. The remarks flew in a bombardment of barbed arrows. Mother had serenely ignored him. Meanwhile, Sara and Luca were realizing that Headmaster Yuri actually wasn’t exaggerating about how bad Abyss used to be. She’d have to apologize later. 

Laying low in Abyss fending off Uncle Balthus’ questions and requests for card games (Balthus and Constance had insisted on the aunt and uncle honorifics, Headmaster Yuri and Miss Hapi had forbidden it) wasn’t how she had imagined her first time travel experience. She had imagined a lot more monastery exploring. She knew that the entire monastery looked very different. Uncle Felix and Father always dragged their children around and loudly pointed out which parts were the same and which had been reconstructed. They had both marveled over the new pagan area of worship in the chapel. Headmaster Yuri had said that it was to make the international students feel welcome, but he had said it in kind of a ‘that’s my story and you better just nod along’ way.

Headmaster Yuri was like that. He had protected Sara and Luca, as he protected all strays. From discovery and Rhea, obviously, but from mostly one little thing that was only the most important thing in the world.

Sara and Luca hadn’t run into anybody they were certain Mother and Father had killed yet. Guesswork yielded to comfort, but reality was impenetrable. 

Reality today, in this unreal time and place, was warm. There was a roaring fire, and light streamed in through the narrow windows. In the courtyard, teens laughed and yelled. Sara saw a girl running past the open doors, yelling and reaching out for a boy running in front of her. He was holding a red ribbon in the air and allowing it to fly in the wind like a flag, and he was almost breathless from exertion and laughter. Sara wondered idly if those two were married with five kids by now. She wondered if they were dead. 

In a week, this classroom may be Sara’s. She had no idea where Headmaster Yuri would place her. Water Dragon, Fire Horse, Earth Ox, or Metal Tiger - it didn’t matter. It would be filled with a lot of talented and hard-working kids. She’ll never know who she was missing. If the best person in the world should have been born to parents cleaved in two, then she’ll never meet them.

That wasn’t the meaning of war. But it was only the meaning of the long, empty years that stretched on afterwards.

“Good morning, Petra.”

Aunt Petra - nope, she was a baby, just Petra - straightened. She was probably always the first person to arrive. Sara scrutinized her closely but subtly, and she knew Luca was doing the same. 

“Good morning, Professor. Who is these?”

What was with that accent? It was worse than the Brigid exchange students, and Sara usually met those two weeks into their first Fargus experience. But Mother just nodded, as if the eloquent Aunt Petra’s broken words were normal. “New students.” Petra stared at Mother. “I didn’t steal them. I’ll explain later.”

Petra slowly sat down at the back of the room. She busied herself with her books, but her attention didn’t leave Sara and Luca. Luca clutched his staff to his chest. Sara automatically elbowed him. Royalty didn’t show fear. 

Aunts - Annie and Mercie were the next to enter the room, clutching their books and giggling to each other. Annie looked fucking Luca’s age. Mercie was so soft looking. Sara wanted to pinch her cheeks. Even worse -

“Holy shit,” Luca whispered under his breath, “Terry and - her are identical…”

“Untrue,” Sara whispered, “that little face can’t contain evil.”

“What was that?” Mother said. 

“Nothing!”

Annie and Mercie also stopped and stared. Sara was sensing a theme. 

Their faces were blank for a second. Sara didn’t recognize the expression at all. Derrick might. But then they both smiled, exactly in sync and exactly the same smile. 

“Professor!” Annie cried. “Who’s this?”

“New students,” Professor said. “I’ll explain once everyone is here.” 

Mercie smiled, giving Sara and Luca a shy wave. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Mercedes.” 

“Oh, duh! Forgot to introduce myself!” Annie bounded up to Sara, who fought the urge to lean back. She curtseyed to Sara, very improperly - not nearly low enough - and Sara automatically curtseyed back. “I’m Annette! Where did the Professor find you?”

“I didn’t steal them,” Mother said blankly. 

“Of course you didn’t,” Annie said, obviously placating Mother. Mercie hummed in agreement. 

“Sit down, please.”

They sat down at a table in the front next to each other. They didn’t look at Sara and Luca. Yet, somehow, their eyes didn’t leave them. 

Sara and Luca were extremely used to being stared at. Even the polite ‘all of my attention is on you but I’m a polite subject who doesn’t stare’. It shouldn’t have phased her. Yet…somehow…

Luca clutched his staff to his chest. Relatable. Sara elbowed him again anyway. 

Captain - Ingrid and Ashe arrived next, heads ducked together and giggling. Did they have a buddy system or something?! Mother said they should be arriving straight from breakfast - maybe they just ate in twos?

It was reassuring to see that they were still completely gross, and had been gross since the beginning of time. Even if Ashe’s haircut was…it was awful. How often did he wash that uniform? It wasn’t enough…and even Sara could see that he was wearing it out of regulations…wow. He was kind of embarrassing. Ingrid was clearly a beautiful girl, where the hell did she - oh. Her hair was full of hay and her boots were half mud. There you go. 

They also stopped and stared. Sara had always assumed it was the two decades of familiarity that made them all act exactly the same. Were they just…naturally like that…?

“They’re new students. I will explain when everybody is here. I did not steal them.” 

They hustled into their seats. Ashe was the only one who openly gawked at them. Petra lightly cleared her throat, and Ashe hurriedly began doodling on his page. 

It was just in time - loud voices filtered in, and Sara knew who was approaching before they came. Uncle Sylvain was a loud talker who never shut up, and judging by Uncle Felix’s matching passion they were talking about swordplay. Sure enough, when they entered they weren’t even looking at the front. Goddess, Felix looked dorky. 

Sara didn’t know whether or not to be thankful that almost none of her cousins looked like their parents as a kid. When they did, it was downright uncanny - Ashe was identical to Sigurd, except if Sigurd was some pathetic peasant child who didn’t take care of himself at all. None of these people groomed themselves like proper noble kids. 

“They’ll always be inferior weapons,” Felix was heatedly saying. He sounded so squeaky and angry about it. “And an inferior weapon is always the sign of an inferior wielder. Any noble brat with a sparkly sword is dangerous only to his own left hand.”

“Your points are solid,” Sylvain said, tossing his bag on the desk, “but consider this - guys with sparkly swords get more ladies.”

“Who cares, you absolute -”

“Absolute what? Charmer? Handsome dish?”

Felix turned a little red, dropping his bag on a table forcefully. Luca obviously resisted the urge to make a face. Ugh. They were flirting again. “I was not about to say that.”

“You were thinking -”

“At least I think at all - hey, who the hell is that?”

As if Felix’s words had given them permission, every eye on the place snapped to Sara and Luca. 

It wasn’t just the stares. It wasn’t even the fact that they were in sync. It was just something about the way they looked at them. It was…Sara couldn’t even put words to it. She felt like she was alone in a cave of bats, and she had just looked upwards to see their glowing eyes peering down at her. If bats were carnivorous. 

Patiently, Mother said, “They’re new students. I didn’t steal them. I’ll explain when everybody arrives.”

Sylvain whistled, rubbing his chin. He was looking at Sara. He was looking at Sara in ways that one should not look at a princess. “Why, hello. Where’d a dish like you come from?”

“Never speak to me again,” Sara said.

“Whoah, touchy!” Sylvain sat down, easy grin unaffected. “I can’t even ask your house? No commoner girl has that beautiful porcelain doll look.”

“And let me guess,” Ingrid said, absolutely withering, “you know every noble girl in the Kingdom?”

“That’s just good sense,” Sylvain said cheerfully. 

It was strange. That was good sense. It was good sense to know the faces of every noble child in the Kingdom, and it was better sense to clock her as a noble from a look. Secret noble children usually had an extremely messy history - sometimes dangerously messy. But Sylvain had dressed up the important question like he was hitting on her. Why the hell would he bother doing that?

Felix pointed at Sara and Luca, absolutely incensed. “Since when do you drag outsiders into our classroom? You couldn’t even warn us?”

Annie coughed something that sounded a little like ‘plant’. What kind of plant?

“At least we knew she existed.” Felix turned back to Sara and Luca. His eyes fixed on Luca’s staff - on the weapon. “Is this really the time to introduce unknown variables, Professor?”

“Every battlefield will produce unknown variables,” Mother said serenely. Completely ignoring how Felix kind of sounded like they were plotting a murder. Or fraud. “We must learn how to adapt. Please adapt by taking your seat.”

“But Professor -”

Mother stared at him. Felix hurriedly sat down.

Satisfied, Mother stood up and looked around. “Have any of you seen Dimitri and Dedue? It’s not like them to be late.”

“Let’s start without them!” Felix said brightly. Ingrid, Sylvain, and Annie gave him severe looks. “Ugh, shut the fuck up.” 

“You are not allowed to say that when we didn’t even say anything.” Ingrid’s withering looks had different flavors for different audiences. Her ‘Felix is being inappropriate again’ look hadn’t changed in twenty years. “Isn’t now a good time to mind your manners?”

“Fine.” Felix rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair. “Sorry, Annette.”

“Aw, you’re forgiven!”

“Favoritism!” Sylvain cried. “How are you so nice to her and so mean to me? What does she have that I don’t?”

“A functioning brain, for one -”

Luca giggled. Everybody’s heads swiveled to him. He blushed, holding his staff up as if it could cover his face. Sara had to quickly hide her own smile. 

“What’s so funny?” Mercie asked mildly. As usual, the mildness held far too much.

“You guys.” Luca lowered his staff, holding it close to his heart. “Um…you’re just funny, is all.”

A strange silence pulsed through the room. Sara risked a glance to her left. Mother was unreadable, as always, but several of the Blue Lions just looked a little thoughtful. 

“It’s nice to find two people who Felix hasn’t driven away in the first two seconds,” Ingrid said wryly. “I’m happy to know that you already feel welcome in the Blue Lions.”

Somehow that sounded a little ominous. Maybe pointed - this bunch obviously weren’t very welcoming at all. No matter how they acted. The faux-friendly deceit was -

“Sorry! Sorry, I was caught up - it’s not Dedue’s fault, he was fetching me. I’m here!”

And Father skidded into the room, sweaty and panting for breath. He looked frazzled. His feelings were on his face - the stress and anxiety in his wide eyes, the cheeks red from exertion and embarrassment. He was still buttoning up his jacket. 

Dedue walked in after him, far more regally than Father. Sara recognized Father by Dedue - without him, she wouldn’t have recognized him at all.

The princess face saved her, but Luca’s prince face needed work. He was actively gaping. Sara didn’t blame him - as Mother was reassuringly identical in appearance, Father’s extra eye sat awkwardly in his face. Mother was making far less facial expressions than usual and Father was making far more.

Sara’s sluggish heart was galloping in her chest. Luca’s overactive heart jumped into his throat.

Father stopped in the middle of the room, finally exhaling and fixing up the last buttons of his jacket. “My apologies. I lost track of time training again. I hope I haven’t held up the class too severely.” 

His voice was fucking squeaky. 

“You’re fine,” Mother said, absolutely detached from the situation. She truly gave the air of not giving a shit about anybody or anything. “Dimitri, meet our two visiting students.”

Father’s attention snapped to Sara and Luca. His eyes - plural! - flickered to Luca’s staff, then at Sara. Luca was dumbstruck. Sara was better at hiding it, but she was probably even worse off. At least Father was still a scary late teenager to Luca. Father was her age. And she still only came to his shoulder!

Manners maketh the lie. Sara curtseyed, and Luca hurriedly bowed beside her. She remembered just in time to bow foreign nobility-to-foreign royalty. “Greetings to His Holy Royal Highness Prince Dimitri.”

“Oh, there’s no need for formalities. I’m just Dimitri here.” As if Father had ever been just Dimitri. He bowed back as foreign royalty-to-foreign nobility. He didn’t see most of the class roll their eyes. “Welcome to Garreg Mach monastery. May I ask your names and country of origin?”

Fantastic question. As always, Mother swept in. “They’re Sara and Luca. We can’t disclose their country of origin right now.”

Ashe leaned next to Ingrid, probably under the impression he was whispering. “How did His Highness know they were foreign…?”

“Nobility stuff,” Ingrid said, bizarrely apologetic. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I try not to…”

As usual, Felix cut to the heart of the matter. “Why can’t you share where you’re from?”

“Can’t say,” Professor said stoically. 

“Sorry, Professor, but I asked the newbies.” 

It was stupid of her to assume that they wouldn’t prod at Mother’s story. In fairness, people didn’t tend to question Mother. Quickly, Sara said, “It really is confidential. It’s for our safety. Lady Rhea -” Headmaster Yuri, Lady Rhea was going along with whatever Mother wanted for unknown reasons. “ - has kindly offered us sanctuary. That’s all we can afford to say.”

“Sanctuary from what?” Felix demanded. Hadn’t he heard her? “From the Western Church? The dark mages?”

The class sharpened. They were practically at the edge of their seats, eyes following every move and tracking every micro-expression on their face. If Sara misstepped, she’d be eaten alive. 

And Father was looking at them. He was looking at Luca - Luca, who had leaned a little closer to Sara. And, in a nauseatingly familiar move, he looked at Mother. ‘Here’s my recommendation - you decide whether or not to make the decision’. 

It had always been a strange whiplash to Sara - how Father’s word was absolute in public, but how among the inner circle he always deferred to Mother. In some ways they had never truly left this classroom. The idea was strange.

“I trust them,” Mother said, and the room finally fell silent. Father looked a little impressed. “Is that enough for you all?”

The room nodded frantically. Father straightened and nodded too, far more regally. Dedue just looked at them, eyes unblinking. 

Mother nodded, moving to the podium and taking a book from its shelf. “Then let’s start class. We left off at page twenty four. Does anybody want to give me the solution to its battlefield problem?”

Sara and Luca were about to shuffle off to the back, but Ingrid and Ashe swept their things into their arms hurriedly stood up, gesturing towards their seats.

“You sit at the front,” Ashe said cheerfully. “It’ll help you see the board better!”

“We insist!” Ingrid said. Smiling.

Sara and Luca sat down at the front of the room. They felt eyes boring into their backs for the next two hours. They had specifically shepherded Sara and Luca into a spot where everybody could keep an eye on them - how paranoid were these kids? 

In many ways, these children were Sara’s adults. Paranoia and all. But those adults had lived through a war. Why were these kids acting as if they were at war?

At the fifteen minute break, Sara felt a very light poke at the back of her shoulder. She jumped in the air, quickly turning around. But she only saw Father, smiling awkwardly. 

“I realized that I was far too impolite to you, and I never introduced myself. It’s Dimitri Bladdyd, and it’s a pleasure to meet you.” He nodded at Dedue. “This is my trusted vassal, Dedue Molinaro. He doesn’t speak much, but I assure you his Adrestrian is perfect.”

Sara wondered how many people assumed that Dedue was quiet because he didn’t speak Adrestrian. It must be so annoying and belittling. Dedue was quiet because he was always watching you. 

Sara put a hand to her chest, bowing as a woman to a man. Luca did the same with a fist, as a young man to an older one. In Duscuran, Sara gave him the customary greeting to higher class Duscurans. Luca copied her. His accent was way worse. Father’s jaw nearly dropped, and even Dedue’s eyebrows raised. 

“It’s a pleasure,” Dedue said firmly. “But there’s no need for that.”

“There’s always a need for respect,” Sara parroted. Luca nodded beside her. Uncle Dedue said that all of the time. Felipe had philosophical differences with the sentiment. Listening to them argue was like sitting in a courtroom. 

“I couldn’t agree more!” Father said, oddly overjoyed. Sara realized too late that he had only bothered to introduce himself because he wanted to introduce Dedue. Father had once mentioned he used to do that. Sara couldn’t remember why. “Oh, I almost forgot. Give me a second.”

After some fumbling, he finally succeeded in holding out a stack of textbooks and a notebook towards her. There was even a pencil and eraser on top. He was smiling awkwardly. It wasn’t such a foreign expression. But the embarrassment and faint traces of hope - that was new. 

“I noticed you didn’t have any materials,” Father said, strange and earnest. “I apologize. You’ll have to share - I don’t have any more copies.”

Sara dumbly took the materials, placing them on the desk between her and Luca. He had turned around too, gawking at Father with wide eyes. “Thank you, Your M - Highness.”

Father leaned forward in his seat, arms crossed on the table. His eyes were clear and bright. Dedue watched them silently. “I hope it helps. Our material is rather difficult. I can only imagine what a shock it is.”

“It’s difficult!” Luca cried out - just hair too loudly. “It’s tougher than what I learned in Almyra! How do you guys do this? I couldn’t understand half of it!”

Thank the Goddess, it wasn’t just her. She had felt like a disgrace for the entire class. 

The royal family was the best. They had to be the best. Every time, in everything they did, they had to be the best. Sara had to win every swordsmanship tourney; Luca had to rank highest in the spellcrafting competitions. Luca was early into his tenure at the Fhirdiad school of magic, but he had to rank first in the grade. 

They had to be the best because they had the best. Sara’s tutor was Uncle Felix’s tutor, who famously produced Uncle Felix; Luca apprenticed to the famously talented Lady Lysithea. Mother herself had tutored them in tactics. There was no reason to fail. But she did, again and again. 

Because Terry outscored Luca half the time. Derrick outscored Sara every time. And that was just inside the castle. Sara wasn’t looking forward to her first traditional classroom experience at Garreg Mach - she had no idea how she was supposed to be better than everybody else too. 

Their parents had eaten this incredibly dense and complex material for breakfast. Goddess, no wonder they thought their kids were lazy slackers. 

But Father just nodded, nothing but supportive and friendly. “Professor Byleth’s curriculum can be…challenging. But trust me, she’s a wonderful teacher. If you need any help, she’ll be more than happy to give you individual tutoring.” He halted, shifting in his seat, before he finally said, “Or I could - I am more than capable of offering any tutoring you may need. It’s my duty as head of house. Not to say that it’s a burden! I am always happy to help.”

Sara maintained a regal and blank face, mentally cursing the Saras aged two to fifteen. She thought she worked hard in princess behavior, but she could see now that it wasn’t hard enough. She could not let her feelings show. Father could not know that she wanted to pinch his cheeks so badly. He could never discover how adorable he was. His bangs flopped over his cheek like a puppy’s ears flopping over their snout. 

“We appreciate it greatly, Your Highness,” Sara replied smoothly. “The Professor said she wouldn’t give us any grades, but -”

“She doesn’t give anybody grades.”

“Huh?”

“She doesn’t - ah, she believes that grades get in the way of learning.” Father nodded sagely. Dedue’s eyebrow twitched. Sara knew that twitch. That was Dedue’s eye roll. “And tests. And assignments. It’s all a part of her accelerated curriculum.”

“Um,” Luca said, “are you sure? Because it…um, she just might not know what they are?”

Father laughed, light and easy. “That’s quite funny, Luca. Professor Byleth is a teacher! Of course she knows what tests are.”

Luca stared at Father. “Didn’t you have to tell her what homework was?”

Father’s smile was only pleasant. “And how did you know that?” 

“She told us,” Sara said quickly. She elbowed Luca. “And goodness, Luca, will you speak correctly? Stop stammering and speak confidently.” Luca muttered something about hypocrites. “What was that?”

“That takes me back,” Father said, a little amused. “My parents used to say the same thing to me. I always hated it.”

“Oh?” Luca said. “You hated it? That’s funny. Look, Sara. He hates it.” 

“Wow, you two really must be siblings!” 

Then Ingrid was in front of them. Too late, Sara realized every Blue Lion was in front of them. No - they were circling them. Most of them looked pleasant and friendly, as if they had surrounded Sara and Luca to give them a big group hug. Don’t worry about our namesake. We’re your friends. 

If it wasn’t for the look in their eyes, Sara might have believed them.

“My brothers and I always talk to each other like that,” Ingrid said, smile a lot faker than Father’s. Ingrid was a terrible liar. “But I’m the one always on their case about speaking correctly. So you’re noble siblings, right?”

“I’ve never seen a noble with green hair before,” Annie gushed. “Is it, like, dyed? It’s so cute!”

Sara self-consciously tugged at a lock of her thick and stylishly unruly hair. Big hair was in, but it took her servants thirty minutes every morning to wrangle the thing into an artfully styled mess. Without servants here, it was just a natural mess. “It’s natural…”

“I’m, like, so jealous of it. Red hair’s super strong in my family.” Only Lailah was black haired, so it was true. “Is it strong in yours? The only people I know with green hair are Lady Rhea, Seteth, and Flayn!”

“Have you met Flayn yet?” Mercie asked. “She’s the sweetest girl.”

Sara sweated a little. She’s known Auntie Flayn since she was zero. “I’ve met Flayn a few times, yeah.”

“Really? She’s never mentioned you!”

Fuck. Goddess, she wished Derrick was here. He was a smooth talker. He’d get them out of this. All she had was stupid Luca. Luca was freaking useless. He was only good for blowing shit up or breaking and entering. “We’re keeping our residence at Garreg Mach quiet. I’m sure Professor asked her not to say anything.”

“Where are you staying?” Sylvain asked, leaning on Sara’s table. She leaned back. “I would have noticed you in our dormitories, that’s for sure.”

“Um…” Luca clenched his hands, obviously wishing his staff was on hand instead of leaning against a back wall. “We’ve been…staying inside…”

“Back up, everybody. Give them some space.” Then Father was standing, his voice finally bent into something familiar, and most of the Blue Lions obediently shuffled backwards. Father smiled down at them apologetically, and Sara felt her heart settle. Luca hesitantly smiled back. “Sorry about that. We don’t meet new people very frequently. They’re just a little excited.”

It was a blatant lie. They were grilling them, and Sara had never received anti-interrogation training. Sarah craned her head, looking over Ashe’s shoulder, and saw Mother sitting at her desk. She was watching them, eyes somber. This was the familiar ‘I can’t help you with this one’. She was right - stepping in for them now would only make everything worse. 

Luca smiled at Father, small but shining. Luca’s smiles always made him seem like a kind person. He was, in his own way. “Thanks, Your Highness. You’re really nice, you know.”

Father stared at Luca. He seemed a little struck. Dedue looked at Father, tilting his head. 

“Congratulations,” Felix drawled, crossing his arms. “You’ve hooked another one. A few textbooks and some performative kindness are all it takes, isn’t it?”

Father subsided, as if his world had returned to order. He looked away, slowly sitting back down. “It’s my duty as head of house and crown prince to help out those I can.”

“Not even denying that it’s performative, huh.” Felix looked around at the Blue Lions around him, who were beginning to look a little exasperated. “Am I the only one who caught that? Or am I just the only one who cares?”

And, before Sara could think better of it, she said, “But he misdirected us twice.”

Father froze, but Felix just looked intrigued. “Does the new girl have functioning ears? What’d he do?”

Even more surprisingly, it was Luca who popped up. “F - His Ma - His Highness doesn’t just do nice things because it’s his job. His Highness is nice because he wants to be nice. It’s not complicated.”

As always, Sara and Luca were thinking the exact same thing. Sara could complete his thought easily. “At the end of the day, somebody who’s nice naturally and somebody who’s nice because they work hard to be nice are both nice people. I don’t believe it actually matters much.”

“Never mind,” Felix said, “I’m still surrounded by morons. Shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up.”

Before Sara could react to that at all, Mother announced the end of the break. The rest of the class returned to staring at them, even more intently than before. 

Unlike before, Sara could feel Father’s eyes stronger than anybody else.  

The second half of lessons were split into groups - one half of the class on the Authority side, the other half on the Magic side. Everybody watched avidly as Luca drifted into the Magic side, and Sara hurriedly took a seat next to Petra on the Authority side. Luca gave her mournful looks from across the room - Sara got to sit with Mother and Father, and Luca was stuck looking into the eyes of teenage Felix. 

Who, as it turns out, was the worst Felix. 

Sara slipped into the seat next to Petra as Byleth began writing out supply lines. As it turned out, Petra was a very studious young woman. Sara arbitrarily mentally declared her the favorite Teen Auntie, if only because she hadn’t closed in on Sara and gone for her throat. Father stopped awkwardly near her desk, saw that Ingrid and Ashe were sitting behind her again, and hurried to sit in front of her next to Sylvain. Who was also the worst Sylvain. 

It took a shocking amount of courage, but Sara managed to lean in closer to Petra. She summoned her best Princes Smile #3: ‘Let’s be friends, and I actually mean it!’. “What’s your name? You never introduced yourself.”

Petra looked up, blinking owlishly. “I am Petra, from Brigid. And you are Sara from no place, yes?” 

No place? It was all wrong and true enough. Sara from the Fargus Empire - the Empire that didn’t exist. Sara from the Fargus Kingdom - a kingdom missing thousands of souls. Sara from home - far from home. That, at least, Petra had to understand. 

“For right now, yes. I’ve been to Brigid a few times.” Visiting you. “It’s a lovely country.”

Petra perked up, her face clearing. It was an expression Sara had seen a hundred times, on a face very different from Petra’s own. “Yes? I am glad! What place in Brigid you visit?”

“The capital. The water was gorgeous, but I was bit to death by a thousand mosquitos.” Sara stuck her tongue out, and Petra giggled. “Luca almost drowned in the beach. Our father had to jump in and rescue him.”

“Ah! Yes, our water is very danger. If you not careful, you drown. What is the word…” Petra made a large swooshing motion with her hand. “These. Killer water.”

“Waves?” 

“Like waves! But much of waves. Killer much of waves.”

“A tsunami?”

Petra snapped her fingers, beaming. “We have tsunamis! They destroy whole towns. Beautiful to see.”

Sara wanted to be best friends with Petra so bad. She had always seemed impossibly cool, but Sara could count the number of times she’d spoken to the woman on her fingers. The Petra here and now, smiling cautiously at her, almost felt like somebody new. 

And somebody familiar. The way she held herself, the way she walked - strong, dignified, with an upright chin and straight shoulders. But it was small too. Petra made herself small. Sara had only seen it on one other person. 

It shouldn’t have been surprising. But some part of Sara had filed that small strength away as ‘just Derrick’. Seeing it in Petra too…

Sara leaned in, lowering her voice slightly. Everybody was carefully not-staring, but she didn’t really care. “You would like my best friend from back home. He’s like you. Politically, I mean.”

Petra’s eyes widened. Sylvain obviously leaned back in his chair. “Yes? And you are best friends?”

“He’s my favorite person,” Sara said. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

Petra smiled. “That is my promise!”

“You guys whispering about boys?” Sylvain asked loudly, and Petra and Sara sprang apart. He was twisted around in his chair, elbow resting on the back. “Which ones in the class are cutest? Come on, you can tell me.” 

As always - and surprisingly - it was Father who came to Sara’s rescue. He twisted to face Sylvain, waving a hand in front of his face. It was so teenager and deeply adorable. “Sylvain! Leave them alone and focus, please!”

“Whoah, whoah, touchy!” Sylvain straightened, and after a second he grinned at Dimitri. “Wait a minute. Wait a minute -”

“Please refrain from finishing that sentence.”

“You’re blushing!” Christmas had come early for Sylvain, and he raised his voice again. “Everybody look, His Highness is -”

“Paying attention,” Mother said. That was the end of that.

[moratoria-the-blog]

Thermodynamics, Nostalgia, and Zero Free Time- Moratoria Development Journal #1

I’ve been feeling extra disconnected from reality lately, so naturally I’m throwing myself into my art more to cope. I thought it’d be an interesting idea to start little journals about whatever I’m thinking about at any given moment— so that hopefully, in the future, I can look back and have an idea of where my head was at.

I’m in the process of working on the “E” drawing for my Moratoria Alphabet series— I decided on a word and composition, sketched out the general shape of everything, etc. But I just haven’t had as much time to sit down and give it my full attention. I have my internship two or three times a week, college classes once a week, and work every weekend… I probably should’ve anticipated that I’d be busier. There’s a reason everybody talks about how hectic grad school is.

This is what exists of the “E” drawing so far— 

It’s Bree! The idea for it is that the Bree on the bottom-right is going to be her “artist’s persona,” for lack of a better term; how she understands herself and presents to the world. And the top-left is the more accurate representation of who she really is. In the final version, she’ll have a different expression, too, with her eyes open.

So, there’s that, but I’ve also been thinking about Max quite a bit. From what I’ve shown to friends and art communities on Discord, Max is generally seen as one of the least interesting members of the cast. Which I completely understand, but I don’t agree. He’s interesting to me… this is going to get a little rant-y, so bear with me for a moment.

When I was in high school, I had this idea for a story where a young woman made a deal with an otherworldly something-or-other geometric-themed entity. The entity provided her with the ability to relive her childhood and hang out with her childhood friends in her dreams, but in return, it gradually chipped away at the lives those friends were living in the present and erased them from reality the more she used it. The justification for that in-story was something about the first law of thermodynamics; how the imaginary constructs of her old friends need energy to exist, and that energy needs to come from somewhere. And since in the present, all those people hate her now, the protagonist didn’t feel too bad about making the deal.

Here’s a quick sketch I just did of the designs:

So it was that kind of thing. I still like the concept of a demon-like creature who grants wishes based on the first law of thermodynamics, though. Now I’m wondering what that would look like for the other laws… probably not much different, since they’re all generally about systems in equilibrium.

There was also the fact that around that same time when I was in high school, more concept art for OMORI started coming out. I still stand by the opinion I held back then, which is that the art is absolutely beautiful and far, far more interesting than the game itself. I remember one night when I couldn’t sleep and I was scrolling on my phone through all of the different colorful concept art, thinking “this is so cool! If I ever made a game, I’d want it to look something like this!” I tried to guess the plot and themes of the game from all the teasers, and I’d say I got it ninety percent right.

Now that OMORI’s actually released and I’ve checked it out, I think the main reason it doesn’t click for me is that there’s supposed to be a contrast between this colorful, imaginative fantasy world and the more mundane, often bleak real world, but the real world is still all quirky and Earthbound-inspired. The “reality” parts are far more exaggerated and cartoonish than actual reality, so the core of the story rings false.

Max’s story is a similar to OMORI in that it’s about nostalgia and escaping into fantasy to cope with the fact that your childhood friends have all grown up and don’t like you that much anymore. It’s also similar to my geometric first law of thermodynamics story, since there’s an element of how clinging on to previous versions of someone and insisting they stay the same hurts all parties involved.

Anyway, if I can ever finish that “E” drawing, I think I want to draw something with Max for “F”… I just need to think of a word.

[nomsfaultau]

Daily ask №13

You edition!

What does that mean? All questions relate to you in some way.

What gave you the initial idea of Fault? What are Fault's origins?

Each character has to spend a day in your body living your life. They just spontaneously get teleported there with no previous explanation. The system guys get teleported along with the other people in their mind. (Tubbo with their group and Blade with Blood god and voices). Void can fuck off I'm not counting it as a system guy. You are meanwhile chilling as a ghost spirit thingie who can watch what's happening and occasionally give hints if you really need to. After the day is over they get teleported back. Assuming that they're in your body means that their powers are left in their bodies too. How well does that go? Or more like how fast do they ruin your life? : D

Who's your favourite child. And by child I mean character from the crew. If you do not have a favourite just say what you personally like about each character/mb what you relate to in them

You spontaneously get teleported into your fic. You can choose the specific moment, I'm just imagining sometime during a stop when they're chilling and nothing major is happening. You get teleported as yourself in this world, so human without powers (supposedly). They do not know that you're their author. And alternative scenario, what happens/ how fast are you gonna be dead if they do know that you made up their story and all of their suffering?

Only 4 questions cause I thought that the 2 and 4 were very loaded already. However I have recently realised that Fault! Wilbur has moved onto the 2nd place of my favourite characters in fault so I wanted to make a list.

Tubbo (If we're counting the system guys as their separate list then 1 - Tubbo, 2 - Jasmine, 3 - Rosalind, 4 - Rhodes (I love Rhodes too I'm just biased towards ladies))

Wilbur

Tommy

The Blade

Philza

Apparently to be my favourite you just need to be a hypocrite in a way that's both harmful to yourself and others! Neato. And also be a charismatic/silly bastard.

1.The very first spark was a picture of someone else’s scp au. Or monster au? I might try to find it, I don’t know what platform it would be on since for years I just went through google search images for content. Anyway there was a bee Tubbo with dripping skin aggressively hugging Tommy who I think was flower themed? Idk. But I had a moment where I was like oh! I can make them spooky monster guys! And proceeded to do that. Why SCP? I’m not even an SCP fan? Well like months before then my partner in crime (who IS actually into SCP stuff) talked me through all the ones he could think of and then I’d try to come up with stupid ways to defeat them. I liked the framework. So I made little character sheets and then a crappy comic that turned out to be chapters 15-16. Couldn’t stop thinking about it but was like well can’t start at the break out, so I decided to start it when Tubbo and Tommy first met.

2.Tubbo would ace it since I’m currently in the agronomics sector and they have experience via gardening and orchard tending. They’d get startled by the 30 mph winds, keep expecting to be blown away before remembering they’re in a meat body now. The Blade would also be chill with it since he finds gardening relaxing. But Philza would have the patience to sit through the 10 hours of committees I’m dealing with this week. God I wish that was an exaggeration. The Blade would EXPLODE though. What do you MEAN it took 3 1/2 hours to make a 15 minute decision??? Honestly I’m going to assume everyone but Philza would ruin my PCUSA advisory delegate duties. Actually no he’d dip too since he’d feel no obligation to bother. Rip me I guess. But other than that and maybe skipping work I don’t think they could mess up my life too bad. I’m pretty isolated from friends and family at the moment and it’s not like I’ll give any of them my passwords to tech or credit cards. Since only Tubbo can drive they’d have to walk quite a ways to even get into town to cause problems. Honestly? I think I’m safe. Ghost me would be begging for sun protection, but I figure only Tubbo, Phil, and The Blade would bother helping me out like that. Other than that…

Wilbur would be extremely disappointed about the lack of food variety. Philza might solve that by killing a squirrel and cooking it. Tommy would get crazy dysphoria which same dude.

3.Right now it’s Tubbo. It changes though. I just really like how much a disaster they are in the current arc and how they slowly change for the better. Phil is also really fun to work with tho, he's so fun to draw.

4.

I think I’d aim for the 75% mark of epoch 2 since I think everything will be chillest then. That (supposedly) is absolutely fantastic for the implication you can’t be sure I don’t already have them. Personally I think I’d be very freaked out because it’s a very dangerous situation and I’m sure they all look horrific irl. But also I’d try to play dumb but friendly, since revealing I know a lot of info about the group is a bad idea. Like hello stalker much? Fast track to getting labelled a threat, which is kinda a death sentence. They might investigate at first since The Blade getting teleported had a lot of fallout. Tommy would be pretty psyched about a new person to talk to. After confirming I’m human, there’s probably immediately a discussion on whether or not to kill the witness. Tubbo and Tommy are obviously pretty opposed, while Wilbur is like whatever that’s a human they’ll stab us in the back and Philza just wants to reduce risk. But The Blade is chill with humans and breaks the vote against killing me. Yippee. After that I’m going to get out of there as fast as possible. Cause either the Foundation gets me or I’m collateral damage to the crew and no thanks! Tubbo would probably lend a few bees to help me get to the nearest town. And the void….I think the void definitely would know I’m the author and be desperate to learn my True Name. Or just kill me to see what happens.

If the entire group instantly knows oh boy. However I instantly hit them with the ‘if you kill me this world die too’. The guys and flies: really???? Me: You don’t know that it won’t!

Philza is definitely down for some torture and honestly Tommy might second that. But I picked a time when things are actually going well, AND can use knowledge of things that are planned to happen to bargain my way into living by being useful. And I would actually know everyone’s mental problems and could distract everyone by pointing out red flags like ‘hey! Tommy’s suicidal y’all should work on that!’ or ‘repressing The Blood God will hurt you in the long run!’ or what have you. Just throw out enough dirty laundry that they’re too busy worrying about the mental health of their friends to focus on me. Rather debatable on how well me pointing out their flaws would lead to character development, but hey it’s worth a shot. I’m hated but my advice is trusted. This will work semi well until the void kills me.

5. Man poor Phil. He really does NOT make a good first impression lmao.

[atmilliways]

Part One: Sweet Little Lies

(part two) (part three) (part four) (part five) - complete as of 4/4/23

Rating: Mature Word Count: 2190 Ships: Steddie Major Tags: Jealousy, Casual sex Additional Tags: Pining, Slutty Steve Harrington, Drinking, Vomiting, Pre-relationship

Author’s Note: Written for the Stranger Music Anthology prompt, Rainbow In The Dark by Dio; banner by @xirayn​. Story kinda got away from me... I wrote a lot more than 2k, so there will be more.

Ao3 Collection: Rainbow in the Dark Anthology

Read it on Ao3

-

Eddie doesn’t have a thing for Steve or anything. 

(Lie. He’s carried a torch for the guy on and off since 1981; it is now 1988.)

And it’s not like he thought that, after all the life or death stuff, after ‘Steeeve Harrington is actually . . . a good dude,’ after ‘Don’tcha, big boy?’ and the adorably questioning looks Steve had shot him in response, after Steve holding his guts in all the way to the hospital and throwing an absolute ‘Is this how you’re going to talk to a goddamn Harrington after all the money my parents have donated’ shit-fit while drenched in blood until Hawkins Memorial agreed to treat him. . . . It’s not like, after all that, he thought moving to Indianapolis with the guy would mean something.

(Lie. He’d thought about how often Robin would inevitably visit them in their shitty two-bedroom apartment and daydreamed pointlessly about that second room being unofficially hers.)

And, and, it’s not like Steve coming out to him as bisexual within a few months of moving in, then turning those great big doe eyes on Eddie while he asked if he’d take him to his first gay bar sometime had made him do anything as ill-advised as yearn.

(Lie. In defiance of all sense of self-preservation, Eddie’s first thought had been that maybe he meant it like a date. He’d had to quash that immediately, before the ember that had fallen from his torch caught on anything and burned him from the inside out.)

Really, none of it’s a big deal. They’re at the bar dancing in the swirling light of vivid colors cast all around the otherwise grungy space, and Steve moves in unexpectedly close. Close enough for Eddie to feel the press of him all along his front. It’s crowded, but not that crowded; he’s not expecting it, and, well. 

Eddie is a coward. He moves back. 

Just for a second. But while his mind is still reeling, some guy cuts in to dance with Steve—because Steve is fucking gorgeous and Eddie absolutely hadn’t nearly had a heart attack while putting eyeliner on him, or again when he’d seen his fucking outfit, with the sinfully tight jeans and the t-shirt short enough to show off abs worthy of licking, scars only enhancing the effect in his personal opinion—and Eddie backs off. 

Let Steve have some fun exploring his newly expanded horizons, you know? It totally isn’t killing him or anything.

(Lies. It’s a very big deal. His heart is in bad shape and he feels well on his way back to nearly dead.)

-

It’s not like he doesn’t have his distractions, either. 

He’d found a fellow metalhead amongst his coworkers and followed that thread of knows a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy to a band that needed a guitarist and dug the scraps of original songs he’d turned up with. They’ll probably never make it big, but Hawkins had held Eddie in such notoriety (the ugly flip-side of fame) that he’d had to leave, and the rock star life would have that same unappealing kind of omnipresent scrutiny. These days he plays just to work off the tension, get some of the shit out of his system; he still has nightmares, occasionally, but his demons always seem to let him go while he’s making music. 

(No one needs to know that half his songs are secretly about Steve.)

And Eddie needs all the breaks he can get now that every time he comes home from a shift at the coffee shop, it seems like Steve has acquired a new set of hickies. Every. Single. Time. It’s fine. 

(Lie. And one count of possible over-exaggeration on the hickey front, but he can’t. Stop. Thinking about it.)

The thing is, Steve doesn’t date around. He never calls whatever he’s doing dating, just says he’s going to “hang out” with some guy whose name Eddie isn’t familiar with, never quite sure if it was someone that he knows or not because half of his job involves writing names on paper cups; they all blur together after a while. Occasionally there’s a girl thrown in there for variety, but Steve is more straightforward about calling those hookups. 

None of these hangouts or hookups ever seem to happen at the apartment—which is good, it isn’t like Eddie needs to know what that sounds like. Or looks like. Or anything. 

(Lie. He wants very much to know, just without anyone else in the way. Just Steve. The muffled noises he sometimes catches late into the shadows of the night through the very thin shared wall that separates their bedrooms are a tantalizing sample. He’s grown well versed in staying silent while touching himself to that elusive soundtrack, not wanting to miss a single scrap of what little he can get.)

-

Okay. So maybe Eddie is a little pathetic. 

He certainly feels pathetic, standing (moping) against the bar and staring blankly into the crowd for glimpses of anyone he knows (Steve), already in his third beer. Or . . . fourth? He frowns, idly trying to remember, before his gaze finally lands on Steve, body loose as he moves to the throb of the music. That pretty face smoothed over, relaxed and grinning languidly under a rainbow of light, his hair perfectly styled—more professionally done every day now that he’s scored a job at a hair salon. He’s just a shampoo boy, for now, but he’s learning. 

That head of perfect hair tipping to say something to the guy dancing up close to him. 

It’s like an arrow straight through Eddie’s heart. Like a bat ripping his goddamn nipple off all over again. 

And it’s all Eddie’s fault, isn’t it? If he hadn’t choked and backed off that first time, maybe he would still be dancing with Steve—something he hasn’t done since, but it’s not like he thinks about it obsessively. 

(Lie. Absolute crock of horse shit. He’s doing it literally right now, because he wants Steve reaching back to put both hands on his hips, grip tight to hold him close like Steve wants him there. It’s so, so stupid to want what he so clearly can’t have, but Eddie can’t help himself.)

This is the moment the bartender slides a shot his way, and when Eddie glances around he spots a guy further down the bar giving a little wave. 

Well, Eddie thinks, appraising and pathetic and edging on tipsy with intent to keep going. The guy is good-looking, all broad shoulders and a nice smile and a promising hint of chest hair just visible in the V of his partly unbuttoned shirt. Why not? He’ll do.

(Lie.)

So he does shots with a pretty stranger at the bar, loses count of how many until not Steve becomes close enough. And if he feels eyes boring into him sometimes from the dance floor, it’s probably just his imagination.

-

Steve is oddly reserved on the walk home, even as Eddie keeps stumbling into him because the damn sidewalk won’t stay still. He feels relaxed in a way he hasn’t in, like, forever, all loose-limbed and warm and totally over Steve Harrington. 

(Lie. Even with some other dude’s spit drying in his cock, and his hand thoroughly washed but still feeling of the hard weight he’d cradled in his palm, all his senses still lit up like a fucking Christmas tree around Steve.)

“‘Samatter, Stevie?” he slurs, whining, because everything he says only seems to earn him a shrug or a grunt from the other man. It totally doesn’t make him want to latch onto Steve’s arm and cling to him like a koala until he gets the guy���s full attention. “Didn’t you have a good night? Looked like you were having fun out there.”

Steve shoots him a look that he’s not sure he’d even be able to read sober. It’s like somebody took grumpy, pouty, and a secret third ingredient and threw them in a blender. “Not as much as you.”

“We should get milkshakes,” Eddie declares, thoroughly detailed by that blender thought. He leans in, and bumps his head against Steve’s a little too hard in his enthusiasm. “Stevie, y’know anywhere we can get milkshakes this late?”

“No, dude. Stop it.”

It hurts that Steve both figuratively and literally shrugs him off. Eddie sways in place for a moment, but when Steve keeps moving towards home he shakes himself from head to toe like a dog climbing out of a lake and lopes forward to catch up. 

“Dude, what the hell?” he complains, poking at Steve’s side with a finger because god forbid he keeps his hands to himself. “Always brings me down when you’re like this.”

“Like what?” Steve scoffs. “When am I ‘like this,’ what does that even mean?”

He doesn’t know how to answer Steve’s question. 

(Lie. ‘Like this’ is whenever Steve isn’t looking at him, smiling at him, touching him. Steve is always ‘like this.’ God, Eddie thinks, but knowing his own mind is a fucking curse.)

He settles for grumbling, “I just don’t know why we can’t get fuckin’ milkshakes, man,” and swaying ahead at a faster clip because their building is in sight now. Steve catches up while he’s stalled at the front door, patting his pockets trying to find his keys. “Man, what the fuck—”

“Bartender took your keys.” 

Eddie frowns, blinking. “My house keys?”

“You kept waving them around and talking about driving home, so yeah,” Steve huffs, leaning around him to unlock the front door. 

“Buzzkill,” Eddie mutters, not sure if he means the bartender or Steve, and takes the stairs up to their floor a haphazard two at a time. 

He has to wait in front of their locked apartment, and that’s when it occurs to him. 

“Shit,” he blurts out while Steve unlocks this door too, “that ring has my work keys. I’m supposed to open tomorrow!”

“Are you—” Steve pushes the door open and Eddie trips inside with a groan, because everything is spinning so fast now “—fucking kidding me?”

“Bar’s gonna be closed in the morning, fuuuuuck,” Eddie moans, slumping face first over the first piece of furniture he encounters, which luckily is the couch. “M’fucked,” he tells the couch cushions. 

“With that attitude, yeah.”

Eddie sits up, which is totally a good decision. 

(Lie. He eyes the nearest trash can, which he’s seeing in kaleidoscope triplicate, and thinks he’ll have enough warning to make it in time if he needs to.)

“How’s this,” he says with forced brightness, definitely slurring worse now but whatever. “How’bout you—” pointing at Steve for emphasis, and he thinks he’s pointing at the right one “—go back to the bar. Get my keys. Find a quick fuckbuddy to take care of that big ol’ twist in your panties. . . . An’then come home. With keys.”

“What?” Steve says incredulously as Eddie tries to drag his legs up onto the couch and . . . misses, somehow. “You want me to go back for your—Okay. Sure. That’s—Just fucking great.” He drops one hand to his hip (clad in those tight jeans again, the ones that really show off his ass) and the other pinches at the bridge of his nose like Eddie is giving him a headache. “Go back to the bar that I just goddamn left.”

“You only left because I got cut off,” Eddie reminds him. He flourishes a hand vaguely in Steve’s direction. “So go. Fly free, big boy, I release you—”

“I left,” Steve interrupts, both hands on his hips now, and oh, he’s pissed now, isn’t he, “because I wanted to make sure you got home safe, you jackass. Since that friend you made didn’t bother to do it.”

“Oooh, I see how it is!” Eyes flashing, Eddie hauls himself right back upright, as if now it might be a better idea. (It’s literally the same idea, but he’s too distracted to make a grab for the trash can now.) “You can make as many friends as you want, but as soon as I make even one, well. That’s just not allowed, is it? Got it. Good to know, and fuck you very much. Keys, please.”

“That’s not—” Steve’s mouth snaps into a thin line. He shakes his head, turning for the door. “Fine, whatever, I’ll get your fucking keys, Munson. If you throw up, try not to choke on it until I get back.”

He slams the front door behind him, and Eddie tells himself that being downgraded from Eddie or the occasional Eds to just Munson is fine, if that’s how King Steve wants to be.

(Lie. None of it’s fine. His head is spinning, he might be dying, and he can’t imagine that Steve is even going to want to come back home tonight.)

Silence sets in like an awful kind of gravity, tugging the spinning world just a bit further off its axis, and Eddie’s heart lurches with it. Except that’s not (just) his heart—his stomach gives a warning gurgle, and fuck the trash can. He can make it to the bathroom. 

(. . . Lie.)

[famousfilmsfan]

Fazbear Ruins Everything is a parody of ‘Adam Ruins Everything’ an edutainment show on TLC.

Fazbear Ruins The Bad Business Owner Plush.

(takes place during season 2)

Bryan: Hey guys, what’s this about? *shows his jacket it now has ‘Bad business owner’ spray painted on it*

Freddy: What? It’s true.

Bryan: No it isn't. I’m a good business owner.

Lefty: No, you’re not. The company says so as well as our systems, and they’re never wrong. It’s scientific.

A Freddy model pops out of he bushes.

Fazbear: Actually it’s not. It’s just an excuse animatronics use to mistreat people.

Lefty and Freddy jump.

Lefty: Who's this?

Bryan: That’s Fazbear, he came out of the portal...I can't get him to leave.

Freddy: Okay...But are you sure about that? I mean, who says it’s not?

Fazbear: Well for one it’s not ‘Scientific’ there are no studies made about the process, mostly because the process is just a guessing game. Let me show you.

He drags the animatronics into a room. Inside is just a computer and a desk.

Fazbear: Whenever a person joins the company as a franchise owner their picture is taken and sent over to a system which decides if they’re ‘Good’ or ‘Bad’ at it.

The computer shows an 8-bit style of his process.

Fazbear: Then it’s sent to your processers and everyone takes it as facts.

Lefty: Yeah that’s because they are.

Fazbear: Oh really? What do yours say about Bryan?

Lefty: That’s he’s a narcissist man child. Duh

Fazbear: Oh really? And have you ever seen him act like a narcissist man child?

Lefty: Well..he cares about himself a lot.

Fazbear: Really? So he shows no empathy towards anyone, and he thinks he’s the best at everything?

Lefty: Well..no.

Fazbear: Then he isn't a narcissist, the only reason you think so is because of- *throws a blanket over the computer* Bob.

He removes it and it shows a Polar bear animatronic.

Fazbear: He’s actually a computer but the animatronic is more dramatic. Bob gets the pictures and a brief description of them and he types in what status they have.

Lefty: But they haven't even started working. That makes no sense.

Fazbear: Exactly, the whole system is broken. And it gets worse.

Freddy: Oh hell.

(Scene break)

Fabzear: Now have you ever wondered how the process of who is good and bad is made?

Lefty: Through hard research?

Freddy: Psychology analysis?

Fazbear; You’re both wrong. It’s more of a game of ‘Bang kill marry’

Bob: *cycles through pictures* Good, bad, bad, perfect, bad, good, bad, Ick! Bad!

Lefty: Wait he’a not even reading the description.

Fazbear: Yeah he isn't. A study on the program showed it just analyses the person face and what they’re wearing to determine what their status is.

A bar graph is shown.

Fazbear: An experiment was conducted where six people wearing identical clothing were shown to the program. The one's dressed formally we're given Perfect status, casual clothing was given good, and ‘sloppy’ were given bad status each time.

Lefty: Sloppy? What does that even mean?

Fazbear: Nobody knows, because Bob refuses to let anyone else weigh in on these decisions.

The polar bear has put a curtain around the desk so nobody sees it.

Lefty: So it all boils down to some random programs opinions? Are they even true?

Fazbear: Most of the time no, all his assumptions on their ability to run a business is only correct 0.5% of the time. Not even 1%. That means every single person is given a mean status by an AI that doesn't know anything about them, before they even start working.

Lefty: Then...why do they believe them?

Fazbear: Great question, unfortunately these opinions are taken as fact by the animatronics. And the majority, refuse to even acknowledge that it can be incorrect. The only reason is ‘The system is never wrong’

A bonnie Model is shown.

Bonnie: Okay, I know my owner and he’s super nice and well put together...but my system says he’s a bipolar sociopath..

Fazbear: That’s not an exaggeration that happens on Maryland, animatronics gave their owner copious amounts of medication to their owner without his knowledge for six months. He eventually overdosed and almost died.

Lefty: Jesus Christ. Why does this system still exist?

Fazbear: Like most things, it’s due to corporate greed. It started when the system was first introduced in the late 2000s. When a man in marketing decided that making the system would inspire franchise owners to work harder to get ‘Perfect’ status. It was sent to animatronic remotely from the computer BOB itself. The company knows that the system is severely broken, several CEOs and board members have said so.

‘The good business owner is a goal to work towards not a label’ -Henry Emily

Lefty: So why?

Fazbear: They do it to make sure their franchisers work and make them more money, they don't care about their employee's mental health and frankly they encourage this treatment. Look at these real pages from a manual from HR. *opens a book*

‘If someone calls and complains about their status tell them to suck it up and work’

‘If they say their animatronics hate them, tell them that it’s their fault’

‘Make sure to send Bad, and Good owners plushies of Perfect owners to encourage them to work more’

Lefty; What? Are these real? They’re mean *takes the book*

Fazbear: And real effective.

They return to the small table they started at.

Fazbear: This whole ‘Good and bad’ system is utter nonsense that’s only there to emotionally blackmail employees, set unrealistic expectations, and are made by a program which makes sure to not be correct.

Freddy: So what do we do?

Fazbear: Frankly, nobody can do anything this system is grandfathered in, the only way for it to change is for the whole company to go through a makeover which will probably never happen.

Bryan: Now, have anything to say?

Freddy: Fine...I’m...Sorry.

Lefty: So am I.

Bryan: Good.

[internerdionality]

Every time a customer is like “I’ll never purchase another [redacted] again!” and we’re all like…

Coz like the thing is, we actually don’t mark up our product that much. The profit margin on our cheapest model is like $400, and even on the most expensive model it’s only a couple grand. And I get paid like $35 bucks an hour for tech/escalations support, right? So if you’re going to be that entitled customer who is gonna demand hours of my time trying to teach you 3D design from scratch and shit to try or give you gift cards and loads of emotional labor to make up for your imagined slights, it’s *genuinely cheaper* for the company to just break up with you early.

Like, I had this customer the other day, they dropped like two grand for our cheapest model and expect gold star service. Oh and they didn’t even buy it from US they bought it from like a Best Buy but the warranty is through us as the manufacturer so I still have to deal with them, cause as it happens one part of their system arrived broken, right? Okay, no big, right? We order them a new one and they Karen at the frontline tech who had the misfortune of dealing with them enough that he decides to give them an exception and ship it in advance instead of waiting for them to ship back the broken part first.

(This isn’t a huge deal, we just have to put a hold on their credit card and then manually release the replacement order rather than tying it to the returning order but it takes more staff time so we’re not supposed to do it very often)

Anyway, they apparently get the idea that this exception means they’re gonna get the replacement like, the next day.

(Which, I have this whole other rant about how Amazon is screwing things over for other companies by using the incredibly abusive labor practices that they do, because customers now expect that they’re gonna get things tout de suite and it shouldn’t cost them anything but even Amazon bleeds money on shipping, it’s just that the monopoly it gives them makes up for it. But no other company can do that without hemorrhaging money cause we have to pay fulfillment center and shipping companies that aren’t literally killing their employees. And people who run small business, like most of our customers, don’t understand that when they’re paying us for shipping, they’re paying for the warehouse staff we contract with to get the right thing off the shelf and pack it and put the right label on it, not just whatever FedEx or UPS are charging for shipping, because they don’t consider that labor when they doing their own budgeting).

But ANYWAY so they call in like 19 times (not exaggerating even a little) in the two days after this all goes down, wanting the tracking number for their part. And it turns out that whoops! the tech who diagnosed the problem made the exception to ship in advance but the service rep who processed the order was kinda operating on autopilot and forgot to manually release it.

At which point they go absolutely apeshit and the whole thing becomes my problem.

And they’re just Karening and Karening in my ear about how they’ve had to spend so much of their time working to fix this, and they made commitments to their customers based on the tech rep telling them it would definitely ship the next day (he didn’t, and I listened to their entire 40-minute call to prove it) and are now out thousands of dollars (why the hell would you commit to making “thousands of dollars” of product with a machine you JUST bought, that you only spent two grand on? This is our lowest model, we don’t even market it as a business tool! Sorry dude, your bad business plan is not my problem) and I have to “prove” to them that we’re going to stand by our product or they won’t further invest in our company, and oh by the way, they have friends who have millions of followers on social media, and I should know what that means, so I better really try hard to win back their trust…

And I’m just like….

Please, dude. Please go fuck yourself and never spend another dime with our company. You’ve *already* blown through our entire profit margin on the machine you bought by sucking up so many hours of staff time. You are literally more trouble than you’re worth. PLEASE just go away so I never have to hear from you again.

"i won't be coming back here" is the funniest possible thing you can say to a customer service worker. you're at your place of work and someone comes in, acts like a jerk, ruins your day, and then, paradoxically, finishes up by reassuring you that this interaction is now over and you'll never have to see or hear from them again

[gaslighing]

I come out in front of the camera wearing a pink wig and holding my wooden golden painted sword that my mum made for me . I begin:

“Do you have a sense of urgency? Sometimes to extreme levels ? Do you find it hard to wind down , are you restless? Do you have a sense of impending doom? Are you panicky? Are you thinking you’re having some premonitions? And thinking about Angels? Because if you are, don’t know if you know this, according to the Internet, you have schizophrenia psychosis bipolar.” (I exaggerate a gasp of fake shock) .

(Me sarcastic :)

“I’m so glad that I’ve got lovely guys like you that I work with who I’ve only known for three weeks watching out for me. Doing your little Internet searches for me. It’s a big bad world I just can’t take care of myself with all this anxiety and impending doom! And also, just because I have pink hair doesn’t mean I was fucking born yesterday. Okay I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself. And I’m not an idiot. I’ve been dealing with this gaslighting for over 20 years. So many Of You’s are so tentative and sensitive and supportive in the beginning. Because you’s know that we don’t need you. We’re actually okay we’ve been surviving this long without you and even carrying others emotionally and financially. So thank you but no thank you. Thank you for your concern and your worry about me and like thanks for asking me if I’m okay all the time and tell me that you’re worried about me and just care about me a lot.. Oh and thanks for telling me that I had psychosis I didn’t know.” (I sarcastically roll my eyes).

“ i’ve actually been telling you this since we met I’ve been telling you about my psychosis. And my premonitions. So like, this is how it is. Men have an instinct to protect women. That’s fine. That’s normal for men to want to protect us and I’m grateful for that. But when you’re living in a sick society, where men are being systematically treated like work horses then replaced and chucked out like they’re past the use by date and struggling with homelessness and suicide and bad mental health okay by a system that victimises them it doesn’t help them… they need to seek for other ways to be that strong protective man. Ok. Women can gaslight too , men are not the only ones but it’s hard to tell with women as they fuss over people they care about. But these men that so badly want to like take care and look after you and spending every minute of the day texting with you but somehow flake out when you make plans to meet up or you need them to just be there for you . I told you that I was having a psychosis and I was like extremely fearful for the future of society. Which by the way all the symptoms that I mentioned at the beginning of this video completely normal response to what’s happening in the world right now. Okay? Thank you some of us are awake to this and some of us need to be kind of like protected. You know because we just living a scary (sarcastic tone) world. I’m all good I learnt ways to cope and I’m just fresh out of a psychosis I’m in Imaginationland but that’s how I cope. I needed people to care and worry about me years ago when I was a little little vulnerable girl, but I’m not a little vulnerable girl any more. I’m a woman. I’m a mother. I’m a staunch, Western Sydney girl. Māori. And I know what gaslighting is okay? Subtle as it is. I know what it is. The colonisers predicted that there would still be Reminence of actual brave, courageous warriors in our tribes that would come round in the future and cause a bit of trouble for their system. Remind the people that they’re like sheep, slaves, cattle, and being totally exploited and having their rights fucked over. So that’s why they’re crazy people like me so yeah we do have a High sense of urgency. Quite a lot. Because we’re on edge. Because we’re in a war. Trying to wake you guys up to it but it’s hard to get you guys to believe us, because you’ve been condition with this bullshit and going on Google and looking up delusions and you can’t take my imagination videos for real. Not my problem! Okay? When we needed you you weren’t there you flaked out then you want us with your texts and your words of caring. Let me just say this. If somebody cares about your girl if you’re watching this and you’re a girl if they care about you, they don’t need to tell you all the time they just do things to demonstrate this. Actions! Actions show how people love and care about you consistency. Reliability. Dependability. Punctuality.  okay because I’m seeing a lot of people promising much and giving very little. And I don’t need people who don’t contribute to my well-being in anyway telling me that they think I’m having delusions when they know nothing about me actually. And I’ve given them opportunities to find out about me by sending my videos. But they’ve decided to just take something that I’ve said which was that I’m scared. The world is going to end. Can you please help me can I please see you, they took that as a paranoia hallucination, because they’re kind of like numbed out and compliant. Which is exactly what the symptoms indicate. So they don’t want us to have a sense of urgency and hardness and premonitions and panicking and sense of impending doom, nooo. They want us to be compliant and calm and dopey and doing what we’re fucking supposed to be doing on the program.

End of part one.

[dukhlontales]

Why Narrative Games Can Be Difficult To Run: Gameplay Pacing and Failing Forward

Everyone in my trrpg groups finds running narrative scenes more demanding than running combat. I don’t doubt that a big part of that is the plethora of rules we have (generally playing D&D5e or PF2e) for combat, compared to the sparse rules for narrative play. Things in combat tend to be clear. There are specific rules for what certain attacks and abilities due, and interactions tend to be explicit. Narrative play doesn’t benefit much from such luxuries in these games.

For example, it isn’t clear how to handle a player attacking a water pipe to cause it to burst and create a hazard. Ironically, this could easily happen in combat, assuming the environment enables it. But it’s exactly this kind of cool, narrative idea that we want to somehow mechanically represent in the game. PF2e had me absolutely shook when I saw the materials table for hardness and hp. Not having to completely guess numbers for that kind of thing had me swooning. I’d still love more clarity on what such a hazard can do though.

Assuming we’re abstracting such a scene in a skill challenge sort of way, maybe successfully breaking the pipe is worth a success or two. The mechanic itself is essentially just saying “woo you get good points instead of bad points” but narratively, we could describe how the water hazard takes out a couple of would-be assailants chasing you through whatever boiler room or industrial complex we happen to breaking pipes in. The point is, it’s easier to get bogged down by narratively driven actions because they’re less likely to be supported by the rules of the game than mechanically driven actions (because those are driven by the game’s mechanics).

Pace of play is what really turns up the pressure on the water pipe that is our GM though. Combat in these games tends to be slooooooooow. I’m not sure there is an amount of Os where I could honestly say I’m exaggerating. Enemies are far too often bags of hp, and PCs end up with way more hp than they deserve too. Narrative play doesn’t have that problem. Stuff happens. Then more stuff happens. Then even more stuff happens. Stuff is constantly happening, and the GM has to keep up.

Let’s take a narrative scene we aren’t abstracting. The PCs are investigating a murder. Mysteries are just about the only kind of session I’m terrified to run because of how perfectly they exemplify this idea. The PCs look for a clue in ways you didn’t think of. Now you have to figure out how to handle that, and what happens. Maybe they eavesdrop on some NPCs. They get found out, the NPCs flee, we have a chase, and chaos breaks out. Narrative play can be like rapid fire action, but the action is usually less sword swinging and more exploration happening. It’s beautiful and not something that is easy without tons of experience. I watched something like 10 hours of Blades in the Dark actual play before tackling more narrative style gameplay, because I wanted an idea of just how you can improvise a narrative.

That takes us to the other half of this dilemma, and another great thing about Blades in the Dark: failing forward. The default fail state in D&D5e is “thanks for playing. Try again.” If you don’t create some kind of time pressure, PCs can roll skill checks until the end of time, waiting for success. That takes a lot of the tension out of a skill check, doesn’t it? Failure should mean cutting off avenues. Maybe the PCs get three attempts to pick a lock before it jams and can’t be picked. I’m not sure I ever actually used that one, but that little piece of homebrew was a turning point for me in how I treated failure.

Failing forward can easily be taken as a “success at a cost” kind of outcome, where you progress forward, but something bad happens. You pick the lock, but your tools break in the process. Maybe a guard notices and will come investigate. Some systems go as far as to “schrodinger’s cat” the situation and change what is beyond the locked door. That isn’t the only part of failing forward though. As I said earlier, it’s hard to figure out, as a GM, where the narrative will go when the PCs do unexpected narrative things. Failing forward is more so about how to progress the narrative upon failure than it is how the PCs progress. Unless we’re talking lateral and backwards progress.

If the PCs need to break into a house and jam the door’s lock, they need a way for the narrative to progress. It’s fine for this to be a dead-end if there are other objectives. Maybe they’re looking for info on someone, and can either eavesdrop at their work or break into their house. This didn’t work, so now they have to try another option. But when this is the option, when this door closes, another has to open. Maybe they notice a window they would have to struggle to reach. Maybe they realize the chimney could be a way in. Maybe they hear someone coming, and that someone happens to be a housemate with a key. These are all more at an adventure/module/story level, rather than a system itself, so it’s hard to blame a lack of rules support here, but examples go a far way to help a GM anticipate and/or improvise.

The exploration rules for Dukhlon Tales, the ttrpg I’m designing, were born from me outlining skill challenges and narrative guidelines for my D&D5e and PF2e games. Running a chase scene is a lot easier when you have a written out schema on how you usually run chases, with ideas for what kinds of obstacles or interactions could happen during them. Running a scene where PCs sneak into a party is smoother when you have ideas for how they can interact with guests, and where those interactions could take them. This goes for abstracted scenes (similar to skill challenges) and scenes where the narrative has to flow directly to their goal.

At a point, it definitely comes down to GMs to prepare themselves for narrative scenes so they aren’t left with no idea what to do, but examples go a long way for giving GMs ideas to outright use, or even just base their own ideas on. Narrative play can be daunting, but becomes far easier and more intuitive with guidelines ans experience.

[hexagr]

Notes on the Alignment Problem, Brute Force, and Information Contextualization

One of the core problems at the heart of any sort of power or alignment problem is the challenge of correctly contextualizing information. Just throwing computing power at a problem in an attempt to brute force it simply doesn’t suffice. We humans, have a grey mass called a brain which has powers even the sun doesn’t have. Is there anything else in the universe capable of projecting its own imaginations into the physical world? The brain is capable of inventing things. But the brain is also susceptible to confusion. And the systems we build are, too. Any sort of network, whether human or machine, needs to have an understanding of natural order before making decisions, in order to ensure those decisions are the best possible decisions. And this needs to be paired with virtue and clear unambiguous goals. We want to make, with regard to intellect, the most optimal, useful, and virtuous decisions possible. Or else they’re probably the wrong decisions to make, which will result in more harm than good.  But first let’s draw some differences—imagine the different kinds of reasoning between journalists and scientists.  A journalist might publish an article about science, but is likely to get it wrong in a lot of ways. They might make a sensational claim that a particular technology will bring about the end of the world—or perhaps the liberation of the world, or that a piece of technology is specifically being used for nefarious purposes. And indeed, sometimes they are. My point is that people, especially journalists, often sensationalize information. Activists are just as guilty of this. But on the other hand, an ethicist or scientist might zoom out and note that the technology in question was developed in response to something we don’t often consider to be technology: the cognitive machine that is human behavior - that whatever issue we’re looking at is part of a larger environment, part of a larger framework.  We humans have a bad habit of not zooming out to notice the larger picture. This should be axiomatic. If we did have a habit of good epistemic hygiene, the world would be a much more rational place. But it isn’t. We have a tendency to sensationalize, to only see a small part of a picture, to exaggerate, and to frame our conceptions within strict limits, thus perceiving concepts like technology as strictly being limited to computers we can hold in our hands, rather than considering the mind as a piece of technology, or the natural environment as technology, and so on. Another useful analogy might be the challenge of sorting large datasets in software engineering, which is suspiciously like the refined ability to develop a system of rationality. While it is easy to amass information, it is more difficult to correctly contextualize it. This means information can be poorly parsed or tell stories that aren’t true. Sure, the web scraper I wrote in Python to look for some particular infrastructure might find a lot of X. But many of those instances are mere mentions of the word X, not a reflection that it’s actually infrastructure belonging to X. Similarly, your bank account might say you went to place X, purchased Y, and saw film Z on a particular day. But what if around that same time, there was a murder? Police might use that information to tell a meta story about you that is entirely false. It was you who was guilty! (Not really) But your digital records can be used for parallel construction, to tell a story that isn’t true. Now, imagine this parable in a much broader sense, with regard to rationality, cognitive science, and probability theory. Imagine the ability to correctly understand a thing as being a target’s bullseye, in contrast to the rest of the dartboard. The bullseye—that is, the ability to correctly grasp a thing, makes up ~2% of the dartboard’s surface area. But the other 98% of the surface area accounts for the probabilistic likelihood that you will get it wrong. My point is that our initial conception of reality is more likely to be false than to be true. There are more ways to be wrong than to be right. It’s easier to misunderstand than to correctly understand. And as humans, we often impulsively seek the easy and familiar or go into hysterics. We don’t always use our brains to sort this out. Instead, we often blindly rush in. As Freud put it, we are primarily governed by the pleasure principle. Even worse, though, I’d add, is that some lack the comprehension to feel regret or embarrassment about it. In the same vein, we might misunderstand another human being, quickly jump to impulsive-yet-predictable deterministic reactions, and refuse to forgive or to develop a nuanced understanding of them beyond casting the belief that they’re either good or evil, with no room for nuance. Do not misunderstand what I am saying—there is a lot of anti-wisdom which is popular today, remarks like “A villain is just someone’s story we have not yet heard.” I disagree. Real evil does exist. Sometimes it is a childishly narcissistic and naive person, sometimes it is a mass murderer, and so on. Do you think Hitler was just someone we failed to understand? No, of course not. He systematically killed millions of people. He was the definition of pure evil.  But what I am saying is—I think we have a habit of attributing the aforementioned kind of evil to people, events, and situations that even mildly bother or inconvenient us today. Overall, I tend to believe the human brain is riddled with bias. It’s arguably more powerful than the sun, and yet with all of its computational power it still gets things wrong. We find the same challenge to be true in artificial intelligence. While it’s possible to brute force problems, it’s one of the vastly more costly options. I believe we should all go back to the drawing board and develop a better and more systematic understanding of nature before we start believing what we think. Believing what you think is a dangerous thing, especially if you haven’t thought about thinking much. We must learn to accurately (and virtuously), and not reflexively, contextualize information. This is as true for journalism and philosophy as it is for cognitive science and artificial intelligence. Before we build machines that are good and beneficial to humanity, we must become good and beneficial to humanity. Spinozism is inevitable. 

[bibbykins]

Insufferable

A/N: The long-awaited flashback is here! It's short, but it is here! I hope this can really show the turning point in Jungkook's and MC's relationship and I would love to hear everyone's thoughts. As usual, tips are not required but greatly appreciate. Hope you all enjoy and have a wonderful day/night!

Note: This is a part (specifically a flashback) of The Household's Bunny series, so I recommend reading at least the Prologue before this one

Word count: 3.6k

Pairing: Soft Yandere! Jungkook x Chubby! Reader

Summary: Roommates are bound to have arguments, especially when one of them is as temperamental as Jungkook, but you didn't expect the first argument to get so unbelievably personal.

Warnings: abandonment issues, mommy issues, allusions to past abuse, family issues, crying, yelling, vomiting, panic attack, exhaustion, some soft yandere thoughts, some possessiveness, jungkook is mean and the MC gets a little mean too

There was something so constricting about memories of a shitty childhood. There were times when looking in the mirror felt like searching for the child in you so you could give her the hug she desperately needed. There were times when waking up felt like a check to make sure you were no longer in the home you had to grow up in far too quickly. However, the comfort of being in a different home only came so far when you didn't have anyone beside you or even emotionally available enough to talk to.

You stayed in bed for hours before it felt like a good idea to move, almost waiting for the mirage of change to fade before it brought you back to the gym with your mom or your uncle's apartment littered with whiskey bottles and leaky tear ducts.

Sometimes putting your best foot forward each day felt so hard with all-consuming loneliness clinging to your heels.

You had started your day going through your memory box. Hindsight said that was a poor idea. The box was a sure way to get you into a bad mood. You liked to think you breezed past all the stages of grief, but just because you accepted reality didn't make it hurt any less. The box was a strong reminder of that much as it sat with a melancholic aura. The creme color faded and the thorned vines connected to roses only added to the malicious undertones of its existence to your mental health. It was full of childhood photos, your birth certificate, school achievements, and the last known address your mom had.

Ah, your mom. What a way to bring clouds to your sunny day. You don’t know why you put yourself through the turmoil of the memory box. Maybe you were hoping it would be easier by now. You were always wrong. Looking through childhood photos and finding no love in the eyes of your mother when she looked at you and watching the love in your uncle’s eyes fade with your mother’s presence. You got to the fated birthday card, thumb rubbing over the defunct address longingly. You held the envelope in your hand, inspecting the birthday card she sent you. Three words in the repetitive note written on the inside caught your eye, and not the ones you so desperately wanted from her.

Feeling a familiar pressure behind your eyes, you tossed the card aside and stood. It was time to eat, go on a walk, do anything other than this. You found your way to the kitchen and came across a silent and solemn Jungkook. His jaw was clenched, but it felt like it always was around you.

Your relationship with Jungkook so far was not very complicated, in the way it was nonexistent. He either didn’t care about talking to you or he actively didn’t want to, you really couldn’t tell. This didn’t stop you from trying, though. Like an idiot.

“I’m making food, did you want any?” You asked from your place seated on the couch, and the silence that was his response for deafening, “Okaaaay.” You sang awkwardly, “I just know that you usually don’t eat throughout the day and-”

“And what do you know?!” He snapped, blinded by his pure and unbridled, but most important unprovoked, rage of you. Your eyes widened and your body jumped. Holy shit, you had never heard him yell like this, “You don’t know anything about me, or in general, so just stop trying so fucking hard!” He was harsh in his tone and it lit your whole nervous system on fire. What the hell did you do to him?

You shook your head, not sure why he was yelling about, but it made your throat feel like it was going to close, “Look, I was just trying to be polite, but you don’t need to talk about me like you understand-”

“Understand?! What’s there to understand?” He challenged, eyes wide like he was expecting you to say something but he continued, “You’re some spoiled girl living here rent-free because your precious dad doesn’t want to take care of you.”

Your heart caught in your throat as it shattered. He was right, your dad didn't want to take care of you, but not in the way he thought. Why was he doing this? Has he genuinely felt this way all along? Was he just holding in his anger until you poked the bear a little too hard? “You don’t need to yell at me.” You stated firmly and it seemed to only make things worse.

“And you don’t need to fucking be here in the first place!” He spoke, temper long lost and you could hear his voice mix in with Jungyoon’s, all he needed was a bottle of whisky and a set of calloused hands, “You didn’t need to fucking live here-”

“You don’t know anything about me.” You spat out. Now, you were losing your temper. You could take a beating, but for only so long, especially as an adult, "And it's not like you're paying rent either, so what do you know about me or my living arrangements?" You hissed and you watched his eyes flare, making you nearly regret your provocation.

“No, but I know how you look naked-”

“Fuck you.” You spit the word out at him, something you haven’t done to another person for a while “Don’t weaponize my work or play a game that you absolutely will lose.” You warned, “I know all about you, and I can use that, because you’ve been a star since you were 15, and that sucks, that makes you mad, doesn’t it?” Your temper effectively lost as you ripped into the rage-filled man before you, “Yet you don’t know anything about me, and that must piss you the fuck off, huh?” You stood from the couch, tears building in your eyes before you could stop it.

“I know enough, spoiled rich girl.” He seethed and you laughed humorlessly at this worldwide pop star calling you spoiled and rich.

“Not only are you wrong, but you’re also a poor listener.” You shot back, “I’ve told you all before Jungyoon isn’t my fucking dad, he’s my uncle.” His mouth opened but you cut him off before he could start, “He can’t stand the sight of me so he travels for work.” Your tears are undoubtedly falling, but you can’t stop, “And you’re talking to me like this because what? You had a scandal or something?” You gave him his chance to talk and boy, he took it.

“Mona told me you know your mom.” His voice was like venom, “So, why the fuck are you here? You have your blood relatives.” He exaggerated the word like it meant anything to you, “Why are you here, disrupting our lives, acting like an innocent orphan girl around actual fucking orphans-”

“I never said I was or acted like an orphan!” You exclaimed incredulously before scoffing, “That’s why you’re mad? Because you never knew your mom and I did? Because I know who my blood family is?” You could laugh at how ridiculous that was, “I know them, so what? Where does that get me?” You looked at him expectantly but he didn’t talk, “I knew my mom, and guess what? She just didn’t fucking want me.” He was silent, but you still couldn’t stop, “I’m sure if your mom could’ve got to know you, she would’ve kept you, because you’re not insufferable to be around, you’re just a fucking asshole.” You wiped at your cheeks furiously, “But me? I had 15 years to prove myself and it still wasn’t enough. I still wasn’t enough. Jungyoon never wanted me either, he got stuck with me and had to cope.” Your voice began to break and you had to take a breath, “I was the insufferable one, so-” You stopped, finally as you regained your sense of reality and watched Jungkook who had an unreadable expression and the realization of the word vomit you spilled out to him hit you like a train as you exhaled quickly, rage in your voice quickly replaced with soft melancholy “I am the insufferable one here, so there.” You shrugged, face a wet mess, “Hope that brings you peace.” Your stomach was churning as you turned on your heel, unable to hold in your sobs. You couldn’t bear the awkwardness of waiting for the elevator so you opted to take the stairs.

You sobbed louder as the door slammed shut behind you, but you didn’t want to linger so you bolted down the stairs, the bile in your stomach signaling that you needed to find the nearest trashcan and quickly. You made it to the ground floor and spilled your guts into the small trashcan. Yelling always made you unbelievably ill, whether it was getting yelled at or yelling, the sickness it made you feel overflowed. The yelling only reminded you of-

You vomited again at the mere thought. You cried harder when you finally finished, breathing becoming staggered as you began to panic.

Fuck, they’re gonna kick you out, and then you’ll be alone again. You lost your temper, people don’t like other people who lose their temper. Why couldn’t you just mind your own fucking business and leave him be? You’re stupid. Why do you think you’ve been alone all your life? It’s because people don’t want to be near you. You’re-

“Insufferable.” You mumbled, numb, even if for only a moment.

Sure, Jungkook provoked you, but you knew better. You didn't go to therapist after therapist throughout your adolescence for nothing. You felt as if you set yourself back eons after that outburst. He didn't need to know all that about you, ever. He probably didn't even care to know, and you said it anyway, like you were gunning for gold in the trauma Olympics. You didn't want to minimize his struggles, you just wanted him to shut up and stop yelling at you. You let your eyes flutter closed as you cried. How can you complain about being alone when you're like this?

You don’t know how long you stayed there, sitting next to a trash can full of your vomit as you wallowed in your self-hatred. The all-consuming loneliness the boisterous house subdued returning with full force. Jungkook was right. You didn’t need to be here. You were only disrupting their routine.

You blew out a sigh as you staggered to the elevator, fully set on going up to your room and crying yourself to sleep after you clean up. You brought the trashcan with you, not having the heart to just leave your puke down there. You thanked your lucky stars when Jungkook was no longer on the second floor as you went to the kitchen and rinsed your mouth before going to take out the trash and take out your burnt oven pizza. Finally, you were headed back up to your floor. You watched the numbers tick by with tired eyes. You glared at the empty trashcan, electing to take it with you instead of making the trip back down to put it back. Surely, they wouldn’t need it for a few hours.

The elevator dinged as you grabbed the black plastic bin and then you were met with Jungkook. Relief flashed across his face before irritation settled on it, “Where the fuck were you?!” He asked hurriedly as you trudged past him, too exhausted to fight. You were running on autopilot the whole way up here, and you couldn’t bear another spat.

“I was on the first floor.” Your voice was low, trying to communicate you were done arguing as you lifted the bin as proof. You then set it down and went to your bathroom and began brushing your teeth.

He scoffed, “You were on the first floor for 30 minutes?” He asked as if he caught you in a lie but you nodded as you rinsed your mouth.

You were down there for thirty minutes? No wonder you felt so tired.

“Yep.” You popped the last letter before correcting yourself, “Well, I spent like 10 minutes cleaning up that bin, so not exactly.”

“Why?” He asked as if you were being ridiculous, as if he wasn’t the one on your floor demanding answers.

“I vomited.” You spoke simply and before he could ask, “Yelling makes me puke.” You were so blase about it he sighed in frustration.

You walked to your room and froze when you saw your memory box strewn about, and it was like a dam broke all over again. You looked at the photos, at the eager little girl looking for love in places she would never find it.

Old habits die hard.

Before you could even stop yourself, you sunk to your knees in garbled sobs and broken cries, “Hey, hey, wait.” Jungkook’s shaky voice did nothing to bring you back to reality as you cried. His hands placed themselves on your shoulder, making you flinch violently, much to his horror.

Fuck, he didn’t know how to do this. He didn’t know why you were crying, but he knew it was his fault, at least in part. Even if at this moment it wasn’t, his outburst surely didn’t help. Fuck, he’s so dumb. Fuck, he shouldn’t have talked to Mona just moments before seeing you.

The envy of even seeing your own mother’s face ate up at him and he took it out on you. Not to mention that he made you vomit from the yelling. He suddenly felt more like an arrogant asshole than he did before as his hands now hovered over your form and he took a moment to look at your room.

Scattered on the floor were childhood photos and ribbons from competitions. Things Mona kept in her own house, having a whole wall filled with every one of their achievements. Even Jin had a photo album of their things. And you, you kept all these for yourself. You were the only one who cared enough to save these things and he wondered how much you threw away to maintain space in the small empty box. Fuck, he didn’t know how to do this.

You sighed shakily, “You can just go.” You cried, “You don’t have to be here.” You don’t know what he could possibly gain from watching you cry.

“I know.” His voice was calm, even, “Can I help you up?” He asked and you wanted to look up at him in confusion but you didn't want him to see your tears.

You both had just ripped into each other, and here he was, wanting to help you. Why would he do that? Why would he stay when he doesn't have to? Why would he want to help you up after a fight?

Too tired to even think about questioning him and no longer angry at him, you simply scoffed, “Can you?” You sighed, not having the energy to stroke his ego and stand up without his help.

You never let people bear your dead weight, not wanting the awkwardness if they couldn’t carry you, but right now, you just wanted to lay down.

He snorted lightly, happy to hear anything other than a sob for you, “Don’t worry about me, you just cry and mind your business.” He spoke lightly, and the comment made you fight a smile. Then, he lifted you with so much ease, you figured he was trying to show off as he placed you on the bed. He looked at you after he sat on the floor before his eyes caught onto the gold foil of a 16th birthday card. You were wiping at your face as he read the card against his better judgment.

I know you must be confused, and I can’t help that. I wish I could pretend to be a mom, but I can’t. I can’t be your mom, and I never should have tried. It would be best if we forgot each other. I just can’t keep pretending, and I know you can see it, even if you don’t want to.

I’m so tired.

-Mom

Now, he felt even more like an asshole. He also felt a little bit angry that your mother could just leave you behind without so much as saying sorry. She wrote like she was a teenager and you were her mother. She obviously didn't put much thought into the seemingly last message to her daughter and it made his heartbreak for you, “That was the last I heard of her.” You snapped him from his thoughts and he looked at your puffy face, “She had left months earlier, and then I got that, but she moved before I could try to see her one more time.” There was a distant ache in your words as you looked at Jungkook sitting amongst your memories.

“Is she… still alive?” He asked, not sure why he felt the need to know.

“Not sure, but it doesn’t make much of a difference, I guess.” You blew out a sigh, before looking at your papers and folded posterboards, “I was cleaning out my memory box, and I’m not sure why I do it when I know it just upsets me.” You could still feel tears leaking from your eyes as Jungkook picked up a photo of you on your 14th birthday, posed between Jungyoon and your mom. You had a bright smile on your face and they looked at the camera with a tight expression, “You can really see how much they didn’t want to be there, but that's the happiest they look in all of the photos.”

He wanted to say you were wrong, but he could see it. He could see the happy little girl trying to make up for the unhappy adults around her. He knew he should’ve asked Mona why Jungyoon didn’t try to call or visit or why she was so eager to take you in if you knew your family. He should’ve just known better. Yeah, he understood how it felt to be alone growing up, they all did, but by the time they were all 17 they had a home that wanted them. You were going to graduate from college soon and you still felt unwanted.

No thanks to him.

“I’m sorry.” He blurted and you looked at him with wide eyes, “For being an asshole, I’m sorry- and for making you cry. I just…” He shrugged, “You’re right. I was jealous you knew your mom and I already was suspicious of you and I- I’m dumb, and I’m sorry.” He looked at you, eyes a bit glossy and you wondered when was the last time someone apologized for making you cry.

“It’s okay.” You smiled weakly, “You are dumb, but that’s okay.” You chuckled when he frowned, but eventually, he also broke into a short laugh, “I think… we’ve felt a lot of the same things in different ways, so I can’t blame you.” He wondered how you could be so forgiving, and he was scared of how many times that has gotten you hurt, “I like living here and I like all of you, so I hope I can get you all to like me too, even if just a little.”

“Don’t accept less than you deserve.” He spoke firmly before he started picking up your memory box, putting things neatly back in.

“Wh-”

He waved his hands nonchalantly, “You, sleep, I’ll clean this up and order some food.” He didn’t look at you as he said this, mostly to hide his blush, "If...If you want, I can give this to Jin. He has a whole place he keeps our stuff like this… he's really sentimental." He stumbled, still refusing to look at you.

However, he jumped when he heard you hiccup a cry. Ready to apologize, Jungkook was just about to turn to look at you until he heard you speak, "That… That sounds very sweet of you to do." You wiped a sentimental tear away as the blushing boy remained frozen.

"It's Jin's hobby, not mine." He deflected before waving his hand at you, "Sleep, I said." He frantically demanded.

You could see his ears getting red and you smiled, “Yes, sir.” You mocked in your work voice and made him freeze for a moment as you erupted into giggles while he whined, “Okay, okay, I’ll sleep.”

Eventually, you surrendered to your exhaustion as he delicately put away your papers and photos. He hummed lightly, smiling as he came across your debate team awards. No wonder he lost the fight before it even started. He turned around after lifting the box and sighed almost dreamily as he watched your sleeping face. You were beautiful, delicate, and puffy from the tears. He had the urge to keep apologizing for being such an asshole, but after looking through your achievements and your photos, he resolved to just keep proving it.

He wouldn’t let you get hurt again. Not by him or anyone, especially your mother, even Jungyoon was on thin ice.

His blood boiled at the thought of your mother for a reason he couldn’t understand. His hand extended shakily as he pulled the covers up to your shoulder and you hummed contently, making his heart melt a bit at the little smile you had. He wouldn’t fuck up with you again, not like this. He would be nice, at least a little, and first and foremost, he would order food you liked.

He froze.

Fuck, what food do you like?

He relaxed. Well, he could just ask the guys.

Fuck, they’re gonna ask questions.

Fuck, they’re gonna kill him when they found out he made you cry.

He looked back at your sleeping form, not having the heart to wake you up. He sighed, looks like he’ll just have to bite the bullet. He dreaded each moment as he quickly made an untitled group chat with the guys since you were added to their original one. He could only hope Taehyung wouldn’t change the group chat name to something stupid.

Tip Jar

[void-galaxy-shenanigans]

What is a Scapegoat? (toxic family roles)

...Because the last one was well-received so ¡let’s make a series & talk about every role! 🤷‍♂️

Why am I qualified to talk about this?: We researched the heck out of it because we became the scapegoat as soon as we stopped trying to please our family 24/7.

The basics: In toxic families, kids are forced to adhere to certain roles to keep the peace &/or keep themselves safe. Scapegoat is one role a kid may be forced into.

What is it?: In brief, a toxic family role. Kids (& sometimes adults) in toxic families are forced into roles by family members & may be punished for trying to leave their assigned role. You can have multiple roles depending on which family member assigned it (some examples — child is dad’s mascot but mom’s scapegoat; uncle is dad’s scapegoat but mom’s mascot; sibling is other sibling’s scapegoat but dad’s golden child). This is one role a member of a toxic family may end up in.

⚠️Warning (below the cut): mentions of ab*se, neglect, & trauma⚠️

Why would a kid end up in this role?:

The simple answer is that their family is toxic, abusive, &/or neglectful, & manipulative.

This is usually the person who spots cracks in the façade. This is the person who starts realizing their family is toxic & breaking out of their previous role (golden child, ghost/hungry child, mascot, etc.). Instead of actually fixing things, the family gaslights that this person is crazy, overreacting, their memories are wrong, & they’re ‘actually at fault’ for anything & everything that goes wrong. They get ‘thrown under the bus’ (/met) by their own family for just spotting toxic things & giving up on their previous role. They realize that they’ll never be “perfect” enough, quiet enough, strong enough.....enough for their family, and they give up. But this breaks the family system, so others will lash out.

~~~

On occasion, if no one broke the mold yet or the mold breaker has cut contact, this is simply whoever is the easiest target for blame, shame, gaslighting & abuse. That may mean a very young child, or a person who doesn’t go to every single family function, or the queer, disabled, &/or otherwise Other™ family member that stands out.

((This role may also be called the Troublemaker or Black Sheep.))

What does this role look like?:

- “lazy” / unproductive

- may be sleeping a lot

- likely has anxiety &/or depression

- actually talks about what’s going on to friends, teachers, or other people they think they can trust (those people might break their trust)

- loud, taking up a lot of space, attention seeking (all or part of the time)

- rolling eyes, arms crossed defensively, etc. around other people &/or around other family members

- lashing out at friends, family, etc.

- “acting out” at school, church, etc.

- fight or flight response more often than fawn or freeze

- self deprecating or jokes about their trauma &/or assumed lack of worth/value

- social isolation (being trapped in the house, or blamed for many bad things, or etc. so that no one would want to be around you)

- behind closed doors, the family may deny this person their needs &/or desires (as bad as denying food, & as small as denying a gift you asked for (but lashing out when you get it for yourself) - the point is ‘you’re not one of us so we don’t have to take care of you’)

- ‘¡I didn’t f*cking [whatever they’re being blamed for]!!” (either saying it, or thinking it, or it shows in body language / facial expressions)

- others blame this person for things beyond their control, &/or things that someone else did (‘someone moved the remote, it’s your fault now because I want someone to blame’)

- their supposed ‘crimes’ are likely exaggerated, dramatized, & unrealistic or even impossible

- eventually leaves the family system entirely (moves away, goes no contact, etc.)

~~~

What does this role feel like?:

- constant shame (I am bad/evil) & guilt (I did something bad)

- overwhelmed

- chronic fatigue (you’re always exhausted & sleepy no matter how much you rest)

- gets physically ill often (because trauma weakens the immune system, especially when you’re aware it’s trauma & not supposed to be normal / not supposed to happen)

- lashing out, then regretting it

- dissociation (reality isn’t real + I’m not real)

- desire to / dreaming of leaving the family behind

- guilt & shame that you want to leave the family

- anger. frustration. rage. (this kind of anger stems from pain & betrayal)

- emotional isolation (because the whole point of scapegoating someone is to cut them off from help & from other family members)

- failure. like you failed your family.

- “I don’t belong in my family” (because they’re constantly treating you like you don’t) &/or “I don’t belong in any family because I’d be [terrible/a burden/etc.]”

- negative voices in your head; self deprecating

- “infected” abandonment wound (as in, it’s amplified on a regular basis because of how you’re treated)

~~~

If you were also put in this role, you deserve better & I hurt with you. You can leave your family & cut contact, you can heal, & you’re allowed to (not that you need my permission, but I know it can be reassuring to hear/see someone say it anyway).

If your sibling is in this role, it’s not your fault (it’s your parents’/caretakers’/egg &/or sperm donor’s/donors’ fault). You may want to gently let them know you believe them & are there for them. Stand up for them if you’re feeling brave, &/or break out of the family system with them & stick by their side.

~Lucca (soother, protector) & Ace (protector)