#these just keep getting less and less detailed

[gisezella]

HEADCANON .ᐟ

ᡣ𐭩 content �� 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗇 / 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍-𝖼𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗇. 𝗅𝖾𝗏𝗂 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾.

He doesn’t really know when it started, but he remembers when something shifted. It was just another evening, and you walked in without knocking, your hands covered in dirt, a distracted smile on your lips. Nothing special happened. You simply existed… and for some reason, that was enough to make him want to wake up the next day.

He doesn’t believe in forever, but he believes in consistency. Levi won’t promise you he’ll always be there. Not because he doesn’t want to — but because he knows too well what it means to lose. So instead, he stays. He’s there, steady, bandaging your wounds with trembling hands, offering you his silence like it’s a private language only you understand.

He watches more than he speaks. Sometimes he seems distant, like his mind is somewhere else, but in truth, he’s memorizing every detail of you — the way your brow furrows when you think, the exact sound of your laugh, the way your fingers tremble just before you cry. He knows you by heart, even if he never says it out loud.

He hates seeing you hurt, but he can’t shelter you. It’s a war inside him. Part of him wants to lock you away where nothing can touch you. But he respects your strength too much. So he trains with you, corrects you harshly, and then lies awake at night staring at the ceiling, praying you’ll never have to use what you’ve learned.

He doesn’t understand why you love him. Every time you say something kind, a part of him recoils, bracing for the moment you finally realize he’s broken. And yet, every time you look at him with unshaken, quiet affection… that hollow part of him feels a little less empty.

He’s awkward with affection, but never indifferent. He’s not one for public displays or romantic speeches. But he makes your tea the exact way you like it. He adjusts your cloak before a mission. And when no one’s watching, he brushes your cheek with his knuckles, like that small touch could shield you from the world.

He has nightmares, and he rarely lets you see it. But on the nights he can’t hide it — when his hands shake and his eyes are clouded — he doesn’t push you away. He lets you hold him, stiff at first, until his breathing matches yours. You're the only one who can calm the chaos in his chest.

He thinks his love is a curse. Everyone he’s ever cared about is gone. So he loves you with fear, with guilt, with the constant dread that one day, you’ll be next. And yet, he clings to you. Because if the world is hell, you’re the only reason he keeps walking through it.

He admires you quietly. He’ll never say it out loud, but the way you face your fears — flawed and human — commands a deep respect in him. He doesn’t need perfection. He’s touched by your persistence. By the way you still try.

His love has its own language. He won’t say “I love you” often, but he shows it. He takes longer routes just to walk beside you. He remembers what you hate eating. He listens — to every word — even if he doesn’t always reply. And when you’re in danger, the calm cracks. He doesn’t stay still.

His jealousy is silent and self-inflicted. He won’t forbid you from seeing anyone or lash out. But if someone else makes you laugh, if your eyes light up for reasons that aren’t him, his gaze hardens. He’ll retreat for a few days, quiet and withdrawn, trying to remind himself you’re not his — and that terrifies him.

You make him laugh. Not often, and rarely in public. But there are rare, precious moments where he lets out a dry, genuine laugh. And when he does, he looks away quickly, like he’s just exposed a vulnerability. He doesn’t know how you do it — but you do.

Cleaning is his coping mechanism, but you are his home. When the world gets too loud, he scrubs it away. But when he’s with you — when he hears your voice, feels your hand in his — the urge to run quiets down. For the first time, he begins to understand what it means to stay.

He’ll always worry about you. You can tell him you’re fine, that it’s just a scratch. But his eyes will search your body for the truth. He can’t help it. To love, for Levi, is to carry the weight of your safety like a blade drawn at all times.

Intimacy isn’t just physical — it’s surrender. When he lets you in, it’s not about lust. It’s about vulnerability. He kisses you like he doesn’t deserve it. He touches you with reverence, like every brush of skin is a silent prayer to something he doesn’t believe in — but hopes, just this once, might answer.

Sometimes, he pulls away without explanation. Not because he’s stopped loving you, but because he needs to remember who he was before you, to not lose himself completely. But even in his silence, he thinks of you — your voice, your touch, your presence. He always comes back… even if he doesn’t always know how to say sorry.

He sees you as his equal. There’s no pedestal. No illusion. When he fights beside you, he trusts you like any other comrade — but his heart beats faster. Not out of doubt… but because you mean more than the others ever could.

He struggles with words, but tries for you. The first few times he tried to say “I love you,” the words got stuck in his throat. But one night, with his head in your lap, it slipped out — quiet, raw, unguarded. You understood it anyway. Because with Levi, those words are louder than a scream.

Sometimes, he dreams of a life he knows he’ll never have. A tiny house. A quiet garden. You reading while he cooks, badly. It’s not realistic — he knows. But when you’re asleep next to him, safe and warm, he lets himself pretend, just for a moment, that peace is possible.

If he dies, you’re the last thing he wants to see. Not his squad. Not the past. Just you. Because in the blood and the loss, you were the one beautiful thing he ever truly had. And somehow, against all odds, Levi Ackerman loved. And was loved.

[theglassofmiddleearth]

Evenfall

Imagine you wake up in Twilight as a random side character. (Part 7)

Nullification!reader Human reader! Fem reader! SideCharacter Bella! Isekai au! Edward Cullen X reader. Eventually Jacob Black x reader. (2 endings.) (All characters will be written less creepy and one dimensional than the ones in the books.)

Previous -

It was strange to see the Cullen house empty. The setting sun casted a glorious, glow over the house. The white walls of the interior were incandescent with a reddish hue. The ornately decorated house was stunning as ever.

‘I really love your house.’ Y/N looked around slowly in awe. 

‘Y’know how to make your permanent residence here.’ Edward threw the keys into the bowl on the cabinet.

‘How scandalous! Proposing on the second date!’ Y/N jeered.

‘Ah this is a date?’ Edward raised his eyebrows in mirth, taking Y/N in by the waist. He smelt of lilac, honey and the sunlight. An intoxicating composition.

‘Guh…’ Y/N said intelligently, peering into Edwards' faultless face. The sunset was doing wonders for his skin, displaying a brilliant shimmer that danced across his face. ‘It's so unfair how pretty you are. I can’t form sentences.’ 

‘At least I have that going for me don’t I?’ Edward laughed, slowly leaning in. Y/N flickered her eyes closed, lacking the will to stop him. She really was only human after all.

The lack of pressure on her lips caused her to flutter her eyes back open, just as the cool forehead of Edward, met hers. His eyes were closed, perfectly full lips curved into a wistful smile as he breathed in deeply. Y/N gave a quiet laugh, placing a hand on Edward’s steady chest.

‘I wonder, if your heart was still beating, what would it feel like right now.’ She gave him an unintentionally sweet smile.

‘It’d be racing.’ He brushed a thumb over Y/N’s warm face. ‘I may not be a human Y/N but I still am a man.’ 

‘Men can be fickle creatures.’ Y/N noted, looking into Edward’s eyes, mesmerised by the subtle flecks of brown and gold.

‘That is true. Human men. I’m not human, remember?’ Edward pulled back looking smug. He reached for her hand, clasping his fingers over hers and led her toward the kitchen.

‘So, are you going to cook for me today?’ Y/N sat down on the barstool, holding her head up with her hands. The cool marble countertop was spotless, decorated with a basket of oranges and two bottles of wine that Y/N knew, cost more than her house.

‘That's right.’ He took off his overshirt and pushed up his sleeves. ‘I spent the entirety of last night watching the Food Network just in case you’d ever ask me to cook for you.’

Edward frowned slightly, opening the fridge and staring blankly into it. 

‘Though I had no idea it would be this soon.’ He muttered, looking adorably confused.

‘Was the Food Network helpful in your learning endeavours?’ Y/N chuckled, slipping off her seat and skipping over to stand beside Edward.

‘No.’ He grumbled, moving aside to let her see. ‘What the hell does season to taste mean? I don’t need to taste food. I don’t even eat it.’ He rolled his eyes goodnaturedly with a grin.

‘True, I always hate it when they say that. Just give me a measurement, right?’ Y/N pulled out some tomatoes and a packet of beef mince. ‘Where do you keep your herbs?’ 

‘On the windowsill, that big one over there. We grow them but it's not like we ever get to use them.’ Edward pointed.

‘How hard it must be for you my dear cold one.’ She rolled her eyes playfully. ‘Never need to eat other than to occasionally hunt animals. Why would anyone ever want to be a vampire?’ 

‘You never get to age. I’ll never know what it’s like to become old, be a father or a grandfather.’ Edward looked upset, leaning on the counter.

‘So you’d be against me becoming one of you if I asked?’ Y/N looked up, placing down the tomatoes, moving to stand opposite Edward. The look on his face looked like a wounded animal, conflicted and yearning.

‘Well, I…’ He began, his eyes darting around her form, as if trying to ingrain every last detail of her into his brain.

‘I don’t think it’s in me to deny you anything you ask for.’ He sighed, looking back down at the counter and picking up the tomatoes.  ‘So let's make you some pasta.’

‘You’re really good at cop out answers huh?’ Y/N snickered, moving to help him.

‘Yeah well, that's what boys do to stay out of trouble with their girlfriends.’ He smiled, turning on the tap and washing the tomatoes. Y/N noticed his slip in, and couldn't find it in herself to correct him

The pair ended up cooking together, Edward made sure that Y/N wasn’t anywhere near the chopping knives, instead putting her in charge of boiling and salting the water for the pasta. It was homely, domestic even.

Was this what life would be like if they were a married couple? Cooking, chatting for the rest of their lives? It didn’t seem too bad. Edward was a great conversationalist and Y/N’s past memories were able to bring some nuance in perspective.

Finally, the pasta was finished. The kitchen smelt wonderfully of warm, herbaceous, and meaty sauce.

‘Well, looks like we make a great team’ Y/N beamed, grabbing a fork as Edward set down a plate in front of her.

‘I concur.’ Edward smiled, setting down a glass of juice for Y/N.

‘Where’d you get this from?’ Y/N looked puzzled, she hadn’t spotted a carton of juice in the fridge.

‘Esme likes to grow orange trees and sometimes apples too. It’s one of her hobbies to pass the time other than interior decorating and architecture.’ He sat down next to her, swivelling his chair so he could watch her eat.

'Your family has a ton of cool hobbies.'

'That we do.'

‘Do you have to watch me chew?’ Y/N wrinkled her nose, pointing her fork accusingly at the boy.

‘Well I can’t watch you sleep so..’ He jested, raising an arm to defend himself from the imminent smack that the object of all his affections inflicted.

‘Why would you want to watch me sleep?’ She twirled around the pasta on her fork, lifting it to her lips to eat whilst Edward looked on, sighing before answering.

‘It’s not that I want to watch you sleep.’ He began, pushing back a strand of stray hair behind Y/N’s ear. ‘It’s just that, those are the only hours that I’m away from you. I can’t protect you, I can’t see you and it drives me nuts.’ 

‘I mean, I’ve survived this long.’ Y/N shrugged before eating another forkful of pasta.

‘Yeah, we see how that went with the van and everything.’ 

‘Touche.’

The rest of the conversation wasn’t remarkable enough to recount. Small talk filled with questions that were fired back with more questions. By then, the sun had fully set, the house no longer cast in a beautiful glow.

They had spent their time cleaning up the kitchen, talking about what foods they’d try to cook together next and possibly bake something too. 

It was getting late and Edward knew that he’d have to send Y/N home. It wasn’t something he wanted to do but he was quite sure that Charlie Swan would show up with his gun. Y/N had agreed so they both left the Cullen house reluctantly. 

The ride back home went quickly. Almost too quickly. 

As they pulled into the driveway, she could see the lights were still on (it being only around half past seven) in the kitchen. Something in Y/N’s chest fluttered when Edward leaned over to unbuckle her seatbelt for her.

‘I guess this is where we part ways.’ Edward smiled forlornly, his eyes tracing her face. 

‘Drive home and then come say goodnight. Charlie will think it's weird if your car doesn’t leave the premises.’ Y/N whispered, hoping that the darkness would cover the way she was fiddling with her fingers nervously. It didn't.

‘Okay, I’ll be there as soon as I can. Leave your window open for me?’ Edward’s smile had become radiant, almost blinding. 

‘Yeah. Go, I’ll shower in the meantime. Don’t peek.’ She emphasised, opening the door hurriedly, not wanting Edward to sense her jitteriness. However, Y/N’s heart beat betrayed her, speeding up like music to Edward’s ears.

‘Be back soon Y/N/N.’ He murmured, just before Y/N closed the passenger side door. She waved as he pulled away, all but running up the path and opening the door with her keys.

Y/N greeted Bella and Charlie on the way in, waving at them whilst explaining that she was tired and was going to shower and then sleep after. 

Charlie had asked if Y/N had eaten dinner yet to which the girl nodded and Charlie in turn looked pleased. Bella however looked slightly jealous. 

‘Tomorrow night, do you want to come with me and dad to the diner?’ Bella gave a hopeful smile, turning her body toward Y/N.

‘Yeah that sounds good! You and I can head there after school!’ Y/N agreed easily, whilst taking off her shoes.

‘Okay, I’m going to go shower and then head to bed. Good night guys!’ 

To which a quick duet of ‘Goodnight’s’ was replied with.

Rushing upstairs she headed into her room, skipping every second step. Y/N opened up her window and then grabbed clothing from her already open closet and stepped into her ensuite. 

The warmth of the shower eased the tension of classes and soothed the way her muscles ached, just for being human.

When she finished drying her hair with the blow dryer, she was already clad in her pyjamas. She yawned as she opened the door back to her room. She was met with Edward sitting down on the edge of her bed, one of her pillows in his lap.

‘You got here fast.’ She noted, checking to see if her door was closed.

‘Well, its not polite to keep a lady waiting.’ He said in a hushed tone, taking in her newly washed appearance. ‘I got changed into clean clothes when I went home.’ 

‘Yeah, I noticed.’ She smiled, sitting down next to him and laying her head on his shoulder.

‘Your hair’s still a little wet.’ Edward brushed his fingers through her damp hair, making sure to detangle any rare knots that he found. Y/N hummed in approval, closing her eyes at the sensation.

‘I’m sleepy already.’ She sighed, blinked her eyes open to look at the man playing with her hair.

‘Do you want me to go?’ He whispered back, lifting up a strand of her hair to his lips.

‘Do you wanna have a sleepover?’ Y/N whispered, ‘But you have to close your eyes the entire night.’

‘You want me to stay?’ Edward sounded exhilarated, it were as if someone had just offered him a large sum of money. 

‘But only if you close your eyes. You can lay down with me but no funny business okay?’ Y/N whispered, getting up to turn off the lights.

‘My lady, doth thou asketh me to lay with her before we are wed?’ His tone was hushed and playful, standing behind her with an arm wrapped around her waist.

‘Kind sir, I merely ask for your accompaniment whilst I slumber tonight.’ Y/N answered, turning to go close the window whilst Edward moved along with her.

‘What a scandalous request young miss.’

‘Is this gonna be our thing? We talk like you did back in the 1900’s?’ 

‘Are you calling me old?’

‘If the coffin fits.’ 

Edward spun her around just as she shut the window, the edges of his eyes were crinkled.

‘I can stay?’ He breathed, his tone was one of absolute disbelief .

‘Yes.’ Y/N nodded slowly, ‘The bed’s big enough for both of us.’ 

‘I promise I’ll keep my eyes closed when you’re asleep.’ Edward led her toward her bed by the hand, waiting for her to slide into her sheets before following. Y/N lifted her sheets so he could slip in as well, resting his arm under her head whilst she faced him.

‘I know you will.’ Y/N muttered, feeling her eyelids grow heavier with sleep.

‘Good night love.’ Edward breathed out, fluttering his own eyes shut. He listened to the comforting ‘thump thump thump’ of Y/N’s heart beat slow down as she drifted into slumber, smiling at the sound.

He brought himself closer by a hair, just so he could filter out the other smells of the house and focus purely on Y/N’s scent. He breathed in, feeling his throat burn slightly at her fragrance yet, he felt himself being refreshed all the same. 

If he could freeze a moment in time, it would be this in a heartbeat. 

It was the first time Edward had truly rested in over eighty years. Maybe even the first time since he had been turned, that he felt the strain and melancholy of his eternal life ebb away.

The gentle breathing of Y/N fanned over his face, bringing a much needed warmth into his lungs. Not all of the blood or gold in the world would have been able to tempt him from this moment.

The night passed, Y/N waking up to chirping birds outside her window. The clock read Five forty five am. It was early even for her. She turned over in Edward’s hold to see his eyes still shut but darting around under his eyelids.

‘Good morning Edward.’ Y/N poked his nose gently, watching his eyelashes batter open. 

‘Good morning Y/N.’ He sighed with a content smile, bringing his free hand cup to her face, using his thumb to rub over her cheeks.

‘What were you thinking about whilst I was asleep?’ She closed her eyes, relishing in the coolness of his hand.

‘You.’ He murmured, gazing at her lovingly. ‘I’m always thinking about you.’

‘Sure you are.’

‘When you first walked into class, you were wearing a hoodie, you sat down next to me and I couldn’t hear anything.’ He closed his eyes again, smiling wistfully.

‘You looked at me and suddenly everything was silent and I could only see you. The earth ceased to spin, and time itself stopped, just for that moment when our eyes met.’

‘Okay, okay I believe you.’ Y/N covered her burning face with both her hands.

‘It’ll always be you Y/N.’ He whispered, opening his eyes. ‘Even when you aren’t around, I’m thinking of you.’ 

‘What, do you have a crush on me or something?’ Y/N teased quietly, her smile bashful.

‘Something like that.’ Edward replied, giving her a gentle kiss on the forehead. ‘No one’s awake yet.’

‘It is quite early…’ Y/N hummed, closing her eyes while she stretched. ‘Oh right, I said I’d let Bella drive me home from school and we’d hang out at the diner for dinner.’

‘Then do I get to drive you to school?’ Edward pouted, pressing his forehead on hers. Y/N laughed and pushed his head back gently.

‘Yes you do, pretty boy. And if you behave today, maybe we can have another sleepover.’

‘You think I’m pretty?’ Edward beamed as a ray of morning sun caressed his cheek, illuminating his diamond skin.

‘As if I haven't said it before.’ Y/N rolled her eyes before turning to roll out of bed. ‘Now go home and get changed. You can drive me to school after breakfast okay?’ 

Edward had groaned out an agreement whilst sitting up in her bed. He had spun her by the hand back into his chest. 

‘I’ll see you soon?’

‘It’ll be like an hour at most.’ Y/N laughed, giving him a quick hug.

‘That’s an hour too long.’ he whined, wrapping his arms slowly around her waist.

‘Okay you big sparkly baby. Go home. I’m gonna make waffles for breakfast.’ Y/N unwound her hands from his torso and waited for Edward to do the same.

‘Just another minute.’ Edward brought his forehead down to her’s, inhaling deeply through his nose.

They both stood there in a comfortable silence before a cellphone in the house started ringing. 

Y/N and Edward’s eyes flew open, both their heads snapping to the direction of the sound.

It was Charlie’s phone, meaning he would wake up soon.

‘Okay, go, go!’ Y/N whispered, shoving him towards the window.

‘Wow, you really want to get rid of me huh?’ Edward sniffed haughtily.

‘Do you wanna get shot by a gun and then be asked why it bounced off you?’ Y/N stopped to cross her arms.

‘Good point.’

‘See you soon.’

‘Can’t wait.’ Edward gave her a quick kiss on the crown of her head before opening the window and jumping out of it. Down the corridor, Y/N could hear stumbling and a small crash.

‘Charlie? Are you okay?’ She opened her bedroom door and peered out.

‘Yeah ‘m fine. Sorry, did that wake you?’ He flung open his door, rubbing a hand over his somehow charmingly, sleepy face.

‘No I woke up early to make waffles for breakfast.’ Y/N shrugged, watching Charlie’s tensed brow relax.

‘What did we do to deserve you?’ The older man smiled, before the moment was interrupted by the shrill ringing of the home telephone.

‘Looks like it’ll be an early start today.’ Y/N laughed, watching Charlie’s brow set again in an annoyed stare.

‘I’m meant to be off today.’

‘Yikes.’

Y/N stepped back inside her room to change as Charlie trudged down the stairs to pick up the early morning call.

It was sunny today so it would also mean Edward wouldn’t be going to school. He'd be joining the rest of his family in whatever national park playing aggressive tag with bears after he dropped her off.

She slipped on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. It’d be one of the rare, warmer days so she tied the jacket around her waist. Smoothing her outfit down, she started down stairs, swinging her backpack loosely around her shoulder.

By the time Bella woke up and had gotten dressed, Y/N had already made a plateful of waffles and bacon ready for Bella. 

‘Y/N, can we get married?’ Bella laughed, sitting down at the table. Before Y/N could answer, the door bell rang.

‘That must be Edward. He has to go out of town today but he said he wanted to drive me to school.’ Y/N explained, turning off the stove to rush over to the front door.

She flung open the door, met by Edward’s smiling face. He had his sunglasses propped up, wearing just a t-shirt.

‘Can you walk around like that?’ Y/N looked around, checking to make sure no neighbours were snooping around.

‘It’s only until I drive you to school. Go eat your breakfast, I’ll wait.’ Edward stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

‘Edward.’ Charlie grunted, looking irritated. ‘We’re seeing a lot of you lately.’ 

‘Yes sir.’ Edward nodded, seemingly amused by the thoughts in Charlie's head. ‘‘Trying to impress Y/N is hard work so I’m doing my best.’ He added for good measure.

‘Huh.’ Charlie sniffed, looking disgruntled. ‘Well you two stay out of the woods. Waylon Forge was found dead this morning. We don’t know what it is yet.’

‘Oh dear.’ Y/N winced, turning to look at him, walking over and placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.  ‘I’m so sorry Charlie, I know he was your friend.’ 

‘It’s alright. I’m going to go ahead early. Least I can do is find out who or what it was.’ He pushed his chair back with a scraping noise and went upstairs to change into his uniform.

Y/N turned to look at Edward but found that he had an alarmed look on his face. She grabbed two waffles and gave Bella a side hug before waving goodbye. 

Dragging Edward to the car, she asked, ‘What, what is it?’ 

‘Charlie’s mind is hard to read but the phone call said it was likely an animal attack.’ Edward said, opening the car door for Y/N whilst reaching for his own cell phone.

‘It wasn’t just an animal, was it?’ Y/N looked up at him.

‘No. It wasn’t’

-----

Edit: I HOPE YOU GUYS LIKED THIS! I think 3k words per chapter is okay, i hope its not too short for you guys :c

BUT ANWYAYS PLS RMBR TO COMMENT IF YOU WANT ME TO TAG YOU IN THE UPDATES EACH CHAPTER! UNTIL WE MEET AGAIN NEXT!

[abusivelittlebunny]

Max and Carlos only being separated because of there mother/father in law is so funny, like I just know Carlos’s dad hated max because he taught omegas at such a young age would only cause trouble,that max would take his money like a gold digger and leave. And Carlos’s mother disliked max, when they had a short alone time, she asked max to do her house work to see if max was fit for Carlos, but obviously she made everything harder for him. At the end, Carlos’s parents convinced him to end it with max. But they haven’t seen the end of it.

Then there was Charles, when Charles first came over, Carlos’s parents immediately loved him, because Charles looked so innocent, but they didn’t know that he was a little minx..

I just know Carlos sr now regrets not allowing Carlos to just only marry max so Carlos stayed happy and didn’t go around getting everyone pregnant.

Interesting take but it's actually the reverse in my au; Carlos' parents would have been accepting of their relationship if not for Jos' strict forbidding of Max getting into any sort of relationship especially with someone who he should view as his rival; he taught him not to trust any alpha aside from him because his father knows best. I'll not detail how Jos went above and beyond to possess his omega son in every possible way, but Max's life under him was extremely restricted and the few occasions he could sneak away to Carlos' family they always made sure to make him feel welcome.

Carlos Sr may have... Liked what he saw a little too much but Max regarded his overly familiar touches as the sort of gentle fatherly affection he never received before so he had zero complaints about Carlos' family. It was hard to complain though when your own father wakes you at 4 am to get back to training and after school you're straight off to training more and if you're caught slacking the punishment could be severe. And if you're caught looking at Carlos a little too long or blushing when your hands touch you'll get degraded to bits. And if you try to argue back... Might as well already take off his father's belt in the same breath.

Sr does try to give them their safe space but he also warns Carlos every time that he should not be messing around with Jos' son but find himself an omega with a less territorial father because he's only going to hurt them both if they keep up their love affair. This sort of warning talk can be quite harsh at times and him and Carlos fight a lot about it but they always make up after; Carlos knows his father is just looking out for him and that's why he's saying these things. How absolutely right Sr is only comes to light a bit later, but even he couldn't predict just how severe the hurt would be. He's there to console his son after but he has a major "told you so" talk with him as well.

Sr endorses Carlos moving on after the traumatic end to their relationship and that's why he welcomed Lando with open arms even when Carlos was still not ready, his heart still tied to Max too strong, and Lando wasn't mature enough to understand his depression and regarded it as his own fault for not making Carlos happier, which made him extremely insecure. Sr kept pushing Lando towards Carlos to just try harder, eager to get his son out of his melancholy and focus but that only came true when Charles started distracting him from his woes.

Charles was so determined and full of confidence, knowing what he wanted and was ready to work and get it, both on track and when it came to seducing Carlos. Sr was honestly impressed by the spell Charles was able to put on Carlos, making him hyperfixated on the omega in a completely different way he was fixated on max but it brought him to this sort of competitive mindset that catapulted his son to perform to his fullest potential to try to win Charles over, not that it was needed, but they just wanted to conquer each other so much.

It helped that Charles was an incredible beauty that Sr also got fond of Charles; he could be such a vision on and off track Sr had a hard time keeping his hands to himself and with him there was no possessive father to worry about either. And Charles was a coy thing, he knew exactly how to act to charm Carlos' family to the fullest, and even when Sr saw right through it, he had to give it to him, the omega was talented enough that he damn well earned his spot in their family tree. And he doesn't have this opinion of most of Carlos' omegas ... Of course he can be swayed in a variety of ways ...

[weaselle]

i just want to add that community and locality can often be the best solution if you can manage it.

my brother's wife started keeping chickens and we are getting eggs from her.

My sister and i have begun looking into going in together on buying a whole cow from a local school ag program.

The cows are sold to slaughter anyway, and there are many bonuses to doing this

For one thing, the money goes back into the education system. For another thing you can get details about how the cow is raised, what it was fed, what hormones or medicines were administered etc etc. The AG program people will probably be excited to tell you every detail.

Sourcing our meat from our local school ag programs means we would not be participating in the cattle industry deforestation of the Amazon and similar practices, and we would no longer be getting our meat shipped half way around the globe using fossil fuels.

the cow itself is only part of the cost, you have to pay separate for someone to butcher it and that can be hundreds of dollars, but it does mean you get to personally go look for a butcher who employs safe practices and runs a clean facility, instead of blindly trusting wherever the grocery store is currently getting their beef.

A whole cow plus the butchering is going to cost us like $2.5k, but if my brother's family and my sister's family and i all split it, it's reasonable and gets us like 500lbs of beef, which will go into three freezers (one at each household). The breakdown on price means that we get every part of the cow for the same price per pound as average hamburger meat (that means our steaks etc are much cheaper than at the store).

If every one of us for those three households eats a quarter pound of beef every single day of the year, that beef will last us almost a whole year - but since we don't eat beef every day, it will probably last us more like a year and a half or even two years. That means we will be definitely be spending less per year on beef than we do currently. If we find a butcher we trust enough for the beef and my sister in law starts keeping chickens for meat as well as eggs, our three households will be spending less money and have much more control over our food quality.

And they can't grow stuff at their houses (chickens take up a surprisingly small amount of space - plus they are pretty cheap to keep too!) but where i live right now we have a decent sized yard and we're on a well (so no water bill) and we grow lemons, oranges, plums, kiwis, guavas, grapes, cherries, strawberries, almonds, walnuts, peaches, apples, and persimmons. Plus the herb garden and we're thinking about getting the vegetable garden going again too. It's not enough to supply all of our fruits and veggies of course, but, it is enough to provide, for example all the lemons our three households need with enough left over to trade to our neighbors for some tomatoes and squash.

And, after all, if you directly control, say, about 50% of your produce this way, then you've lowered your chances of being poisoned by the anti-food-safety bullshit by quite a bit

Anyway, i know not everyone can access these exact solutions, but the local AG program thing might be doable for a lot of people out there, and there are other solutions i haven't thought of yet. Get with your friends or extended family about it and see what you can accomplish together.

My husband and I were discussing how the first felon is defending the FDA and how the quality control of our food is gonna basically disappear and I proceeded to have so much anxiety about it that I didn't sleep last night. How do we prepare for this? Is there a way to make food safe at home? How can we avoid getting poisoned from the grocery store? Sorry for bringing this anxiety to your inbox but I'm exhausted and scared and I'm hoping you've come up with food safety tips what with your general food complications.

I’m afraid I don’t have a solution for something of this scale and am just as equally terrified, but that said:

Check your local state regulations. Some states actually have strict testing that the FDA when it comes to certain things like milk. See if they are listing any recalls.

Stop eating things raw for the foreseeable future. Wash and cook everything thoroughly, even if the bag claims it’s pre-washed, wash it again. Cooking will also help eliminate any remaining pathogens. It means no more salads for a while but that’s okay.

For things like fruit, try to go with things that have an outer skin that can be taken off. If it requires you to cut into it with a knife, give the outer skin a scrub and rinse to reduce the chances of your knife being contaminated by anything like e-coli and then contaminating the insides by cutting it up.

For fruit that can’t be peeled, make sure to inspect and wash them thoroughly. If you are immunocompromised like me, consider cooking it down into a jam or pie filling to reduce further risk. Not as fun as eating it fresh for some people, but it’s a valid way of still getting the flavor and nutrients.

For things like milk, only drink pasteurized and ultra pasteurized. Try to get pasteurized eggs if you can too.

If you don’t have a meat thermometer, now is the time to get one. Make sore everything is cooked to its required internal temperature. For poultry, the recommended temperature is 165°F (74°C), while for beef and pork, the recommended temperature is 145°F (63°C) with a 3-minute rest time. Ground meats should be cooked to 160°F (71°C). Eggs should be cooked until the yolk is set. No more runny egg yolks for a bit until we get a competent source of information back about bird flu.

For things like flour, try to go for reputable brands that have their own independent testing facilities for things like gluten. They also usually test for other things and clean their facilities thoroughly. My go to is King Arthur atm.

Also, stop eating raw cookie dough if you’re not going to toast the flour in the oven first. That’s how a lot of people get sick, not necessarily from the raw egg, though stop eating raw egg right now if you do. Again, bird flu. [Addendum] I learned the flour trick in a job I used to work, but apparently, the pre-defunded FDA didn't think toasting the flour made it safe, so maybe just don't eat raw cookie dough. And I know someone's going to be a cunt in the notes like "I don't care I do what I want" good for you, hope saying that made you feel better.]

This is a dwindling possibility with the tariffs but try to buy food imported from other countries that still have food quality control. I get my masa harina from a small company that imports directly from Colombia. They can’t afford the gluten free label required to be classified as such in the USA, but considering Cheerios in the USA can afford to buy that label and the celiac foundation certification logo and still routinely sells contaminated produce due to not using gluten free oats and a mechanical sorting system that can’t be certified gluten free (1) (2) (3), I’m more inclined to go with other countries labeling right now.

With clean water under threat, use a filter for your drinking water. We currently use the ones by Life Straw. They don’t fit into your faucet but the LS filters are better than most of the ones that can be attached that way and the housing of the jugs and countertop filters are easy to clean. Make sure you do so once a week and change the filters as directed.

Most of this is just basic food hygiene stuff combined with what it’s like to be immunocompromised, but it’s always worth repeating in case someone didn’t know, but especially worth repeating right now with all our rules and regulating bodies going out the window 😞

[k3n-dyll]

Haven't and am not watchihng th HBO version of TLOU, nor am I promoting it, bc not only does S2 change so much to the point where it doesnt feel right but also, Neil Drunkmann is a zionist that donated money to Israel! However! I keep thinking about why the idea of Abby being as small as she is in the show bothers me so much and its not just because they did the thing where they take a conventionally "unattractive" woman and change something significant about her to make her more palatable to men, that is part of it, but another reason is simply the fact that game Abby is genuinely frightening. We saw her kill Joel, we see the way she fights - she didnt NEED that man to be injured to take him down that was the whole point of her getting as big as she did. What Abby did to Joel in the game was calculated. It was planned to be that way because she wanted that man to suffer in death. You don't shoot a guy then tourniquet his leg right after because you want him to die fast.

She could have shot him, slashed him with an axe/machete/knife, hell she could have pummeled him with her bare hands and gave him a quicker death if we're being honest, but she didn't? Why would she? He put her dad down like a sick dog and Jerry couldn't really do anything to fight back. She made sure Joel would feel similarly to how her father probably felt in that moment - useless to help himself. And then she beat him into a pulp. It was personal. It felt personal. She looked pained and hurt and angry and even later in the game (before Lev) we see her doubt herself in regard to it.

When we get to show Abby the reasoning for shooting him falls apart in a way? And considering thatt so much of her arc is shaped by Joel's murder it makes her story feel less thought out. Like I said I havent seen it so I could be missing key details (which I doubt), but not only did they apparently make her weirdly attracted to the man that murdered her father but they also just made her utterly unintimidating. That "Abby" didnt have a choice but to shoot Joel first because she simply doesn't look like she has the strength to take him down. It feels less personal based off that alone. And I can't imagine what it's gonna be like near the end where she takes down the rat king or when she and Ellie are fighting (pre rattlers) - and speaking of rattlers - how the fuck do they intend on recreating tht feeling of "Oh my god, thats...that can't be Abby" that myself and I'm sure most people playing the game felt when Ellie cut her down from the post on the beach. I don't know it just sucks seeing one of my favorite games not only be surrounded by and in some ways rooted in zionism, but just seeing this happen again, where the story of a female character is changed significantly from something solid and well written into some fuck shit because they're too scared to show a "unattractive" woman on screen. People suck, I hate it here

[tvtoontime]

Hey I've seen that you've not been active recently, I like the comic so far, so I have a question why haven't you been active?

Sorry for not answering questions as of late! I have a few answered ones in my draft!

I DO APOLOGIZE IF THIS POST MAKES YOU FEEL UNEASY OR UNCOMFORTABLE. This post is mostly for anyone who’s curious about the lack of posts. I don’t need any comfort, compliments or reassurance, trust🫡.

(I’ve been meaning to talk about this topic in detail for a while but i know people get uncomfortable with this kind of negativity!)

“STRAIGHT FORWARD” ANSWER:

I’ve been a little less motivated to draw, thinking every drawing or comic isn’t worth looking at. Im not consistent with my art and want to change up everything if i’m not satisfied with it which makes it confusing for everyone else. Dandy’s design is a big example of that.. Lots of comparing comes into play too. I do NOT have a pretty art style what so ever. dgmw, It’s not meant to be pretty but i get embarrassed when I draw something that’s meant to be somewhat pleasing to the eyes but turns out cringy.(dandy & astro comic). There’s such pretty art out there and it feels like im destroying the beauty of the characters. I also feel like I disappoint others consistently since i have high expectations for myself. I want to improve faster and faster so i push myself. At this point i might’ve accidentally over done it. I took a break to see if that’d help things but when i came back there was a TON of negativity on tiktok.(where i started out) which also pushed me away further to draw since i liked seeing positive things about dandys world! I’m not giving up just yet, because i want to live my art and keep inspiring younger or even older artists to draw different angles and so much more!

(I will also point out, whenever I draw, it takes a lot of time. i am unfortunately a slow artist..sigh.💔)

MORE DETAILED ANSWER WITHIN:

TW: LOADS OF SELF NEGATIVITY & NEGLECT.

Let’s start from the top.

HAPPINESS?

Tiktok was where i started posting comics. (i never made a comic before, so that was my “first” time) All i really wanted to do was post relatable dw experiences for the fun of it.

I didn’t realize people would actually like a simplified, horribly colored, comic. Either way, I was having fun.

I got this really weird motivational high when others wanted more or the “next part”. i literally couldn’t fall asleep and wasn’t eating from all the thrill. I couldn’t tell if I was happy or really anxious from the attention.

I got a little afraid once i reached 10k or something like that. I didn’t have a story for the “AU” nor did i ever create one in my life. I couldn’t tell if people liked filler episodes or random episodes or if they really liked the lore/plot.(everyone was angry at qwel for not showing any lore so I got worried about that happening with me and wasting everyone’s time.)

GROWING GUILT.

At one point i took a break from the comic to create some silly little christmas special which,, i should have planned out beforehand. It felt like I made a promise to post every night for december like a christmas advent calendar(that was the plan basically).

Big mistake. I already had an insecurity/fear of disappointing others. I believed i could make these silly little shorts every night. I once again struggled to sleep and eat but this time from guilt that was growing. I finally called it quits on the 7th day(sad ik i only made it to 7 days lol) since a lot of people were concerned once i was late and i seriously didn’t want to concern anyone. I still had ideas but i couldn’t keep up with the days.

OVERWHELMING SUPPORT.

The support from the familiar faces was and still is overwhelming. Everyone was/is so nice and yet i still felt like i let everyone down? I felt like i needed to give more or try harder as thank you for supporting and being there and for treating me like a human being especially when other creators had people pushing them to make their comics. No one asked me to try harder but i felt/feel the need to push myself, or to make a better version each time.

I don’t know how to take compliments. A small thank you doesn’t feel like enough. I want to do MORE but I know I can’t.

TOOK A BREAK.

I didn’t want to take a break, but it was needed. I also needed to take advice from the familiar faces i saw because they were right. I thought I was ready to come back because, I had a story, had a plan to go at my own pace, say a simple thank you for the support, and move along. I also wanted to step out of my comfort zone and become one with the community. (Idk if this was such a good idea tbh LOL. I feel invasive like rodger or shelly.)

FANDOM NEGATIVITY.

I loved the community and how silly we all were back when it was growing. The way people portrayed the characters in their aus, created lore, ships and their names were creative, ocs, and so much more to create a somewhat healthy community. It was Dandy’s world’s prime time for me.

However,,, During March, All i saw was negativity.

No one was negative in my comments, however, whenever i went on tiktok, all it was, was(and still is) negativity. I’m not talking about slimetok or some shit hating on “us” and changing the “💔” emoji to a rotting flower, I’m talking about our OWN community hating on the new updates, hating on certain characters, on aus, on ships, hating on ANYTHING that helped create the community. Some of the community members are also something else. All of this negativity really killed my motivation(personal stuff too). Dgmw, people can have opinions, but holy shit? How much negativity are you gonna diarrhea out???????

We’ve got bigger problems in the world. I already know this! But we kind of need to be happy here and there or else we’ll all be depressed or some shit.(an escape basically.) Unfortunately I used DW to cope which is probably why i’m feeling sad about all of this negative change.

OVERTHINKING DISAPPOINTMENT.

Due to the popularity on tiktok, I felt as though i was disappointing those large amount of numbers. I do feel like i should only focus on the people who are “closer” to the account, but i’ve had another issue with that too. Anyone I feel closer to, I feel like they’re going to be more disappointed not only in the art but they’ll get bored with my personality too? I’m still trying my hardest not to care so much about disappointment but it’s been a little tricky.

Unfortunately I look at my art differently now, hating everything i post and judging myself too quickly. I spent over 150 hrs on the two long comics “Abc song” “Snowballs coming your way” or something like that, and despise them. I also disliked the gigi/flutter/looey comic even though that one had gained the most attention on tiktok.

THE POSITIVE…?

I’m still drawing/posting since people get inspired by the art/perspective and it still makes me feel worthy enough to continue the comic/drawing. I too want to like my art again, so i’m not giving up. also my little sister took my ipad for school projects so i can’t exactly draw much rn…🧍

[wangxianficfinder]

Fic Finder

Apr 27th

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1. hello! im looking for what I think is a canon divergence fic. I think wwx goes to gusu, but im not sure if he has married lwj for political reasons? yet?? the key details I remember: lwj and wwx aren't living together, lwj seems to have left a path unsecured out of cloud recesses for wwx to escape with, and wwx sneaks out regularly to go to the burial mounds, where the wens remain. the first time, lwj thinks that wwx has escaped forever, and is surprised to hear wwx playing chenqing again after 2 weeks or sth. at some pt lwj follows wwx, who notices and confronts him at yiling. thank you for your help! @potatokunst

FOUND? 🔒 Light of Stars (and the Destroyer) by Sanguis (T, 22k, WangXian, Legends, Arranged Marriage, Pining, Pining for your spouse, Adoption, Canon Divergence, Married Couple)

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2. hello! I need to find a fanfic, this is all I remember: Wei Wuxian, Lan Wangji, Jiang Wanyin and Jin Zixuan stay behind in the xuanxu cave, they defeat the tortoise and somehow a soulbond is created between the 4 of them. wangxian happens then. I have the impression that if one of them dies they can come back to life with the help of the others and that they can hear each other in their minds. that's about all I remember, I hope this information helps. @laura-101s

FOUND? 🔒 Quartet by WithBroomBefore (T, 69k, WangXian, JC & JZX & LWJ & WWX, Canon Divergence, Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, WWX's canonical comfort with the prospect of his own death, Hurt/Comfort, JZX makes friends, Eventual Happy Ending, some unhappiness along the way, Canon-Typical Violence, JC keeps his golden core, JYL Lives, WQ Lives, Minor Character Death, Kissing, WWX Lives, no golden core transfer, JZX Lives, Fix-It, WN Lives, Weeping, temporary major character death, like extremely temporary, they're all fine, Murder Road Trip, Implied Sexual Content, Sunshot Campaign, Nonbinary NHS, Telepathy, platonic group soulbonding, Family, Found Family, POV WWX, Podfic Available, Siblings, Sworn Brothers, aroace JZX, all the Wen remnants live, POV JZX, JGY is less murdery, Asexual Character, Aromantic Character, JZX's social awkwardness, Poison, Everyone/Therapy)

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3. Hi! I read this fic this year, but now I can't find it. It is the YLLZ era, Wei Ying saves the Wen Remmants, and they go to Gusu, so he spends a lot of time there. But the important is JGS and JGY accused him of rape and got a lot of women pregnant; of course, is not real, but people believe he is guilty. So he is planning to lie and tell everyone he is a cut-sleeve and is looking for someone who helps him pretend. He asks Wen Ning, but Lan Zhan is there, and he accepts to be the "false" partner. WQ tell him if he wants the people to believe him, he must be the one who "receives" Then Wangxian travel together to Jilintai, and Wei Ying must learn about sex because he does not have any idea about real sex, "cut sleeve" sex and relationships. Thanks, and sorry for my English.

FOUND? THE DEMON OF YUNMENG by nevertheless_turtle (E, 54k, WangXian, JYL/JZX, Rape/Non-Con, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Frottage, Golden Core Reveal, JC & WWX Reconciliation, Jealous LWJ, Canon Divergence, For Want of a Nail, The Yin Tiger Seal, things get derailed before we get to YLLZ era so no YLLZ title sorry, but in essense the LWJ Has a YLLZ Kink is still there, WangXian Get a Happy Ending, Rape/Non-con Elements, LWJ and WWX Have a Non-Con/Rape Kink, so that's a bit messier within the context of the story but eh they're messy people, Clothed Sex, Canon-Typical Behavior, Crack Treated Seriously, Bad BDSM Etiquette, actually its probably better bdsm etiquette than canon, does using resentful energy count as a safe word, JYL and JZX Live, Fix-It, this is a sex comedy ok, the fucked up elements are within canon levels of fucked up and then its a sex comedy, the noncon isn't explicit or between main characters but is a main story element for a while, Subdrop)

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4. Hi! You are all heros just so you know. Also I of course came here for selfish reasons too. I read a fic awhile ago. Actually there were 2 similar. One was finished and the one I'm looking for wasn't.

All the past and present cultivators get sucked into a cave during a conference and watch a movie of sorts of WWX tragic misunderstood life. And a lot of people get the punishments they deserve.

Anyways thanks you in advance 😘

@justastraymoa

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5. Hello! I tried asking for help in reddit for this and 1 month gone by and still nothing so I thought why not try my luck here.

It's probably a sect leader wwx fic. I remember that he invented a lot of things, like lamps for the sidewalks, heating also for the sidewalks (it was for the winter I think) and cctv! The most notable memories I have is that he has the Xuanwu as his pet and the wens were causing scenes in Yiling so he released the footage that the wens are doing that and said they committed a crime (disturbance of the public?) and because of that the wens has to pay money for it. Wwx had never been in the jiangs. And I remember how the cultivation world thinks that yiling is the true "nightless city" because it has never been dark there (because of the sidewalk lamps, etc.)

This is so badly explained and idek if this is one or more than one fic combined. Thanks for helping!

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6. Hi friends!

I'm searching for a fic that I'm afraid might have been deleted. If I'm recalling correctly it was one of the older mdzs fics and had a lot of kudos, but I'm not seeing it anywhere. If anyone has a download or at least a name, I'd really appreciate it

It was an angsty post cannon fic where wwx is cursed, and the curse affects people who feel strong emotions towards him. I don't recall exactly what the curse does (makes him invisible maybe? Makes other people invisible?) but I know it breaks wwx's heart when the curse affects the juniors because he assumes "strong emotions" means "hate".

That's the key part of the fic. Wwx is heart broken bc he loves the juniors and thought they at least Liked him, but he just quietly accepts that he was wrong and they still see him as the horrible yllz and he tries very hard not to show how hurt he is. (He is in fact wrong. The juniors love him. But it takes him a while to believe that)

Thank you for the help! Have a good day! @feels-of-an-asexual-anemone

FOUND! See Me, Feel Me (Listening to You) by Ghost_Honey (T, 29k, WangXian, POV WWX, WWX Needs a Hug, WWX’s Abyssmal Self-Esteem, Emotional Healing, Angst, The Juniors love their Senior Wei, Curses, WWX is an Unreliable Narrator, JC & WWX Reconciliation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Cuddling)

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7. Hi,

I was looking for a wangxian fic that I can't find. I remember that wei wuxian had like a really reveling armor that he couldn't take off and that one day it broke and lan wangji came with him to get it fixed. It may be a little like a spoiler but lan zhan cut the neck of the blacksmith that made the armor so wei ying could be free because the armor was a punishment that madam yu gave him when he was a teenager.

I have been looking for that fic, but o can't remember the title. If someone could help, I would be really grateful.

FOUND? 🔒 His Knight in Shining Armour by celerydragon (E, 23k, WangXian, dead dove do not eat, Curses, Sexual Abuse, Child Abuse, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Slut Shaming, Top LWJ/Bottom WWX, yu furen sucks, protective lwj, Hurt/Comfort, Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, mild dirty talk, Biting, Outdoor Sex)

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8. Hello!

Im looking for a specific fic where LWJ gets badly hurt during the fight at nevernight and WWX thinks he died, but actually LXC and NMJ had taken him away where he was in a coma for a while.

Then sometime later WWX comes to find that LWJ didnt die and reunites with him at Qinghe.

I know this is really vague but it was a really good fic 😭🙏

Thank you!

FOUND? If I Could Go Back in Time by Runningbarefoot (M, 122k, WangXian, NieLan, Canon Divergence, Role Reversal, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Pining, Angst with a Happy Ending, Grief/Mourning, YL WWX, Eventual Happy Ending, The Twin Jade Brotherhood, Hurt/Comfort, Character Study, Twin Prides of Yúnmèng Dynamics, Slow Burn)

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9. Hello everyone 😊 I believe last year or 2023 i read a fanfic in which Wei Ying was possessed by Mo Xuanyu, who tried to hurt Jin Guangyao as revenge for something that i don't remember. I want to read it again, but i don't remember the title and can't find. If it helps at all, I'm sure the story is already finished. I'm not sure if it's happens in a modern au or not, sorry:[

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10. Also, i want to find another ffs: It's where wwx still in cloud recesses but he got pregnant and madam yu brought him to meishan so he could gave birth there and his first kid was a girl ig, it's a child out of wedlock w/lwj and I think even in yk war they still have another kid. I think one moment is that one of the child prob the oldest is called a demon by the lans bc she/he has red eyes and wwx is dead at the time.

FOUND? 🧡 Like Rabbits by Setari (T, 41k, WangXian, Kid Fic, Canon Rewrite, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Mpreg, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Transphobia, Family Feels, POV Multiple, Next Generation Original Characters, Subverted Blame the Bastard Trope, Miscarriage Scare, Horny Teenagers, Hopeful Ending, Crack Treated Seriously, Oblivious WWX, Pining LWJ)

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11. Excuse me, but could you help me find/rediscover a fanfic where it's either Lan Wangji or Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian who travel back in time after their deaths. Lan Wangji goes back after he dies being stabbed in the back by Jiang Cheng to kill Wen Yuan. Could you please help me find it? @kaitou-cure-prism12

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12. hiii thank u so much for this blog. I was wondering if u could help me find a fix where wangxian were children. It was a modern au, and both lan zhan parents and uncle jiang and madam yu thought the other child was an imaginary friend until they bump into each other at a beach. Thank u so much!! @anagenderfuckup

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13. Hi Mods!

Really appreciate your work! I’m trying to find a fic that’s a lot like You’ll Always Know Me by anaphoricae, but angstier, in which Wei Ying ( now famous ?)comes back to his small town in order to reconnect with Lan Zhan ( a teacher ?) but LZ will not speak to him at first. I recall an early scene where LZ is basically hiding in his house or it might be MianMian’s, not wanting to engage with him. I think that MM intervenes. I’ve scoured my bookmarks and fear it may be deleted. @liluja3

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14. Hello!! Thank you for your hard work!! I'm looking for this specific fic where it mostly canon but LWJ has white hairs bc loosing his beloved (WY) provoked and emotional qi deviation and his hair turned white. I think that maybe they get together sooner and it was a complete fic. That the only thing I remember.

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15. Hi. Thank you for all your hard work finding these fics. I've found so much great WangXian fic thanks to your blogs. I would like to ask if you could help me find a fic, please? I don't remember much, but it was an AU and the scene I remember specifically is LWJ is in the library and WWX comes in really annoyed. There's a Lan elder in the library as well. WWX says he hates that JZN bad mouths JYL so much because it damages her reputation and, because JZN is higher ranked than her everybody just believes him and nobody cares to see any further than that and that it wouldn't be hard for JZN to just be polite, even if he doesn't want to marry her. He says LWJ doesn't want to marry him, WWX, either, but he's not rude and disrespectful the way JZN is to JYL. Then WWX goes on about how stuck up the Jin are and how they only have the butterfly message to back that up and he's going to make something better to stick it them - which even the Lan elder quietly laughs at, because the Jin go around thinking they're all that, but most of the other clans can't stand them, including the Lan. I think the elder was there to chaperone Wangxian in the library, which made me think it was an arranged marriage fic, but I searched your comp list and couldn't find it, so maybe it's not tagged for that? Or possibly I just missed it. @immoralq

FOUND? 🔒 Hold Me Like Holy Water by trulywicked (M, 15k, WangXian, WIP, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Arranged Marriage, Merperson LWJ, Courtship, Cloud Recesses Study Arc The Lan Clan Loves Their Second Jade, Moderate burn, Good Sibling JC)

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16. for the fic finder, all i remember is that either the wens and wwx were rescued from the burial mounds, or jyl went to visit, and when she saw wwx interravt with a-yuan, she was saying smth like “i didn’t know you had a son”

i hope somebody knows which fic this is, thank you!!

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17. Hellooo! I want to find a fic that I just recently remembered. It is an mdzs oc/reader fic and the oc/reader is male. The fanfic was set in modern times. The oc/reader was paired with Lan Qiren actually and the oc/reader was shameless towards Lan Qiren, really shameless and it was actually quite funny to read. I think it also has some omegaverse???? Lan Qiren was an omega and the oc/reader was an alpha— alsoo there was at one point it mentioned that Lan Qiren and Wen Rouhan were exes and the oc/reader for jealous. It was a happy ending though. @yurinaba3

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18. Hi!! This is for fic a wangxian fic finder

Theyre married and its a modern setting i think it was jiang yanlis marriage? So wwx goes there to help with the preperations and madam yu is rude to him and stuff and he cant go back home because she keeps emotionally black mailing him and Lwz gets mad that wwx wont come home so he goes there himself and stands up to yu furen

Thank you so much!!

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19. Hiya I’m looking for a fic where after the sunshot campaign (maybe the yunmeng sibs sends has) wei wuxian going to the other great sects to prove he isn’t a threat and the fic i remember being suite short on chapters but is completed. the last sect he goes to is the jin, that’s all i remember and i’ve spent the last 2 hours looking for it ^^; @yeetusbejeetus

FOUND? Field Trips with Wei Wuxian by antebunny (G, 42k, WangXian, WQ & WWX, NMJ & WWX, JZX & WWX, Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Found Family, Angst with a Happy Ending, Misunderstandings, Miscommunication, protective Jiang siblings, Unreliable Narrator, due to WWX assuming ppl hate him, JYL is gonna dropkick her baby bro into having friends)

~*~

20. Hello,

I am trying to find either one or two fics. I think they are two seperate fics, but its been so long since I read them, I am not sure anymore. A) One, Wei Ying comes back to life only to find out that Lan Zhan died due to his whipping. He decides to destroy Gusu in his rage.

B) The second one is that the demons destroyed the Cultivation world after Wei Ying died because he was the only person from a blood line that kept them in check. Once he died, the demons were able to get out and they destroyed the Cultivation World.

Again, I believe they are two separate works. But not sure. Actually, any fic where Wei Ying goes ahead and destroys the Cultivation world would be fine as well. Either with Lan Zhan dead or alive. Sometimes I just want to see the morons destroyed. lol. Guilty pleasure. @marietsy40-blog

20A)

FOUND? beautiful scars (being rewritten) by woolyseok (G, 2k, WangXian, WIP, Major Character Death, Angst, What-If, Minor Character Death, Promises, Broken Promises, YLLZ WWX, POV WWX, Major Character Injury, Hurt No Comfort, POV LWJ, Unreliable Narrator WWX)

20B)

FOUND? 🔒 Ancient Smiling Memories Of Blood and Evil by Preludian_Staves (T, 2k, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Canon Divergence, Demons, Bad End for the Cultivation World, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death)

~*~

[cheralith]

sofie i truly wish i was invested into science and the human body more because if i was god the things i would do in explaining out the scientific parts of it all but alas i am Stupid when it comes to anything biology LOL but i AM pretty ok at metaphors so detailing the concept of cannibalism in this au was SOOO fun and enticing :DD i'm so happy that u enjoyed my little connotation of it AAAEUE

i'm like 90% certain i said this in a prior post but just in case—i aimed for this style of cannibalism to symbolize conformity and the resistance of showing your true self, even the ugly sides of it all, within society, as well as addiction. the first part is pretty obvious, but i'm a business major so i've seen my fair share of the corporate world and how much people are just so... eerily content all the time and how even the slightest of negative emotions were repercussed. it was always this sense of be professional or get Fired lol.

then it just made me think more deeply about how private we have to be with our negative emotions and how much we have to bottle them up until we break (for sure times have changed; mental health has been less stigmatized in some areas of the world at least). the "humanity" in their world is less of being human, and more just showing how much benevolence can you convey to keep up the peace of the world bc god forbid ur discontent. if that makes sense LOL

also this reminds me i still have to post the inner workings of cannibal!au outside of its more basic concept because i have! so much more! to share !!!

— compulsions.

feat. michael kaiser || wc: 9.0k cw: gn!reader, no pronouns used, non-canon au, childhood friends, dark content/dead dove do not eat: cannibal!kaiser, blood, descriptive gore, descriptions of cannibalism, body horror a/n: prequel to urges (isagi). au will still be isagi-centered, but the dumb blonde got me again and this was ofc way longer than it was suppose to be *shakes fist*

For a child so small, it was astounding how much he was able to devour in one sitting. 

Half the body is gone—the corpse laid facing up, the man’s face still and permanently scarred, eyes wide open and blank and mouth unhinged slightly from shock. The lower half of his body was completely shredded apart, a disgusting pool of blood with the chunks of skin littering the floor and organs completely in disarray, freeing themselves from the compression of the inner body. The legs were nothing but bloodied bones, only the feet’s flesh remaining; half of the man’s torso was nearly obliterated, only a few chunks of spare flesh hanging onto the visible spine and pelvis.

The boy himself was nothing but bones with the sparest of skin attached to them, covering them like a cloth, but somehow, his appetite was ravenous enough to the point where had eaten nearly half of a rather stout man. 

He stares up at the man in the suit, tearing apart a piece and chewing slowly on a veiny clump of red muscle that twitches in the boy’s palm. The body’s heart.

The man smiles down at him, one that the boy only returns with a blank look as he continues eating. 

“You must be hungry.”

Still staring up at him, the boy stays quiet, only opening his mouth to rip off another portion of the bloody heart, tiny baby teeth ripping the meat off, and chewing it again hurriedly, as though it were to disappear. Some blood squirts from the muscle, but the red bleeds into the man’s uniform, the red disappearing into the red pants and black button up. 

The man crouches down at him, eyes softening when he notices the oddly sallow cheeks of the boy, cheeks that should’ve been filled with nourishment and plumped by this age, rosy and chubby. He reaches his hand out, only for the boy to wince and put the hand not holding the heart up. The man pauses, surprised at the behavior.

Eyes closed tightly, the boy lets out a whimper from bloodied lips, a menial hand acting as a tiny shield against something. He’s protecting himself. 

The man murmurs softly, in a tone that seems to be rather foreign to the boy, “Don’t worry, I’m not here to hurt you.”

The child slowly pries open his eyes, turning his gaze back to the man, who softly smiles at him. He waits, his hand still up just in case. 

Then, the man carefully puts a hand on the boy’s blonde hair (oily, he notices instantly, as though it hadn’t been washed for days). The child shuts his eyes tightly again, but feels the hand go to gently stroke his head, a touch he wasn’t used to. A touch he doesn’t know the meaning of. 

The man watches as the boy opens his eyes again, astounded at the odd, but painless sensation. He gives another smile at him, eyes crinkling at the corner with a twinkle in them.

“Let’s take you home, hm?” the man says to the child, who merely blinks at him.

“His name is Michael,” you hear your father say from your place upstairs, where your parents talk amongst each other in the kitchen as you hide yourself between the bars of the upstairs railings. “Michael, this is my wife.”

You can hear the shuffle of your mother’s skirt as she crouches down. “Hello there, Michael. Welcome to our house. Have you eaten yet?” she inquiries fondly.

You don’t hear a reply, something that makes your brows furrow since that’s not polite to do so. 

“Are you hungry?” your mother asks.

Again, no reply. 

“Do you like any specific foods?” 

“Sweetheart, how about you make him a sandwich?” your father suggests to your mother. “He had eaten earlier at the facility, but I’d hate for him to go to bed starving.”

Your mother affirms his suggestion and goes to tinker with the dishes and supplies in the kitchen. You hope she’s making one of your favorite sandwiches, the one with jam stuffed between Nutella and white bread. 

“I hope you like turkey, Michael,” your mother chimes; you make a face at the food, displeased with her choice. 

Michael. That’s a boy's name. You have a boy named Michael in your class, and another in the class next to you. Perhaps you have a new friend of sorts? But you only meet friends from school, not in your own home, and especially not so late at night.

Curiosity takes over you, and you carefully tiptoe down the stairs, wondering who on earth this Michael was. The kitchen’s light comes brighter and brighter into view as you inch closer, and you just about make it without being seen until you hit a certain point on the wooden planks and the wood creaks out voluminously. 

You freeze, alarmed at the sound, and misstep on the last stair, gravity pulling you down with it and sending you tumbling down noisily. 

The impact doesn’t hurt as much as the fright that spikes in your body, scared of getting in trouble for getting caught being awake so late in the night. Your parents rush out of the kitchen from the noise, finding you on the floor in a twisted position. 

They yell out your name in worry, but you’re more concerned now with the pair of foreign blue eyes that stare at you from the entrance of the kitchen. A boy with a choppy mop of blonde hair was just barely visible to you before your father hid from view with his body, his face speckled with blue and black in some areas and donning rather ripped and worn-out clothing. You stare at him back, wondering about his presence, before your mother scoops you in her arms and takes you back upstairs at your father’s command. 

Michael stays in the guest room in the basement. Your father tells you not to go down there in the meantime and to stay upstairs in your room if he’s ever on the main floor. For Michael, it’s the same instance; he’s not allowed to come upstairs if you were there and must remain in the basement. They even put a tall stair gate that properly separates the two levels of the house for extra insurance. 

When you ask him why, he merely tells you “because I said so.’”

“I can’t be friends with him?” you ask him during breakfast before school, some milk from your cereal sopping your chin.

Your father tucks out a tissue from the holder, dabbing the liquid away before it can stain your new purple butterfly t-shirt. “One day, you will. Just not now, my love.”

You say nothing, a response to your father shows him that you understand. He goes to prepare another helping of raspberry toast and cereal, and you tell him you’re full. 

He chuckles fondly as he plops a spoon in the bowl of cereal. “No. This is for Michael.”

“How come he gets two raspberry toasts and I only get one?” you huff when your father takes out two pieces of bread and spreads the preserve on it. 

“Because you don’t eat the second one all the way through,” your father chides, “and we don’t waste food in this house. Michael needs more food than you. He’s very skinny.”

“Like a skeleton?” you ask.

Your father shakes his head in disapproval, tutting a finger. “Don’t say that, honey. That’s not nice.”

You shrug, going to munch on your singular piece of toast, your full, cherub-like cheeks puffing from the food. “I’m just asking.”

A shattering crash, a loud boyish yell, and a shriek from your mother. The combination of the sounds make you rush out of your bedroom to see what the commotion is about rather late in the night.

You make it halfway down the stairs, using the railings again as a barrier between upstairs and downstairs, trying your best to see what was happening in the living room. 

Your mother clutches her palm tightly, shaking visibly as her face twists from what seems to be pain of some kind. One of the vases has been broken, its ceramic shards all over the carpet of the living room. The pasta your mother cooked last night is splattered on the carpet as well, staining it orangey-red with sauce and noodles all over.

Your father holds down a wriggling Michael in his grasp, who thrashes against his hold angrily. This is the few times that you’ve seen him in passing, always so far away from you despite being under the same roof, and you’ve never interacted with each other even once besides the singular moment of eye contact in the two months he’s lived here.

“Let me go!” he screams, pounding and scratching at your father’s arms. “I don’t want stupid spaghetti!”

“You need to eat,” your father attempts to say to him, but his words fall deaf on the boy’s ears. “You have to eat something or you’ll starve.”

“Get the fuck off of me!” he hollers, the curse word making you flinch at his ferocity. You’ve heard the word before, but your parents have forbidden you to say it, with the one time you decided to test it out to see its truth ending you with a bar of soap in your mouth. “Let go!”

“Michael, just one bite of it,” your father pleads, his grip still firm around the boy whose skinniness doesn’t match with this strength. “Just a bite of some spaghetti and you can go to bed.”

He whines and yells, shaking his head furiously.

“No! I want meat! I want meat!” he shouts. 

“You can’t have meat,” your father says, which only makes the boy angrier. “That’s not allowed.”

His face is flushed with red, eyes that you thought were blue now flickered with ruby as they stare hungry daggers at your mother. You can see clearly now that his chin is glazed over with something; saliva. He’s salivating. 

The boy continues to thrash, wetness spitting out in flecks. “I don’t care! I want meat! I want her meat!” 

Your mother whips her head back to the boy, horrified at his words as she continues to clutch her bleeding palm. She turns her gaze to her father for a response at Michael’s words, only for him to swallow dryly and to motion for her to get out of here to tend to her wound.

“You,” she breathes to your father in a wide-eyed gaze. “You need to take him back to the facility. He can’t stay here any longer… not with (Y/N) around.”

“He’s not an animal, sweetheart—”

“He’s acting like one!” she interjects, taking account of Michael’s heavy panting and intense salivation as he fixates his gaze on her, hungry and desiring. “What if something happens to our child?!”

“He’s one, too!” your father insists, ignoring the deep scratches that Michael digs into his skin with his tiny nails. “I refuse to let them do such experiments on a mere child without me around!”

“Then do something about all of this—!” your mother exclaims, motioning a bloodied hand at Michael’s savagery in your father’s arms, gasping as he lets out an inhumane snarl at her, his teeth that shouldn’t be so menacing considering they were still so immature, baring all too harshly. “—before he hurts (Y/N)!”

You’ve been staying awake at night more often lately. The quiet ticking of your clock tends to accompany you, along with whatever sounds the quiet of the night gives out. 

A car pulls into the driveway, the muffled grating of rubber against concrete passing through your window with the headlights flashing some light temporarily in your darkened bedroom. They’re back home—your father and Michael. 

Michael doesn’t go to school, from what you know. At least… in the daytime. When you’re upstairs, belly full and ready to do your homework in your room, your father takes Michael to “night school”, where he does seemingly the same business you do at school, just in the evening. They’ll leave at around 8:30 pm then come back at around midnight or so. 

And all the while, you lay in bed. Waiting for their return. But you don’t go outside of your bedroom to greet them, not wanting to get in trouble for breaking two rules at once, you just merely lie there in wait. For some reason, you can’t go to slumber unless you know they’re home.

You can hear them talking amongst each other, voices muffled by the platform between the floors and the thick walls, but they’re talking calmly. It took awhile to get him to speak, but Michael does answer in short responses, only answering in bare minimums, so conversations often feel one-sided.

Your mother stays away from him now, only just cooking him dinner and preparing his clothes. But she makes herself scarce ever since he sunk his teeth into the deep layers of her palm.

When you asked her about it, despite knowing the reality of the situation, her eyes momentarily widened in fear before she turned to you with a plastic smile, eyes softened in a gaze that didn’t seem like her. 

“Mommy just burnt her hand on the stove, that’s all,” she said, voice a little tight. 

You meet Michael for the very first time in the dead of night. 

Your throat was dry and aching for water, and your mother had forgotten to prepare you some before bedtime, so you creeped downstairs in the blue hour of the night, entered the code that your father gave you for the gate on the stairs, and pattered to the kitchen. 

It’s there that you see him, spotlighted by the light of the fridge. He’s peering his head into it, the door to the basement wide open, his enclosure opened. Your breath hitches when you stare at him, almost admiringly so. 

For some reason, however, the boy doesn’t move. He just keeps staring into the remnants of the fridge, disinterest on his face. There are eye bags under his eyes, heavy and tinted with an exhausted purple. The bruises from his face have long faded, with some yellow specks here and there, but otherwise, he actually looks a little more human now. 

You freeze in your place when you see him in full flesh for the first time without any restrictions to guard between the two of you. A silence falls on your lips, your breath hitching as to not make any sudden noises to startle him and you decide that it’s best to go back upstairs until he goes back down into the basement, but just as you’re about to move, Michael closes the door and turns back. 

Then he sees you. You see him. Your eyes widen. He blinks. 

It’s hard to see, given that the house was only lit by the light above the stove, but you see him there in full visibility. You’re a little taller, but you make direct eye contact with him, your eyes meeting intentful hues of blue. 

You don’t know what to do. You’ve been good so far—abiding by your parents’ words and avoiding interaction with him until you were able, but now you’re face to face with him completely by accident. Will you get in trouble? 

Michael suddenly takes a step forward. You instantly take a step back in fright. He furrows his brows. 

“Move,” he commands, an icy stare piercing into you.

A yelp struggles itself in your throat, only coming out as a weakened mewl, and you jump out of the way.

Michael doesn’t spare you another look as he exits the kitchen and enters back into the opening of the basement, shutting the door behind him.

The lock clicks. You’re alone in the kitchen now, left alone with your thoughts and the ghost of Michael.

Your throat feels drier than ever before.

It’s been a few weeks since you met Michael face to face for the first time, and you’ve made the habit to make sure you have a full glass of water at your bedside to avoid having to creep down again and run into the stranger in your house. But you’ve forgotten to do so tonight. 

You opted for just drinking the sink water from the bathroom, but the taste was different in comparison to the water machine, too tinny and metallic for your liking, an iron-like taste remaining on your tongue that you wanted to wash out. 

So… making sure that you were completely alone… you walk downstairs and to the kitchen again. You sigh in relief when you peek through the hallway and find that you were alone this time in the darkness of the kitchen, the overhead stove light still on to light your way.

You watch mindlessly as your cup fills with water, not thinking much of it and turning back to go back to bed, until you gasp so hard that some water sloshes out of the cup. 

Michael stands before you, idly and eerily still. The moonlight from the window haloes him and makes him look like a phantom in the night.

Did you not hear the basement door open? Or perhaps the creak of his footsteps?  It doesn’t matter now, considering you and him are now once again just feet apart from one another, a distance that seems all too close for your liking. 

Neither of you say anything at first. Your large eyes just stare into his dull ones, trying to question why he’s here again. Until he speaks.

“Clean that up.”

Trance breaking from his haunting figure, you gain back a sense of reality and feel the coldness of the water on your foot, grounding you back. 

“Huh?” you look down and see a puddle of water. “Oh…”

“Clean it up,” he says, pointing. “Before you slip.”

Your voice catches itself in your throat. Words drown themselves in the confusion you’re faced with at the interaction, and you do nothing except for place the cup on the counter and take some paper towels, soaking it up.

Michael watches you as you quietly clean up your mess, eyes scanning your figure and its every movement. Once the floor was dry, you go back to shyly fill up your cup again from the spilt water and try to pass him to go back to the safety of your bedroom, until you hear him speak again.

“I want to go upstairs,” he says, capturing your attention again.

You turn back to him, a worried pinch in your brow. 

“Dad says you can’t.”

“I don’t care,” he states and tries again. “I want to go upstairs. Take me there.”

You frown, clearly unimpressed at his bossiness. “No. I’ll get in trouble.”

His eyes narrow and you flinch. 

“Take me upstairs. Now. I want to see what’s there.”

The way he says it sounds almost growly, like he was about to bite at you. You can almost see him snarl slightly when you refute his command.

But you resist anyway, knowing what’s good for you. “I said no.”

Now he’s really irritated, given by the gnashing of teeth and balled fists.

“Take me upstairs or I’ll eat you,” he threatens, his voice now filled with contempt and impatience. “I’ll eat your skin and bones. And then your brain and heart.” 

And though you should be afraid of him, afraid of what this stranger in your house might do to you, your face contorts into a mild annoyance, too tired to deal with this matter. If you were somewhat more awake, you probably would’ve been frightened at his words, but the only thing on your mind is just going back to bed—a simple task for a mere nine-year-old.

“You’re weird,” you mutter and turn your back to him, retracing your steps to go back upstairs.  But you hear him follow, your footsteps being echoed by his own on the floorboards. You turn back to him, sighing. “Stop following me.”

“I want to see upstairs,” he repeats again, the hardness in his eyes still there. 

“...”

You remain quiet, almost feeling vexed at his resilience, but you sigh and roll your eyes. Perhaps if you just let him entertain himself just for a bit. Just for a swift moment so he can shut up and you can shoo him back into the basement. Your parents don’t have to know a thing.

You hold his stare momentarily. 

“Just this once,” you state, holding a finger up to indicate your seriousness.

He doesn’t say or do anything, but seems to acknowledge your permission when you let him follow you again. The stair gate is still open, and you move aside to let him in before you close it ever so slightly, just enough that it remains open for him to go back downstairs without the code, and he trails himself up the flight of stairs behind you.

You watch him as he tinkers around with the plethora of furniture in the hallway, admiring the pictures on the wall and looking at himself in one of the mirrors. Just so he doesn’t do anything dumb. 

“What’s that?” he asks, pointing to a narrow door. 

“Broom closet,” you say simply.

He points to another door. “What’s that one?”

“Bathroom.”

“What about that one?”

“Dad’s office.”

He then points to the two large doors at one end of the hallway, opposite to your own. “What’s that one?” 

You turn and look at where he’s pointing. 

“Mommy and Dad’s room,” you mention nonchalantly, the way that Michael stares deeply at the two doors going unnoticed by you. 

He turns back to you, eyes still a little vast. “Where’s your room?” 

Your head nudges over your shoulder. “Down the hall.”

“Take me there,” he commands again. “Let me see it.”

You want to interject, saying that your room is your own, but you’re so sleepy that you’ll do anything if it means Michael goes back down to the basement and leaves you alone.

So you lead him there, letting him wander around your room and admire all the trinkets that you’ve collected. You shuffle yourself back into the comfort of your bed, thirst quenched and eyelids heavy. 

“When you’re done, close my door and go back downstairs,” you mutter as you fluff your pillow, hearing him stroll around your room and toying with the things you don’t really want him to touch. “Make sure to close the gate.”

Again, he says nothing, just entertaining himself with your collectibles and toys. You lie yourself back down and shut your eyes, just wanting to rest once more, letting Michael’s quiet sounds of curiosity lull you to sleep, ceasing when you hear your door close. Relief flows within you, finally getting the chance to fully rest without keeping your toes on edge, until you feel your blanket pulling and the shuffle of your bedsheets.

You shoot up in bed, appalled at the sight that Michael is tucking himself into your bed without permission. 

“Hey!” you whisper-shout and nudge him. “You can’t do that! Go away!”

“Your bed is better than mine,” he says monotonously, not caring about your concern. “I want to sleep in it.”

“I’m gonna get in trouble!” you whine and try pulling your blankets back to yourself, but he’s already tucked his body under one edge of it like a cocoon. “I don’t like sleeping with other people in my bed!”

“Then take mine then,” he remarks, his head resting on one of your spare pillows. 

You grit your jaw. “No! Go back to your own!” 

“Stop bothering me,” he mutters. “I want to sleep.”

“Sleep in your own bed!” you exclaim.

“I want to sleep here,” he murmurs, resting his eyes. “Just for tonight.”

You huff, complaining again, but your words fall on deaf ears when Michael doesn’t respond again, clearly taken by the Sandman when he was finally settled into the comfort of your bed. Your own sleepiness is beginning to take over you as you stare at his sleeping, calm face, feeling defeated and exhausted.

“Just for tonight,” you mutter with hushed contempt to him, despite him not being able to answer as you tuck yourself back into your sheets.

Your father had found you and Michael asleep together in your own bed to his surprise the morning after. Although he was more than delighted to see you and him being in the same vicinity without any harm being done, your mother was mortified when he excitedly broke the news to her.

“But they’re able to coexist in peace!” he had insisted.

“For now! What if something happens in the future?!” she worriedly remarked.

“We can’t keep them apart from each other for long,” your father said. “It’s not fair to either of them that they have to be restricted in the house because of each other.”

Your mother wasn’t convinced, still adamant on keeping you and Michael separated if he continued to live with your family. “You said it yourself that the child is… you know.... What will happen to (Y/N) if he gets the urge again?”

“He hasn’t had any impulses since that one time,” your father stated. “Yes, he may have had some urges here and there but the medicine seems to be working! He hasn’t had any incidents since he started taking it, hasn’t he?”

It was argument after argument with them for at least a week, but your mother eventually brought her guard down slowly and accepted the conditions of Michael slowly being introduced to you more and more under their supervision. It was mainly your father that did the talking to both of you, with your mother staying close to you and making sure Michael didn’t do anything impulsive that would harm you. 

It was a slow start, just letting you and him eat dinner together when you came home from school (you find that he’s taken a liking to anything with bread). Then on the weekends, Michael was allowed to go upstairs to be around you, watching TV with you or just intently watching you as you played with your toys (he didn’t seem to be interested in them. He seemed more interested in you and what you’d do.) 

Your parents were always nearby if he was around you, just in case that he was ready to gnash his teeth. But it never happened. He never did as much as salivate around you and was just another merely child around you. Another friend.

Your father was pleased at Michael’s improvement in behavior, writing them down in his notebook as he examined how he interacted with you. 

“I think the newest prototype is showing the best results,” he had muttered into his phone fondly as you showed off your newest bunny plush to him. He took it by the ears suddenly, making you exclaim and telling him that holding it like that will hurt it. Michael gave you a look, telling you that it wasn’t alive to your disdain. Your father chuckled. “His temperament has been nothing but calm lately. He’s improving rapidly.”

Your mother was still ever the worrywart, always keeping a sharp eye on Michael—an attention that went very much noticed by him. She never said anything directly to him, but with her stony gaze, it was always as though she was warning him not to make a wrong move. Michael would just return it with a flair of spite in his eyes, as though he were annoyed at her attentiveness.

But regardless, you and him slowly began to intertwine your lives with each other, beginning to build a foundation in each other’s worlds. All the while not knowing truly how permanently embedded your futures will be together.

You learned the truth about him when you were twelve. 

Michael has to take a pill twice a day and drink something your father gives him every morning that mildly stains his lips purple—a juice he has to drink to gain weight properly since he was malnourished as a younger child, your father says. He eats with you in the mornings now before you head to school, but he doesn’t tag along. In fact, his “night school” has moved to the mornings, but instead of coming with you like any other child, he follows your father and they go to his “school” together. 

You never questioned the pills at first, thinking they were just the vitamins you were given in the morning to nourish your body. You ask your mother about it one day after school and though her face hadn’t changed, didn’t even so much as blink, her grip on the steering wheel tightens. Hard. 

“It’s to regulate his blood sugar,” she says

Your mother is quite the liar and you’ve gotten used to her lies through the years, so you could detect there was a veil covering the reality of her words. But you never prodded about them more, merely because you felt like you shouldn’t.

She asks you later that day to fetch a hair tie from the bathroom upstairs so she could properly cook dinner, but when you don’t find anything in the main bathroom, you venture into your parents’ bathroom to find it. 

And that’s when you see it. A sight you never expected to see in your own house. 

Your father, with a long, thin, clear tube in his arm filled with red that drains from his body into a beaker, two inches worth of blood pooling inside of it. A small test tube rack holding seven tubes sits on the framing of the sink, with a small amount of a strange and viscous blue liquid sitting at the bottom of it and a couple of orange caps sitting idly next to it.

The orange caps.

The orange caps you would see in the trash can when you were throwing leftovers out in the morning. 

You make yourself small, just quietly watching through the crack of the door hinges as your father finishes draining another inch of blood into the beaker, wincing in pain as he takes out the needle from his arm that connected with the now-bloody tube. He cleans himself up, bandaging the area before tending to work with the test tubes. 

Your father picks up the beaker, pouring a bit of blood into each of the test tubes with the blue liquid and you watch as blue melded into red, a plum-like color rising from the mixtures. Purple.

Purple… 

The drink that Michael drank in the morning along with his pills tinted his lips purple for the slight moment he was done with it, just until he licked his lips and refreshed them. 

The orange caps… the purple liquid. The dots connect suddenly and you feel more than nauseated when they do. Michael wasn’t drinking juice. He was drinking your father’s blood… and whatever that blue liquid was. 

You shift your body from your hiding spot and reveal yourself to your father, your eyes watery and mind racing. 

“What are you doing?” you ask with a warbly voice. 

Your father looks aghast at your sudden appearance, clearly stunned at the fact that he was caught in the act. He picks up on the fact that you were clearly disturbed at such a sight and knowing that Michael was drinking your father’s blood and tries to calm you down in the best way he could, though with how harsh your chest heaved and how terrified you looked, it was difficult to do so. 

Your father closes the door so Michael, who was outside kicking a soccer ball, and your mother wouldn’t intervene.

The truth spills out; about who Michael was and why he was here. About the pills and the drink. About what he did and why he did it. And though your father was revealing the truth as to not hide anything more from you, it seemed like the more you found about the strange boy living under your roof, you grew more panicked. 

You’ve heard about them before—cannibals. Cannibals of the world were notorious for not only their crimes, but why they did it in the first place and what led them to doing so. Everyone was susceptible to becoming one, but only when one would pass the line of sanity and insanity would be labeled as such. 

They were primarily born from a fury of negative emotions would teeter them closer to crossing that border; be it a horrible burst of anger or an intense sorrow, the more a person would feel such emotions, the closer they came to bordering insanity and losing their humanity… and they closer they came to venturing out another in order to regain it back.

A person consuming another was their version of restoring their benevolence, each chunk of a person restoring what was lost in the blur of negative emotions, and with each bite they consumed, they felt just a little more human. But it came at a cost—with the more they ate, the faster they were able to lose their humanity, almost at twice the speed from pre-consumption, their emotions unstabilizing themselves once again, making the cycle repeat itself if they weren’t able to keep them in check. In order to restabilize themselves, if ever the case they did lose control again, they would seek out new prey, more prey, to gain back their semblance of being human. 

The notoriety of human meat was based on two components—the flesh and the blood. The flesh of humans was unlike any other; a rich maltness with the extra additions of intense juiciness and a powerful umami flavor. A true delicacy to those who have eaten it. The foreign blood consumed was responsible for restabilizing the emotions lost from their own humanity, giving off a euphoric relief that ensured a temporary emotional stability to the consumer. Mixed with the addicting taste of the flesh and the need to regulate themselves with the blood, the combination proved to be the powerful driving force of the repeat behavior for cannibals.

It was why they were dangers to society if left alone and not properly rehabilitated. If such were left unregulated, the cycle was doomed to be repeated. 

Often they were looked at with contempt and disgust—so much so that even those that committed the act even just once and restored themselves to society were almost always shunned by others, mainly due to the fear that they would become their next victim. It was rare, but there were people that looked at them with pity—like your father. A gentle, soft-spoken man filled with empathy, your father had dedicated his life’s work as a scientist to try to help those who fell victim to such, with the last few years being dedicated to working on a cure that would stop such dysregulation once and for all. 

The pill that Michael took in the morning and night was one of its prototypes. The drink with your father’s blood was to primarily keep him stabilized without wanting to eat flesh and bones. The blue liquid it was mixed with was to thin the blood and reduce the full effects of it so he wouldn’t become too dependent on it. But none of that mattered compared to learning the truth about Michael and why he was here.

You had been living with a cannibal this entire time. Eating breakfast, lunch, and dinner with him, watching cartoons with him, sharing a bed with him… all the while he had the complete ability to devour you whole if his mind slipped at the slightest sense. The truth was horrifying and you wish you had never learned it, because upon doing so, you spiraled into chaos and sobbed to your father why on earth would you hide this from you, knowing that you loved Michael so dearly, it was unlike any other love you harbored for anyone else. You loved your parents, you loved your friends… but Michael was special. There was a special place in your heart for him.

A heart he could’ve gnawed away at in any given moment.

Your father tried to calm you down, telling you that Michael was just as human as you were now. That such urges from him dissipated long ago and he hadn’t gotten them since he started taking the pill and drinking his blood. That he wasn’t a danger to the world any longer because of what your father had nurtured for him.

“This isn’t fair!” you cry. “I deserved to know!”

“Yes, you did,” your father says. “But I didn’t know how to tell you without you getting scared.”

A flow of tears rapidly smear your cheeks, your emotions getting hazy. “What if something happens?! What if—what if something happens to you? O-or Mom? Or me—”

“I’d never hurt you, (Y/N),” Michael’s voice says softly from nearby. 

You and your father turn over your shoulder to see Michael standing in front of the bathroom, feet shuffling. Eyes still blurry with tears, you just barely manage to make out his figure. He seems uncharacteristically meek, ashamed almost. 

“Micha…” you croak out.

He slowly walks towards you, but your father abruptly stands up and creates a barrier between you and him, understanding that you and him may need some space right now. You hide behind your father, terrified of him after learning his truth. Understandably so.

But he remains his guard in place, adamant. 

His gaze concentrates on you, eyes of azure piercing into you. His usual flicker of malice that he gave everyone but you and your father isn’t there, but instead replaced by a true and dedicated devotion. Dare you say you call it love, even, if cannibals were even capable of such.

Your father clears his throat. “Michael, I think it’s best if you—”

“I hate the thought of it,” he states simply, ignoring him. “In fact, I’d rather kill myself than even think of hurting you.”

His tone was just as droll as ever, but the depth of his words were clear as day. Transparent, showing off a nature of him that only you got to see, softer and milder from a boy whose words were usually as sharp as knives. 

His dark, harsh words made you and your father flinch, especially considering that Michael was saying them with a completely serious face, indicating that the twelve-year-old was more than capable of doing such a task if given the chance to. 

But regardless, you could still see his earnesty. Whether it was you and your immature brain or the fact that you viewed him as special, you chose to believe it. The doubts still lingered in the back of your mind, yes, but you still felt a compulsion to let him still be in your life as Michael. 

You stay behind your father, just peeking your watery eyes out at him. 

“Do you mean it?” you ask softly. 

“That I’d kill myself?” he reiterates, making you frown. 

“No,” you mutter. “... that you’d never hurt me.”

Michael stares at you before he nods.

“I’d kill every person in this world before I hurt you,” he states to your father’s concern… especially when he notices the quiet mania in the boy’s gaze. “... before I let anything hurt you.”

You and Michael were fourteen when it all happened.

He was picking you up from the bus stop that your bus dropped you off at, as his “school” ended a few hours earlier than yours did, with just a mild walk back to your house filled with conversations about your day.

It was a late fall day, the sun setting earlier in the day than it did in the summer, so the sky was starting to spill with the beginning traces of blue evening ink mixed with the remnants of daylight. 

You and Michael enter your house, the lights oddly flickered off except for upstairs despite both your parents’ cars being home. 

The smell was immediate, the first thing that hit you that indicated something was wrong. 

An acrid scent—rotting and putrid. Tinny, the faint smell of copper ghosting around the house. Michael curses aloud, face wrinkling at the smell and saying that your mother was probably cooking up a dead body to your discontent. But you can’t help but pinch your nose either, nearly retching at the scent that flamed your nostrils. 

You call out for your mother in the darkened house, wondering what on earth she could be cooking in the kitchen, but when you patter over to that area of the house where your mother was usually in during this time of day, her and her pink apron were nowhere to be found. 

Michael notices that there were ingredients being prepped and that she was most likely about to cook some salmon, a knife being laid out on the counter next to a cutting board. But the vegetables and the fish are warm, as though they had been left out for a while. You tell him to check the basement as you search the first floor, a worry building inside of you at the strange emptiness. 

The living room, the dining room, and the laundry room are all completely empty, except with the remnants of human life like the remote sitting in between couch cushions and the washing machine still running. You check the front door again to truly see if your parents’ cars were there, and they were; hell, even their slippers were gone indicating they were somewhere in the house that you now feel has a sinister feel to it. Something is wrong.

Michael comes back upstairs. He shakes his head when you ask him if they were there, coming up as empty-handed as you were. Your own hands grow clammy, a slight rush of heat running across your forehead. Michael takes your hand in yours, warming them up with his in a quiet attempt to soothe you.

He says that they’re probably upstairs, that there’s still that ground you have to cover. But there’s this gnawing feeling that eats at you when you gaze upon the stairs, telling you that going up there is a bad decision. You try to voice it to Michael, but he just juts a brow at your confusion, shaking it off and with his hand still in yours, you and him slowly climb up.

It’s not a rushed pace to go up the stairs you’ve travelled up and down many times. In fact, you want to go slower the more of them you climb, this resistance in your legs attempting to pull you down as a plea to not go further, for your sake. You pause on the stairs suddenly, a terror in your eyes. 

Michael furrows his brows and tightens his hold. He asks you what’s wrong.

Nausea seeds itself within you. You’re left wordless, only swallowing thickly and shaking your head. 

Michael turns his head towards upstairs, thinking you’ve seen something, but he sees nothing but the closed doors of the bedrooms. He pulls you stubbornly, managing to make you climb one more step. 

You’re frozen in this state of fear, lip warbling at the haunting anticipation. Michael continues to pull you up, telling you to get your act together frustratingly as he heaves you up step-by-step until you and him reach the top floor. 

The nausea grows worse when you make eye contact with your parents door, making Michael hiss out in pain slightly when you tighten your grip in his hand. He wants to tell you off, but you cower towards him, a glaze over your eyes. He thins his lips, letting you clutch onto his arm as you approach your parents’ closed door.

Michael suddenly stops in his tracks, just a few feet shy from the door. You turn to him. 

The smell he had gotten used to during the few minutes of the search, using his shirt and the laundry detergent leftover on it to replenish his senses every once in a while, but his stomach twists as he realizes that the smell is much more strong now. The strongest it’s ever been, actually—so strong, it makes him want to hurl right then and there.

A rancid rot of something. The familiar metallic smell overwhelms him… but more in the sense of familiarity and less of disgust. He’s encountered this scent. Because Michael has smelled this before, all those years ago. 

Dread pits itself in his stomach when he guesses what’s behind these closed doors. He can hear it if he listens closely. 

Not wanting to wait any longer to keep himself in the dark, Michael grips the door handle of one of the doors and swings it open. 

Immediately, you want to throw up and vomit. The smell from earlier is the strongest it’s ever been—a disgusting, pungent thing that even makes Michael retch once or twice in his throat. 

You gather yourself up from trying not to vomit, and you regain your balance back to Michael’s side… only to see the very thing that would plague your mind for the rest of your living years.

There, in the middle of your parents’ darkened room, was the corpse of your mother, her torso nearly gone with her blood and leftover organs spilling all over the carpet. Her small intestine lays limply on the ground, unraveled, while one of her lungs half-reveals itself to you from inside her ribcage. Her face is turned towards you, a face forever ingrained in your memory as the very definition of fear itself—eyes wide open, mouth unhinged into what looked like a scream.

And hovering over her, feasting on the flesh of her body, was your father, mangled and bloody and ravenous. His face was smeared with blood, glasses speckle with ruby as his teeth sank deep into her limp arm, ripping off a tender piece of skin off so large, it revealed bone. He chews it with a heaving chest, saliva dripping from his mouth like a waterfall as he searches for more skin to feast on. An inhumane growl erupts from him as he swallows, going to bite on her arm again.

But before he can tear off another piece, you scream out loud at the ghastly sight, making your father suddenly look up and see you and Michael standing there, shock written on both of your faces. It paints his own suddenly, the animalistic-like look on his face dissipating with the exception of his reddened irises that pierce into you and Michael. 

You shake violently, your vision getting hazy the more you try to analyze the scene before you. Michael himself is trying his best to understand what on earth happened—why such a mild-mannered, quiet man was able to do such a beastly thing. 

Your father suddenly stands up, blood still dripping from his chin, a desperate look in his eyes. 

Michael guards you behind him suddenly, reaching behind his pocket as he grits his jaw when he stares at the bloody man that reaches out for you.

“(Y/N)...” your father gasps out, throat hoarse. “I-I can explain—”

“Stay the fuck back!” Michael shouts, revealing the kitchen knife from earlier in his grasp that he points directly at the man that had been taking care of him for the past several years—though calling him a man didn’t seem all that fitting now, not with the corpse in front of him and the blood that stains his body. “Get away!”

Your father desperately turns to him, tears pricking at his eyes at the two children before him looking absolutely terrified of him. “Michael… please… I just—I don’t know what—”

A sobbed whimper rips from you, your voice lost, but Michael speaks for you. “What the fuck did you do?!”

“I don’t know…” your father gasps, blood spitting, “I’m so s-sorry… I just… we were in a fight and—” he takes another step, one that Michael and you take back. 

“I said stay back!” he hollers and juts the knife at the man. 

“I’m sorry,” your father wheezes, but takes a couple of more to try and reach you, his precious child, with hands that once grazed you so affectionately but are now stained with the blood of the mother you came from. He circles in on you, despairingly, calling out your name in the tenderest manner he can muster despite the red tint on his lips and teeth. “(Y/N), please f-forgive me. Forgive Papa—I didn’t mean to—”

You choke out a sob, gasping for breath, the violent tears running down your face muffling you but you shake your head desperately to not let him get any closer to you. Michael lets you hide yourself behind him, his knife still drawn and hand intertwined with yours. 

Your father is now crying himself, disgusted at what he’s done to make you cry so harshly. His hands shake viciously, with their only want being to hold you in his arms like he did this morning before you left for school. If the universe could allow him one wish… just let it be that. Just let him hold his child in his arms one last time before—

Michael suddenly turns on his heel, dropping the knife and pulling you with him, abandoning your father in the bedroom upstairs. He drags you down the stairs you came from, a sense of flight overtaking his senses and letting his body float through the air to wherever he takes himself. 

You and him suddenly burst out the door of the house, your father’s forlorn screams of your name echoing from behind you, his broken voice being the last sound you’d ever hear from that house that you leave behind as you and Michael sprint into the night—running and running and running. Running so far, away from the house, away from your father, away from your mother’s body, away from your old life… until your legs are so sore that they can’t function anymore. 

All the while, the images play in your head, haunting you. Your mother’s ghastly face staring up at you with chunks of her body missing, your father and his bloody face, the wretched smell of the house, all of it makes you cry as Michael pulls you along. Everything hurts, from the inside out, and you’re nothing but confused and scared. 

Amidst the night, you and him stop at a park that you think is miles away from your old house, only lit by a few spare lampposts. Your chest hurts, his feet ache, both of your heads spinning from exhaustion and adrenaline, and you collapse into him, your world suddenly fading black. 

A sharp pain stabs you in your chest suddenly, making you gasp aloud and sit up in bed. It disappears the moment you’re conscious, but there’s this aftereffect of a sting that blooms within your chest. A clammy, shaky hand draws to your forehead that you can feel is misted with sweat and you draw a stuttering breath, trying to regain semblance of where you are in this darkened room. 

There’s a dim lamp in the corner of the room, and that’s all it takes for you to understand where you are. 

“Look at me.” 

A voice says it from beside you and you whip your head to see blue hues looking at you with concern. Your own gaping eyes meet Michael’s tired ones, and your shoulders droop upon seeing him. 

“Micha…” you rasp out, throat irritatingly dry.

Michael doesn’t say anything, just examining your shaking figure for a bit as you recompose yourself with deep breaths. This was routine to him at this point the more the date of the incident draws closer. There were moments that the one singular moment that pivoted your life entirely would haunt your dreams, making you shake and wrestle with the sheets so violently, it woke him up. He had tried to wake you up mid-nightmare before, but his words fell on deaf ears and you only responded in terrified whimpers. It wouldn’t be long before you jolted awake anyways, once the whimpering started. 

A towel at the ready, he grabs it from the nightstand and presses it up to your forehead, soaking the nightsweats up and dabbing it on your open neck and chest that’s stained with tears and saliva. Your chest still heaves harshly, but your eyes don’t flicker around as much as they did mid-sleep, focusing on the blanket’s design as the towel soaks your skin. 

You fist the blanket. “I had that—”

“—nightmare, I know,” he mutters, placing the towel back onto the nightstand and grabbing the glass of water to help quench your thirst. “Drink.”

Obeying his command, you recklessly lap up the water, with a bit of it trickling down your chest to his displeasure considering he just cleaned that area up. 

You hold your head in your hands as he puts the cup back down on the nightstand, head spinning. Michael suddenly shuffles to you, letting you rest your head on his chest like you did at the park all those years ago, listening to his heartbeat to help calm you down.

“I still see him,” you murmur, feeling his hands run up and down your back. “My dad. I mean.”

“I know,” he says quietly. “It’s the same thing every time.”

“I’m sorry,” your eyelids heave and flutter lightly, exhausted. “You must be tired of having to deal with this.

You smile slightly at his blunt statement, eyes closing as you listen to the steady beat of a heartbeat you often were lulled to sleep by through the years. 

He shrugs, clearly unbothered despite how many times he’s had to face this from you.

“Doesn’t matter,” he sighs. Michael’s gaze focuses on the shade of yellow the lamp is, feeling the warmth of your body against his, the silent tears that flow from you soaking his shirt. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

a/n: this was sooo self indulgent but WTV i just wanted to get it done and spit this out here.. i had more lore to him too but i didn't want him to get greedy so i stopped it here. need to fix that ending tho... lowk weak

also their relationship isnt supposed to be hinted as incestual despite the dark themes—their relationship is more akin to like eremika, where one of them was abandoned and got “adopted” by the other, but kaiser still has his last name. also bc reader’s mom didn’t rly treat him like a son and their dad treated him more like a science experiment. hope i implied that properly

oh he dies in this au btw. just so u know

[itsdirttime]

Not to out myself too much here, but I think a large part of the reason that I like Garak's characterization so much in a Stitch In Time is because of the clear impact his most primary upbringing has on his behavior well into adulthood. So many of the seeds which the Obsidian Order take advantage were planted within those early memories! There are a few sections within the second letter/entry of the novel that I have re-read over so many times because they have such a striking resemblance to the emotional landscape that I was raised in. I am sure that I could better articulate these thoughts more later (and I might), but I wanted to get them out of my head.

First, I often see people discuss Garak in ways that place Tain's impact on him within a vacuum, but I think Tolan plays a large role too. They both encouraged a sense of hyper-vigilance which underlines so much of Garak's character. With Tolan, we see this idea start with the expectation that nothing should ever have to be repeated less Garak face punishment. Tain takes this principle to several higher degrees. Garak could not just never miss instructions. He could never miss any details that those around him might want.

Tain talks in the series about the fact that what makes Garak special is that he never actually had to ask him to do anything, but why should he have to ask? Garak was trained to constantly anticipate what he might want, and it was successful because there was a pattern. If Garak dedicated himself fully enough to the pursuit of anticipating the wants before they were ever expressed, he could avoid the punishment. This hypervigilance is a trait that is reenforced through both punishments and praise.

Elim Garak 🤝 Me: Both having relationships with our fathers which center around the anticipation of demands and punishment yet still desperately clinging to the idea that with enough effort or work you might be able to earn approval and end the constant cycle

The passages I am referencing most specifically within that letter:

"Father was much older than Mother, and he never said much, but what he did say was always clear and to the point. Anyone who worked for him understood that if he had to repeat himself you would very quickly be demoted to maintaining the city’s sewers."

"He was particular about who cooked and cleaned for him, and depended upon Mother for all his personal needs. I was never sure what it was he did; I just assumed he was important enough to afford a house and a servant."

"But Tain at home was anything but mysterious. It was not unusual for Uncle Enabran to appear and take me away on some excursion that involved a long walk through a section of the city. During these walks he’d test my awareness, and challenge me to describe a house or a person we’d just passed. If I hadn’t been paying attention and couldn’t remember the details, the walk was over and we’d silently return home under the oppressive weight of his disapproval. He also seemed to know how I was performing at school, and if he wasn’t satisfied with my progress or behavior he’d punish me. I was a hard worker but I had a mischievous streak, and I enjoyed getting others involved in questionable activities and arranging it so they were found out and took the blame. On those rare occasions when I was caught, Tain would somehow find out and punish me—not for my misdeed, but for having been caught. And after he discovered my fear of small, dark spaces, his favorite punishment became keeping me in one until I had convinced him that I had analyzed and fully understood how my mischievous scheme had gone wrong. I found it odd that Mother and Father never had anything to say about these punishments."

[starmieknight]

No Burden He Is To Bear

1. Stan: The Cabin

When Stan got a postcard from his estranged brother, he never expected to be pulled into a supernatural nightmare. Or to be on the run from a creature intent on stealing their eyeballs. Or the shape shifting son Ford found in the woods. But he can't walk away when his brother's in trouble - even if it could cost him his life.

Emma-Mae knew things were bad with Fiddleford. She just didn't expect to find him running a cult in a backwater town in the middle of nowhere. She can't walk away, if only for the sake of their son. But what are those guys doing running around in the woods?

A/N: @alicecatfan2007-owlfallsau you asked for a one shot and I made a novel OTL this is for you!

Thank you @disregardedblasphemy for beta reading! You're amazing <3

It was nearing night by the time Stan made it to Ford’s house. The sky had darkened substantially on the drive over, first in light lines that reminded him of a gentle rain. Hours later when he was parking by the mailbox ― a neglected thing mostly hidden beneath the slush ― the wind had picked up the snow and begun whipping it around like an angry toddler.

This, it proclaimed angrily, was no place for Stanley Pines.

He couldn’t even see the house properly, just a faint shadow in the middle of the clearing.

Stan shivered, a mix of nerves and winter chill seeping into his very bones. He felt all of a child again, waiting to face a brother who had hated him the last time they met. He wondered what he’d see if he looked in the mirror ― the tired man he’d grown into or the scared boy he’d been all those years ago.

He hoped it was warm in Ford’s house. The Diablo’s heater had given up on him for the season and he was in no place to get it fixed (again). The sting of winter had settled into him and he worried he’d never feel warm again. He had, briefly, considered returning to Florida until the spring before writing it off. Miami was just too dangerous for him, even if he managed to keep his head down. New Mexico had been a safer choice, if only by a small margin.

He was running out of places to hide.

Ford sending him a plea to come was just a serendipitous coincidence.

Even though he’d had to drive through a blizzard to get to his brother, he’d been grateful for the chance to pack up and move on.

He still didn’t look forward to hiking up the rest of the driveway, though.

Stan winced and shouted as he stepped out of the car, a pile of fresh powder falling into his boots. It melted quickly, soaking his socks. His toes, already numb, were brought briefly back to life from the pain that comes with ice. The only relief he got from the sensation was to the blister on the back of his heel, a product of worn socks with holes.

He daydreamed mournfully of the days when he’d had more socks than he’d known what to do with. They had always been a staple gift from his parents and oldest brother at Hanukkah.

“Keep your feet dry, Lee.” Sherman had warned him solemnly, fresh from the fields of Vietnam. His eyes had been haunted and dark. He didn’t talk much after coming home.

Their father had grunted an agreement with the warning, going into terrible detail about black blisters and makeshift hospitals where they cut your legs off after violent battles in the trenches.

Ford had been fascinated by the stories, by the medical side and the cause and effect of the infections.

Stan had just been sick to his stomach.

He felt sick to his stomach as he climbed the stairs to Ford’s house. The thick smell of pines threatened to overwhelm him, stinging his nose. He sniffled and wiped his face with his sleeve. One more stain to add to his collection.

The building felt less like a house and more like some mad scientist’s laboratory with its satellite dishes and radio antennas. The wood looked washed out amidst all the snow, what might have been a rich brown in the warmer months now a depressing mix of grays and blacks. Deep shadows seemed to cling to the house like a bad omen. The windows were no better ― boarded up and dark between the gaps. Thick coils of barbed wire lined the yard and were capped off by a large sign ordering people to STAY OUT!!!

The porch wasn’t in much better shape. Some of the wood was beginning to rot from all the moisture. A few boards even looked melted , soaked in a thick glowing liquid that cast sickly green light. A hastily made sign that warned against trespassers had been nailed haphazardly to the front door.

Stan had only gotten the postcard a couple of days ago, but seeing the house like this made him wonder if Ford was even there at all. The place looked like it had been abandoned for months.

Maybe less mad scientist-like and more horror movie-esque.

He recalled a series of movies that had come out a few years ago ― The Thirteenth Friday at Camp Rock Lake ― and had a wild vision of some guy in a hockey mask waiting behind the door.

Stan shook his head and raised a hand to knock.

There were no serial killers waiting to chop him up here. Just a brother who had asked him to come.

All he had to do was knock.

He hesitated, just like he always did when he tried to call Ford.

Sure, it had been his brother who’d sent the postcard. Who’d asked Stan to come.

But that little voice in the back of his head hissed that it was all a trap. That his past had caught up to him and someone was just luring him there to give him everything he had coming to him.

That he’d really run out of places to hide and this was the end of the line for him.

Stan huffed at himself in annoyance.

For God’s sake, it was just Ford!

The guy may still hate him, but he was never the type to get physical when upset. He was more likely to tear Stan down with words than throw a punch.

So what if his house looked like a death trap?

He’d probably caught wind of something weird and got so focused on learning everything he could about it that he’d just forgotten to take care of the place. Maybe he’d come out of his brainy stupor long enough to realize the state of things and wanted some help getting it back to normal.

Why he chose Stan though…

Probably because he was the closest family member at the time. Heard about Stan being in New Mexico from Mom or Shermie and was too embarrassed to ask them for help.

Stan had shared a room with Ford since birth.

He knew how rancid his brother could get when he was on a roll. He didn’t judge like their mother or brother would.

Maybe some things didn’t change.

“You haven’t seen your brother in over ten years.” he reminded himself bluntly. “It’s okay. He’s family ― he won’t bite.”

With that, he took the plunge and knocked.

His fist only made contact with the door twice before it was ripped open and a disheveled head poked out to glare at him.

“Who is it?!” the maniac demanded. “Have you come to steal my eyes ?!”

Maybe Ford would bite , Stan thought hysterically as his twin aimed a crossbow at face.

He’d stared down the barrel of many guns in the past decade. This was new territory for him.

The chill of winter reached into his chest and grabbed him again, freezing him in place. His knees screamed in protest at the odd angle he was in. He was bent back, half-dangling over the porch steps as he tried to put as much room between him and the bolt as he could. The acrid stench of blood and sweat drifted strongly off Ford, clearing Stan’s nose of pine scent and hitting him like a brick in the face.

This was more than just his twin getting lost in his nerd books for a few weeks.

Ford looked even worse than he smelled ― his tie sloppily done, his shirt wrinkled and untucked, and a dirty trench coat that had seen better days hanging off his shoulders. He looked half-starved, his face gaunt and pale. Stubble covered his face and jaw and his hair stuck up at odd angles. The dark circles beneath his eyes only accentuated the madness of his expression.

His eyes.

Stan had seen a lifetime of expressions cross his brother’s face, but never anything like this.

Ford looked insane , pupils wide and shaky. His eyes were rimmed red and the whites of them nearly pink from how bloodshot they’d become. One was crusted with dried blood, the skin around it puffy and abrased. 

Stan forced himself to swallow a shout of horror and locked away his shock. He had a lot of experience with compartmentalizing in dangerous situations. It wasn’t entirely effective ― he couldn’t stop the frown from curling his lip ― but he couldn’t afford to startle Ford into firing the bolt at him.

Stay calm and break the tension. Then figure out what the hell was going on with his brother.

“Well,” he croaked, his voice flat. “I can always count on you for a warm welcome.”

Ford’s face cleared, a brief moment of lucidity before the madness took hold again.

“Stanley!” he exclaimed, thankfully tucking the crossbow away. His eyes darted around nervously, searching the yard for some hidden threat. “Did anyone follow you? Anyone at all?”

It was starting to look worse than he’d imagined. Ford was acting like… like Stan did whenever he thought Rico was catching up to him.

Bile rose in Stan���s throat at the comparison and he hoped to God that Ford hadn’t gotten himself caught up in something similar.

You never know.

It always started out small ― just a buddy who needed some help getting dogs across state lines. Little pugs stolen from puppy farms, too many for him to vaccinate before smuggling them away to safety and new homes. Real easy stuff.

Then someone finds out you’re good at pug trafficking or they mishear the words and think you can move harder stuff. Stuff that could get you into more trouble than just violating the Lacey Act.

So you move further south and have to leave your pug buddy behind. You miss him ― your heart feels like it’s being ripped out ― but you’ve got some new friends with deep pockets. And they even seem to like you!

At least, until someone slips up and you get caught. Colombian prison isn’t so bad with your buddies ― beats the fish and chips that one in London had. But they don’t seem to like you as much after you break out.

They’re stricter, less forgiving.

Then, you lose a shipment. They’re not gonna let it slide, so you do what you gotta do.

Maybe you take the stage and put your dancing skills to good use. You feel dirty afterwards, but you don’t have to come back empty-handed.

It’s still not enough.

So you wake up in a motel in New Mexico with an empty feeling in your gut. Kidneys do alright on the black market and it’s bought you some time, even if you cry and puke about it. It was never a choice.

Rico wants it all back.

So you wind up at a dead end, sleeping with a baseball bat in your hand and jumping at every sound thinking this is the end .

Stan didn’t want to think about the rabbit hole his brother might have fallen down.

He schooled his face and spoke in his most unimpressed tone, ignoring his heart’s desperate attempts to claw its way up and out of his throat.

“Eh, hello to you, too, pal.” he scoffs, avoiding Ford’s wild eyes. He glanced over the treeline instead ― just in case there was someone watching them. He didn’t know how much an eye would go for on the black market, but Ford was distressed (and specific) enough to make Stan’s skin crawl.

It had been a little over ten years since they’d been close, but he’d be damned if someone thought they could mutilate his brother while he was around. They’d have to do it over Stan’s dead body.

He was so caught up in his thoughts that he missed his twin’s sudden lunge, only managing a startled yelp as he was dragged inside.

It was no warmer in the cabin, but at least the wind chill couldn’t reach them anymore.

Stan didn’t get a chance to appreciate the change before Ford slammed him against the doorframe, forcing his head back and shining a penlight in his eyes.

As if the wet socks and the body odor wasn’t enough to make him miserable ― now Stan had spots in his already shitty vision.

Stan shouted at the rough treatment. Irritation took over and he shoved Ford back, nearly knocking the penlight from his shaking fingers.

Ford stumbled, nearly careening into the side table by the door before catching himself. Some kind of bird sat on the table beneath a dome, the glass rattling wildly before settling again.

Stan released a relieved breath when it didn’t break, feeling too big for the room. Like a damned bull in a china shop who still couldn’t be trusted not to destroy everything in his path. Destroy his brother’s treasures.

He hadn’t even laid a hand on the project before breaking it. Just hitting the table had broken it beyond his ability to repair, let alone with fingers as clumsy as his own. He was just a walking disaster who broke things by proximity.

Stan felt his body grow hot with rage. At himself mostly, but also at Ford.

If something else got broken while he was at Ford’s house, it would still end up being his fault. No matter that he was the one being thrown around and treated like a ragdoll.

Anger made his tone sharp, as biting as the winter wind whipping around outside.

“What the hell, Stanford?!”

Ford flinched reflexively at the sudden anger in his brother’s voice, stepping away with his hands fluttering in front of him nervously. It was a tic reserved solely for the two of them ― Stan being the only person he’d ever been comfortable enough not to hide his hands from.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, the frantic air around him fading into something resembling guilt. “I just had to make sure you weren’t… Oh, it’s nothing!”

“Nothing?” Stan repeated incredulously. His brow furrowed as he watched his brother tuck his trench coat around him like a security blanket.

Ford ignored him, darting into the next room while calling over his shoulder for Stan to follow.

The younger Pines hesitated, anger cooling into nerves again as he picked his way carefully through the debris on the floor.

The cabin was dark on the inside. Just like Stan had suspected, there was very little natural light to be found. Only mere wisps of weak winter sun managed to find a way in through the open door and the cracks in the boarded windows. It gave him just enough light to make out a staircase and the bird on the side table. Closer to the door, he could see a lab coat he knew to be Ford’s, if only for the fact that his brother was nerdy enough to own one. That and the six-fingered glove hanging out of the pocket.

He wondered where Ford had found a shop to buy them from. Maybe Gravity Falls had other people with polydactyly like his twin. He hadn’t seen much of the town on his way in, but there didn’t seem to be anything of real interest to entice his brother into moving there.

Stan jumped when Ford lurched out of the shadows again, slamming into the door and bolting it shut.

The room flooded with darkness, too much for the scant amount of sunlight to bear, but Stan could see a faint glow creeping around the edges of the doorframe to the next room. Ford disappeared into it again, back on track now that he was sure the door was barred. Considering there were three different kinds of locks on it, Stan felt pretty secure that no one else would get in without them hearing the door break down.

He had little time to adjust to the darkness before following after his brother. Spots lingered in his vision, remnants of the penlight blinding him, and he chose to shuffle his feet instead of running after Ford. He didn’t dare to step on anything that might be important.

The room he stepped into had the potential to be a nice living room, with a tall ceiling and a large floor plan. If someone could just clear away the mess littered the floor.

The glow had come from some sort of futuristic lamp in the corner, its oversized lightbulb no doubt some invention of Ford’s. It filled the room with enough white-blue light for Stan to see what was lining the walls.

Thick piles of paper were stacked precariously all over the floor, the occasional book and dish scattered among them. The words printed on them were small and long enough to make his brain ache. There were a few mechanical experiments mixed in with the mess, some half-finished with their contents spilling across the floor like the guts of some sad carcass. One of the finished few sat on a shelf and crackled with electricity.

Stan gave it a wide berth and tried to avoid looking at it too closely. He cast his gaze around, grimacing at the sight of jarred body parts on a shelf.

The most curious attraction in the room was an honest to God dinosaur skull Ford had sitting in an aquarium. But even more interesting was the wall safe beside it, a big red button half-hidden behind a fake stone below.

Stan felt a wild urge to press it and see if there was a revolving wall or trap door like in Scooby Doo .

He was drawn out of his curiosity by a loud clatter and zoned back in to the sight of Ford flinging things around a cluttered desk, the scientist mumbling and cursing himself for being so disorganized.

Stan crossed his arms, trying to ward off the chills the sight gave him.

“Look,” he sighed gruffly. “You gonna explain what’s goin’ on here? You’re actin’ like Ma after her tenth cup of coffee.”

That was never a pretty sight.

Ma had been a pretty laid back woman most of the time. Stan and Shermie had taken after her in that regard. But there were certain similarities that she and Ford had shared.

Ford’s manic episodes usually centered around his nerd stuff or grandiose ideas he needed to see through as quickly as possible.

Ma…

Sometimes, she got too into the psychic gimmick. Started believing she really could read minds or see into the future. She’d get so caught up in what she thought the spirits were telling her or the signs she swore she was seeing that she’d go off the deep end.

Stan and Ford had been caught by her in those states more than a few times when they were kids. For all that they loved their mother and for all that Ford loved the abnormal, it was still too much to bear when their mother started rambling.

They’d be trapped by her while she ranted and raved, Caryn unwilling to let them go because they didn’t understand how important the things she was telling them were.

Shermie could usually be counted on to rescue them, coming in and urging their mom away to her room or distracting her long enough for the twins to slip away.

On even rarer occasions, Pa was the one who stepped in.

The soft way he spoke, never raising his voice or scolding the boys when he sent them to their room while he dealt with his wife ― it was even more unnerving than anything their mother said.

Her caffeine addiction never helped the situation.

Seeing Ford emulating her worst moments made Stan’s skin crawl.

Schizophrenia, the little voice in his head hissed. He’s off his rocker and going down fast. You really wanna stick around for the fallout?

A cold brick building with barred windows and nurses with disgusted eyes flashed through his mind.

Stan threw his hands up to ward off the memories, not wanting to remember those dark days in the psychiatric hospital.

“Listen, there isn’t much time.” Ford commanded. He made a triumphant noise when he found what he was looking for. He turned back to Stan and jumped at the sight of his anatomy display in the corner. Ford paused to turn the head of the skeleton all the way around and Stan’s stomach dropped. “I’ve made huge mistakes and I don’t know who I can trust anymore.”

Paranoia. Aggression. Frenzied speech.

The little voice in his head was beginning to sound like his old doctor, a cold man with a receding hairline and a proclivity for shocking his patients into drooling lumps.

It sounded much too delighted by Ford’s state and Stan wished he could go back in time and deck the old quack.

He shook his head and tried to focus on the important parts of what Ford was saying.

He didn’t know who to trust, but he’d chosen to go to Stan for help. Chose to believe his twin would come to help him even after one huge mistake and ten years of radio silence.

He let the feeling bolster him, let it fill those cold and vacant spaces in his heart until he felt steady on his feet again.

Ford still trusted Stan to help when he couldn’t rely on anyone else.

Stan intended to make good on that trust.

“Hey, easy there.” he said softly, reaching out to catch his brother as he passed. Ford tensed at the contact, but Stan kept his hand steady. “Let’s talk this through, okay?”

He tried to remember how Shermie handled Ma when she was like this.

Stay calm, acknowledge what upset her and why, then let her talk it out.

Ford’s shoulders drooped and he leaned into Stan’s touch for a moment before pulling away.

His eyes were still pained as he turned to look at his brother, but they were clear and steady for the first time since the front door had opened.

“I have something to show you.” Ford said quietly, lifting a book between them. It was a faded maroon color with his six-fingered hand print embossed in gold on the cover. “Something you won’t believe .”

Stan smirked and waved a dismissive hand.

This was good enough, he guessed.

Maybe he could finally get to the root of all this and figure out what had Ford so freaked out.

“Look, I’ve been around the world, okay?” he said easily. “Whatever it is, I’ll understand.”

Ford looked skeptical, but his lips quirked up in the semblance of a smile. He dropped a hand from his book to grab Stan’s sleeve, twisting his fingers up in the fabric like he used to do when they were children.

His jacket was the same color as the journal, Stan noted idly.

Another point for twin telepathy being a real thing. They’d done that a lot as kids ― choosing clothes that matched without thinking about it. Red had always been a favorite color they shared.

“It’s in the basement.” Ford mumbled, swaying in place. “C’mon.”

He dropped Stan’s arm, leaving the younger twin cold again. The lack of manic energy seemed to catch up to Ford and he staggered out of the room. He looked like he would drop at any moment.

Stan took a deep breath to ground himself before following his twin into the unknown.

Wherever they went, they went together, no matter what.

[j23r23]

Ooo hiii again!

If it’s okay, can I please request a (Tan lives) Tangerine x fem!civilian!reader where they are married and she’s pregnant with his baby daughter. She knows about Tan and Lem being assassins but she doesn’t love her hubby and brother in law any less💜 They’re both SUPER protective of her and she’s 100% living a life of luxury with the money burning a hole in Tangerine’s pocket. Anyway, she’s really sweet and innocent, and Tangerine and Lemon make sure to keep their job away from her (as much as possible), like Tan doesn’t even share the gory details with her (even if she asks he’s like, “Don’t worry about it, love”❤️) . But she gets caught up in the middle of their most dangerous job (the Bullet Train job) because she (after craving something out in the city) goes on the Bullet Train to travel there? (At the same time the assassins are running amuck). Needless to say, Tangerine about has a heart attack when he sees his very pregnant wife on the train and does everything he can to protect her from danger and to get them all off the train (Tangerine, Lemon, Y/n all get off alive and well!!)

Okey, this took me like ages... im so sorry. I do hope its to your liking...

Strawberry Mochi

Tangerine x Pregnant!Fem!Reader

warnings - none, just fluff

If anyone had told you a few years ago that you’d end up married to a professional assassin — one who dressed like he belonged in a 70s gangster movie and spoke with the kind of thick London accent that made you melt — you would’ve laughed and rolled your eyes.

But here you were. Mrs. Tangerine.

Seven months pregnant. Living in a ridiculous five-star hotel in Tokyo at the moment— a private suite with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the skyline, a bathtub the size of a swimming pool (so you can submerge that bump finally!), and a closet bursting with designer gifts your husband couldn’t resist buying.

“For my girls,” he always said, big hand smoothing over your growing belly.

You knew what Tangerine and Lemon did for a living. You weren’t naïve. And you didn’t love them any less for it.

In fact, you loved them more — for how fiercely they loved you. How they shielded you from the world’s ugliness. How Tangerine tucked you into his side every night, murmuring.

"You don't have to worry about a thing, love. Never."

He was good at keeping his job separate. No blood on his hands adn always a fresh suit when he came home. He would never talk about his jobs. If you asked, he’d just kiss your forehead and say, "Best you don't know, sweetheart. You’re too precious for all that."

You weren’t reckless. You stayed home like he asked, most days.

But that evening, you’d been hit with the strongest craving for the strawberry mochi you’d seen in a tiny shop downtown. You couldn’t stop thinking about it. It consumed your whole brain. You needed it.

"Just stay in, alright? Wait for me," he’d say with a half-smile that never quite reached his eyes. "It’s not a place to wander alone in your condition."

You meant to listen. God, you meant to. But that craving, that tiny bit of hunger, tugged harder than his words ever could.

And the quickest way there? The Shinkansen. The Bullet Train.

You promised yourself you'd be quick. In and out. You even left Tangerine a sweet little note.

"Gone to get a craving! Back soon! Love you xx"

You never — never — could have imagined that your husband’s latest job would also be on that train.

At first, everything seemed fine. You boarded, found a seat, adjusted the flowy dress you wore over your bump, and settled in for a short ride.

Then chaos broke out like a spark catching fire. Shouting. Screams. The unmistakable sound of a gunshot muffled through the walls.

Your stomach dropped.

"Oi! Get the fuck outta my way!"

You knew that voice.

You turned just as a flash of blue and gold — your husband’s suit — barreled down the corridor.

"Tangerine?" you gasped.

His head snapped toward you — and the look on his face was pure, blinding panic. Like he'd seen a ghost.

"Sweetheart?! What the fuck—!"

He sprinted toward you, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process, and immediately started checking you over — his hands running over your arms, your face, your belly — frantic, desperate, like he needed to make sure you weren’t hurt.

"What're you doin' here, love?!" he rasped, still holding your face, his large hands smushing your cheeks together.

"I-I just— I wanted some mochi—" you stammered between your puckerd lips.

"Jesus Christ," he breathed out, voice cracking. "You’re bloody pregnant, on a fuckin' train full of assassins!"

You nodded weakly, with big doe eyes.

"It's alright. I'm here now. I've got you." He wrapped one arm around your back, the other bracing protectively over your bump, positioning himself between you and the chaos like a human shield — solid, steady, unmovable.

"Lem!" he shouted over his shoulder.

Lemon appeared seconds later, face wild until he saw you — and then it was full of the same fierce terror. "Oh, bloody hell, what is she doing here? She's pregnant, man!"

"No shit!" Tangerine barked. "Thats why we’re gettin' her off this fuckin' train right now."

You crossed her arms, pouting. "I just wanted Strawberry Mochi."

Lemon froze, eyes wide. "Y- you want… mochi?" He turned to Tangerine, eyes even wider, then back to you, shaking his head.

"In the name of—"

Lemon immediately moved into a defensive position, eyes scanning for threats.

Tangerine shielded you through the chaos, barking threats at anyone who came too close. Lemon covered the rear, pushing through cars and avoiding fights whenever possible.

When a passenger tried to intercept, Lemon floored him without hesitation, knocking him out cold with one brutal hit. "Don't you even think about it, bruv," he growled.

The three of you finally reached the end of the car just as the train began to slow — the next station coming into view. Lemon stood by the doors, looking far too relaxed now.

“Wher is that Mochi place again, love,” he teased, winking at you. “I’m suddenly feelin’ like I need a bite myself. You’ve got me craving strawberry mochi now.”

Tangerine shot him a look, still keeping his arm wrapped around you. “Oi, not the time, Lem. Let’s just get off the bloody train in one piece, yeah?”

Lemon shrugged with a grin. “What? Can’t blame a man for developing cravings too.”

The train finally screeched to a halt at the station, and the three of you stepped off onto the platform, the night air cool and crisp. Tangerine stayed glued to your side, his protective hand still resting gently over your bump, while Lemon casually walked beside you, still humming a little tune like the world hadn’t just nearly torn itself apart around you.

As you walked toward the exit, Tangerine’s grip tightened just a fraction. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

You smiled, feeling a wave of comfort wash over you despite the madness. "I’m fine, Tan. I’m fine. But... could we get that mochi on now?" you teased.

Lemon grinned, nudging Tangerine with his elbow. "I knew she’d still be thinkin’ about it."

Tangerine rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the fondness in his gaze. "I swear to God, you two," he muttered, but there was no heat in his voice.

For now, everything was alright.

[atreeinthemoonlight]

Tell me, do I need to officially join ‘Team Elia’ before I’m allowed to criticize Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark? Does merely mentioning Elia Martell automatically make me her stan? Is it physically impossible to call out those two homewreckers without invoking her? Can’t I just be a neutral observer and a passerby who recognizes clowns when they see it? When will Rhaelya stans accept that the entire internet doesn’t need to be a Martell fan first just to despise them? People don’t need to weep for Elia to see that a married prince ditching his postpartum nearly died wife for a 15 year old girl is vile. Looking down on them takes less effort than blinking—it’s basically a reflex at this point.

I’ve never seen a ship with this many black marks—its very existence is built on oceans of blood and tears. How do you even stan them? Oh right, by ignoring every inconvenient truth:

No.1 Don’t mention Rhaegar’s actual wife and children,and how Elia nearly died giving him heirs, let's pretend Elia Martell and her butchered children are NPCs,or just create a new timeline—they never existed.

No.2 Don’t bring up feminist icon Lyanna hating Robert’s infidelity while she eloped with a married popular charming crown prince.

No.3 Brush off Rhaegar’s prophecy obsession,and the tiny detail that he may have groomed her for it.

No.4 Handwave the fandom’s favorite mysteries—like how Lyanna supposedly had no clue about the war outside, or what she really thought while rotting in that Tower,did she still believe this was love?

Watching Rhaegar/Lyanna apologists defend their garbage ship is like listening to a failed prophecy bard and a a bratty ‘not like others' teen screeching: "The world doesn’t understand us! Just leave us alone, you’re just too basic to get our level! darling—it’s us against the whole world!"

Also, Lyanna stans keep throwing tantrums when people call her a homewrecker.Why? If she wasn’t wrecking the family, then what was she? Are you seriously suggesting she just joined as Rhaegar’s second wife? Or you said she was just desperate to escape her betrothal to Robert—that's her only purpose, she didn’t think it through……in that case,well, at least this aligns with her true nature，wild,willful,headstrong—didn’t she herself say love is sweet but can’t change a man’s nature?Guess this applies to women too-the arrow she shot to Robert years ago came right back to pierce her forehead in 282 AC.

Or is it that… deep down, you don’t even see Rhaegar, Elia, and their children as a real family? Only Rhaegar, Lyanna, and baby Jon count as legitimate in your delusional fairytale? True love erases wives and children like chalkboard scribbles? Or because they were stuck between ‘eloping’ and ‘dying’, they died before Rhaegar could officially dump Elia in a ditch and Lyanna could play stepmom to his kids,before they could fully wreck the family—their homewrecking career was cut short by mortality.By that logic, we shouldn’t blame a murderer just because the knife stopped halfway to the victim’s heart. Aerys stocked the wildfire, ordered the burn—but hey, technically Jaime stopped him.🫣

By all means, "don’t mention this", "that’s unimportant", "this doesn’t matter,","that’s irrelevant"—let's focus on these two adorable masterpieces!

[iii-official]

So You Want To Join A Slaaneshi Cult

First of all, congratulations! Shaking off the yoke of the Corpse-Emperor isn't an easy task, and we're all very proud of you! Or maybe you've spent your life dedicated to another of the Gods, or Chaos Undivided, and want to take things in a different direction? Either way!

We all have fun here! That is, in fact, roughly the entire point of The Dark Prince. To enjoy life, and all the sensations in it. And it's so much more fun to do that with company!

If you're on a Chaos world, you'll have less of a problem; you may be in touch with a Slaaneshi cult already! But for our friends in the Imperium, things are more tricky. Servants of any of the True Powers have to keep a low profile.

If that's the case for you, look for local groups that advertise as things like 'music appreciation groups', 'artist collectives', maybe even a 'society of sensation' if things are a little more lax on your planet. You may have to settle for an Undivided cult for the time being, but believe me, paths to The Dark Prince will open up to you once Chaos takes your world!

And if you are truly in dire straits, and can't seem to find anyone like-minded near you? Don't be afraid to get things rolling yourself! We have more detailed guides on how to get a Slaaneshi cult started from zero here. Who knows! Maybe you're surrounded by friends, who just need that little nudge to reveal their true colours!

[ricedeity]

hi again

yuma: his vision is like.. "little halloween ghoul", cuz his color scheme reminded me of a pumpkin. basically his entire sv1 design was centered around being able to give him pumpkin shorts LOL. since he was the second ever jp male vocal i did also try to give him more japanese-style clothing too w the sandals. he also had a bit of a bandage motif to give a sense of eerieness. for v2 i dialed up the japanese-style w the top but also wrapped it the way it's done for corpses to keep the sense that Something's Wrong With Him

natalie: similar to kevin, as the first feminine english voicebank her general design vision was just "steampunk girl". i also wanted her to look very classic, hence the vintage-looking hair style. reprised this in sv2 by elevating her gloves to opera gloves for class. i just realized looking at her now that i forgot to add some details to her sv2 design ough. but anyways. something i think is cute about her sv2 design is that the hair kind of looks like a fancy hat. classy lady

mai: miss mai saw the biggest change in design direction because sv2 gave her coworkers! she used to be the only complimentary voicebank, but now there's 2 more, so i knew right away i wanted them to have some kind of matching uniform. mai has an "apple bunny" motif, and i described her as a student, so i thought it'd be cute if the other 2 were like her teachers. she gets to keep the ribbon to maintain her "sweet lolita" subflavor.

cong zheng and xuan yu: their design vision is "half-tone rock royalty". cong zheng has a rose motif and xuanyu has a (half) moon motif. i thought it was cute that they had matching color schemes so i wanted to keep that matching "half"-ness as much as possible... it's a bit more literal in their sv2 designs w the color split going right down the middle

cheng xiao: her design vision is "peking opera but idol", more or less. i aimed for a simpler, more stylized idol-ish outfit with peking opera design elements, rather than full peking opera costume, just for the sake of drawability. that said the amount of peking opera douyins on my fyp increased significantly between sv1 and 2 so her sv2 might feel a bit more authentic LOL

ninezero: i think this joke has been lost to history. but the reason ninezero looks like this is because of his first demo trailer.

he just looks like this to me forever now. but i gave him clothes for sv2.

lin lai + yun quan: i would say their vision is "things about chinese children i find kind of funny" (big disclaimer: i am chinese and allowed to laugh at these things). in sv1 it's the hairstyles they gave them in back in the olden times. for sv2 it's the school uniforms that modern chinese school kids wear today.

yun quan's new pigtail + hairclip style is supposed to vaguely resemble the butterfly shape. linlai has a new little plant sprout on his hat. i also realized that the jersey designs being different imply that lin lai and yun quan go to different schools........

ritchy: his vision was always "rapper + pirate" (cuz his color scheme/design reminds me of like... algae on water). that's why he has the big coat + shirtless combo. his sv1 design leaned a little more towards rapper than pirate so i just leaned a bit the other way for his sv2 design. his hair shape kind of resembles a big captain's hat a little bit.

d-lin: his vision was "rapper + cadaver". his sv1 version wears all white because it's what chinese corpses traditionally wear in funerals. his "rapper belts" are also meant to double to look like his innards are coming out. he's also got the Y incision commonly done for autopsies, now looking a tiny bit more subtle in the SV2 version as the Y part connects to the hoodie. like linlai, he didnt have enough hair to give him a new hairstyle so i gave him a different hat. bucket hats are cool

wei shu: his design vision was essentially "humble, flowy chinese-style clothing". his vest hanfu thing is replaced with a more simple overcoat. instead of big flower that mixes in to his hairbun, now a few of smaller flowers mixed throughout his hair, that hopefully carry through that "delicate" feeling (kind of like a disney princess). i also gave him and ling wan matching braids.

hayden: his vision is "catholic garb + 2000s boyband". the collar + vest he wears in his sv1 is meant to simultaneously be giving "bishop" and "jonas brother".

since sv1 leaned heavily on the "catholic" side (esp w the cape), i leaned more into the "Jonas Brother" side for sv2 with the goofy ass scarf. its length and flow is also meant to resemble a catholic stole. if you have the whimsy for it in your heart.

sheena: she's the first native en/jp billingual voicebank, so her design vision was "japanese silhouette + western fashion". it's a bit subtle, but her sv1 design is meant to be a kimono shape! the middriff is the middle sash, the cover over her arms forms the long sleeves, etc. i couldn't really think of a way to reprise this smoothly for sv2 so i put a shawl on her and gave her more of a classy lounge singer feel while still kind of keeping the kimono shape underneath.

eri: first jp rap voicebank, so in wanting her design to still feel japanese her vision was "street fashion gyaru". i elevated it to a bit more of a classy vibe in sv2, but the big varsity jacket is swapped for a big hoodie to keep the "street"-feeling vibe.

ayame: her design vision was "sweet lolita but literally" as in pastry sweets, haha. lots of ribbons as well. i took her apron-ish dress and took in more of a maid-waitress kind of look for sv2. her ojou-sama hair drills also levelled up.

jin: his design vision is basically just "sleek, well-dressed uncle with a rockin' past". he was already one of the more simple designs, but i think the tattoos are still striking.

yi xi: her vision was "athletic street fashion + butcher". the stripes on her sv1 top are meant to be like stripes you often see on athletic clothing, but also meant to resemble a slit throat. this is the best design thing i've ever done, by the way. sv1 also utilizes a jumpsuit like one you'd wear for sanitary food-handling, but also doubles for cool street fashion.

i felt like i'd be cheating by using the jumpsuit again for sv2 (even though it's sooooo good). so i leaned a bit more into the butcher end by just giving her an apron. i feel like the cut of her overall dress can kind of look like a qipao if you squint, which gives a chinese flavor. the opera gloves that "end" at the normal gloves are meant to resemble butcher sleeves.

yes, i think it is a bit silly to put a face mask on a vocal synthesizer whose only job it is to sing. but between "butchers wear face masks for sanitary reasons" + "face masks for street fashion" i feel like i had a right to.

ling wan: her design vision was something like... "modernized-version of what would look cool on the back of a horse with a bow and arrow". this is partially why she's one of the only girls with pants lol..... big flowy pants and a long element that blows cool-like in the wind. again, she and wei shu have matching braids

felicia: her vision was "cunty theater kid", basically? for her sv1 i kept it steampunk like natalie's, but for sv2 i pushed it a little more witchy. felicia is a voicebank with a lot of range so i think something like this has the potential to encapsulate her many possible usages. she's got a bit of a "crown" submotif (like a strawberry crown!) that carries through on the choker in sv2. also the top hat is so crucial to me.

riku: his design submotif is "boring jpop guy fashion" HAHA. i think i was referencing bump of chicken specifically? anyways i suppose he's a bit more idol-y in his sv2 iteration, but the jpop guy flavor persists

wanted to yap a little bit about my SV2 vimalion design process as i wait for my arm to recover from drawing all those fullbodies o(*￣▽￣*)ブ part 1 of ????

i have always loooooved vocaloid update designs, v4 update era was my Absolute Favorite, so when sv2 was announced, against my better judgement, i was absolutely determined to make "update" designs for all (checking) 28 ?? vimalion sv designs. ough

there were a few things i wanted to achieve:

i wanted the SV2 designs to feel more like a unified ensemble

i wanted it to be obvious from an immediate glance whether you were looking at a SV1 or SV2 design

i wanted to leave flexibility for new future SV2 (only) designs in the future

vimalion sv1 designs were largely "neutral colors (black, white) + key colors", so for sv2, i reduced this down to "dark neutrals (black, grey) + key colors, with a gradient". it does make everyone look a little bit emo, and some sv1 designs (like weishu) didn't have any light neutrals which kind of makes them fail point 2, but i think overall it worked out pretty well :')

i also gave everyone newwww hairstyles ^_^ because it's fun. but i made sure they were all hairstyles that didn't change the length or cut of the hair cuz i like the idea of them being able to switch between these designs at will lol

(also, i added an extra line to the logo. for Synth V Two)

but the main challenge of this premise is that there are many vimalion designs i simply feel like i nailed on the first shot. i simply think that some of the vimalion designs are Perfect. also some of them i made like, literally only months ago. so i can't really go a miku v4 or longya v4 route of trying to "improve" or "modernize" them with only slight adjustments.

to this end, my approach was more along the lines of v4 flower: take the same original Vision, but turn it into a different direction*

i feel like this approach lets each iteration have its own identity, and since i don't want the SV2 designs to be replacement for the SV1s but rather just New Additional Designs If You Want Them, i felt like it was the right approach :-)

*i know v4 flower was just based off a genderbend fanart but bear with me for the sake of my design theory lol

anyways, i haven't really talked publicly about the direction/themes/motifs/Visions for the vimalion dt designs, so i thought it'd be fun to identify them and talk about how i did them in a different flavor for their sv2 designs! some are a bit more interesting than others haha

Saki: the og, very first AI voicebank... so i wanted her to feel very Lowkey, very Tutorial Character. nonplayable secretary in the idol game vibe. so my vision for her is "chic sexy office lady", which i did with a sexy little tube top- fully out for her SV1 and buttoned up under her blazer (but still w some skin showing under) for SV2- combined w sexy officewear (it's just normal officewear?)

Qing Su: she and saki were the only faceless vocals for a while, so when people made fan designs they often made them reaaaally complex. so i wanted qing su to be elegant but simple: "marine fashion + hanfu". hence the sailor collar :-) SV2 has her showing more skin but i feel like it's like a "walk in the ocean" vibe. she's also got a bit of a lace subtheme in SV1 so i brought that back in SV2 with the gloves to kind of echo the "elegance" vibe of the long skirt.

also! back when letter vocals were only 1 letter i also tried to incorporate the letter into their designs... this didn't last long, but it did stick for qingsu- in her SV1 design, the combination of her bun and the hair stick make a Q shape. i reprised this in spirit for SV2 with the hair loop + ponytail also making a Q shape :-)

Ryo: his vision is "street fashion + modernized traditional japanese". for his SV1 i gave him a little half kimono thing, kinda samurai reminiscent... SV2 i gave him a haori instead (though i brought the kimono sleeves back for vibes) + hakama pants. also, his hair is based off kenshi yonezu, so i just picked another kenshi hairstyle for SV2 lol

Kevin: i felt bad for english voicebanks not having traditional fashion motifs to pull from like the japanese and chinese ones. i figured steampunk is the closest thing to immediately recognizable English Fashion Culture, so that's why the english voicebanks have steampunk elements. and thusly as the first English voicebank his vision was just "steampunk guy". i brought back the K-shaped neck thing from one of Kevin's earlier design iterations because it's sooooo good. and then i put the goggles on his head because they annoy me around his neck. that's basically all i have to say for him.

mo chen: his vision is "cute menswear + chinese fashion", or more succinctly "match qingsu" LOL. i couldnt really get him to matchsies super close w qingsu anymore though so i swapped out his wendy collar so he could have an elegant sweater vest over chinese collar moment. his hair is in a loop to match his sister but maybe it can look like the O from his logo if you want.

an xiao: his vision is "elevated high fashion suit". it was a very dramatic weird bodysuit moment for SV1 but SV2 looks a bit more like a normal high fashion suit LOL. also his tits gotta be out. also idk he gives me "suit + sneaker" vibes right? dont you agree? (holding a microphone up to you) hey

feng yi: she was the first one i earnestly designed with "VIMALION" in mind rather than just one-off designs, so i went a little bit too crazy with giving her motifs. i guess her vision theme is "han lolita-ish?" but she also had subthemes of clouds, ribbons, that weird criss-cross thing on her wrists... plus her main theme of ginkgo... anyways. i took the fluff under her skirt that served as a "cloud" vision and gave it to her as a fashionable little shawl for SV2. i swapped the zettai ryoukai of her arms and legs (thigh socks -> opera gloves, bare arms -> bare legs) just cuz?? i also made her colors closer to what they actually are LOL

weina: her vision is "phoenix goddess". i regretted giving her a bird theme when ling wan came out and was actually bird themed HAHA. but for SV2 i just did another angle on this vision, though maybe a little more elegantly this time... hers probably feels the most like a "level up". you can't tell in her key art but her cape is still wing shaped i promise.

----

okay i'll do the others in another part another time!! my arm hurts goodnight

[caligvlasaqvarivm]

Actual Ultimate Classpecting Guide

For real this time.

Buckle up, this is a really long one. For everything that's posited, I can provide textual evidence; that being said, I'm not going to be including the textual evidence within the essay itself, because it's already long enough as-is. As such, please feel free to ask for clarification or sources on any assertion, and I'll do my best to provide.

Before we begin, there's some things to discuss about how we're going to be approaching classpect in the following essay. In numbered list form for our short attention spans:

1. There is a concept Hussie talks about multiple times in his book commentary, "personality alchemy" - the idea that there are these "platonic ideals" of certain characters, which can be mixed and matched with others, in order to create new characters. The examples he gives are of how Eridan was a proto-Caliborn, how Kanaya has shades of Jade, how Nepeta was a proto-Calliope, and how Sollux and Eridan have shades of Dave in them. Classpecting is fundamentally a form of this personality alchemy:

2. Class describes the character's arc and emotional hurdles, while Aspect describes the character's base personality traits by which this arc is experienced.

3. For example, all three Seers struggle with hubris: Rose's need to be the smartest person in the room led to her being manipulated by Doc Scratch, Terezi's obsession with meting justice led to her engineering a situation where the only option was to kill Vriska, and Kankri's desire to be seen as a spiritual leader amongst his friends led to him furthering their divisions and harming them.

Then, when their pride is shattered, they cope by inflicting willful self-blindness: Rose turns to drinking herself stupid (the opposite of Light's sway over knowledge), Terezi gets down with the clown (the opposite of meting out Mind's justice, as it's a Gamzee W), Kankri goes celibate (Blood L) despite his clear romantic feelings for certain teammates.

4. As for Aspect: note how all three Life players share the personality traits of optimism, stubbornness, and obstinacy. All three Breath players share an immaturity and naïvety, and are quite frankly irresistible to people for some reason. All three Light players share a need for the spotlight and a tendency toward long-windedness and persnicketiness. So on and so forth.

What's interesting is, if you start analyzing characters that share Classes and Aspects, these specific types of similarity crop up over and over - all our Knights struggle with insecurities and facades, both our Bards have a crisis of faith. All three Breath players have an aspect of immaturity and childishness to their characters, and all three Light players are deeply concerned with appearing intelligent and feeling important.

5. As a result, this guide is NOT intended for classpecting real life people, because we are complicated, we contain multitudes, and we don't have arcs. This is primarily an analysis of what Class and Aspect mean in Homestuck based on textual evidence, because I genuinely believe that you can basically figure it out if you read carefully.

6. Duality, and the idea of "equal and opposite," are major themes within Homestuck - Prospit and Derse, Skaia (described as a crucible of birth and creativity) and the Furthest Ring (the literal afterlife). Which classes are involved in an Active/Passive split, and opposing Aspects, are the same way. This is the primary method I used to determine the Active/Passive pairings and opposing Aspects. After all, as Callie describes, both Thieves and Rogues are classes "who steal" - so, too, do I try to unify Classes by a common theme, even if they diverge wildly in how that theme is expressed (as Thieves and Rogues do). In the same way as the opposite of "up" is not "apple," but "down", because "up" and "down" are both fundamentally concerned with relative vertical position, so too can be defined concepts like Breath and Blood, Hope and Rage, Light and Void - as well as the reasoning behind Class pairings like Heir and Page, Maid and Knight, and Seer and Mage.

7. Descriptions for both Class and Aspect are left deliberately vague and up to interpretation within the comic itself, and this is by design: the actual manifestations of an Aspect can vary wildly given the Class, and even individual person, that it's tied to. Calliope even makes note of the fact that, under the right circumstances, someone can manifest effects that appear to be the opposite of their aspect. She's also careful to couch her language in "may" and "can" - because these concepts are intentionally somewhat nebulous and malleable. As such, while this guide certainly lays down what can be gleaned and inferred from the text, do note that Homestuck runs on a soft magic system, and as such, nothing stated is firm, 100%, must-always-be-this-way - just an overview of what we've seen.

8. There is often great overlap between Aspects, Classes, and Classpects - which Calliope herself notes. Heart and Blood are one of the most salient, as they both have a fixation on relationships, and Calliope mentions that under the right circumstances, a Classpect may even be able to manifest what appears to be the opposite of their Aspect. Again, Homestuck operates on a soft magic system, so this is a feature, not a bug.

ASPECT

There's a little less to say about Aspect, not because it's less complicated, but because "base personality traits" are much more nebulous compared to Class's sway over character arc. Still, Aspect represents the fundamental way a character is, and thus, color every interaction that character has. There's a reason Ultimate Selfhood is sought through Aspect, not Class - Aspect is the core of the character's being, what makes that person that person.

That all being said, Class has major sway over how an Aspect manifests, and certain classes can even invert the Aspect and even the character's role in the party. As such, these descriptions must be parsed carefully in relation to Class. Moreover, due to the soft magic system, there is at times overlap between unrelated Aspects, which can also be exacerbated by Class - Heart and Blood being the most obvious in this regard. Still, overall, you'll find the Aspects to be fairly distinct from one another.

Please also note that every Aspect can deal with its literal counterpart by default - Light players can wield lasers, Breath players can wield the breeze, et cetera. Because this kind of goes without saying, and because the non-literal stuff is more interesting to discuss, I'm not really going to go into too much detail about the literal qualities.

Finally, something interesting to note is that nearly every Aspect follows its own Hero's Journey cycle - full actualization for each one usually means reaching around to its opposite Aspect, and taking lessons from them - for example, Breath players need to learn maturity and responsibility, while Blood players need to learn relaxation and whimsy. Thus, an Aspect at its worst manifests in two ways - either a toxic overabundance of the Aspect's worst traits, or such a dearth of the aspect that it begins to resemble its opposite. Only by reaching into the opposite, however, can the player be tempered and reach full maturity - can they become more of who they are.

SPACE / TIME

Space and Time are both concerned with physical reality, goals, and the way one approaches them.

Space is associated with "the big picture" - with recycling, reproduction, and the interconnectivity of all things. The aspect also presides over the enjoyment of the journey over the destination - Space players serve as reminders that the present moment is as important as the end goal. Space is often a more passive Aspect, being the stage upon which the story is set. They're the hosts of the party, and the one who marks the ending.

Its players reflect these tendencies, often being feminine, with penchants for life-giving acts such as gardening. Their personalities tend towards frivolity and silliness, finding it difficult to stay on-topic or bring full gravitas to serious situations. Perhaps a better word would be "distractable;" when the aspect is so concerned with all things in connection with each other, it's easy to lose track of details, and it's easy to enjoy things simply as they come. Space players tend to be kind, patient, and forgiving, which is a strength as much as it is a flaw; it's easy for malicious actors to take advantage of this compassion, or for the Space player to find themselves in a poor situation by being overly permissive. They can easily be painted over by stronger personalities, and tend to struggle with romantic relationships, as they attract many with their kind and giving natures, and few are naturally so considerate of the Space player in turn.

"Passive" is a good word to use; at a toxic overabundance of their Aspect, Space players are trampled underfoot. They become enablers, servants to dark forces, or so lost in their own worlds that they neglect the one they live in. With their Aspect "inverted," a Space player becomes a demon of poor prioritization. Distracting not just themselves from their true purpose, but others, too, the Space player will wreak havoc by overemphasizing unimportant topics and ignoring important tasks. This superficially resembles Time, in that the Space player will become fanatically dedicated to their task, but note that the poor prioritization is still Space-esque at its core.

Still, within this nadir is a valuable lesson: the strength of self-assertion, and the determination to see a goal through. These will allow the Space player to weed their garden, separating good from bad, allowing it to flourish like never before.

Time, in contrast, is associated with "the little things" - with details, minutiae, and processes. Time presides over the struggle toward something greater, the endurance of hardship with an eye on the prize - the destination over the journey. Time players are the ones keeping track of the tasklist, marking off each item as it reaches completion; they are the tireless workers keeping the whole engine running.

Time players, thus, are ones whose lives are marked by struggle. They are highly goal-oriented; in contrast to how Space players can easily move from goal to goal, task to task, Time players feel bound to see things through to the end, finding satisfaction only when they've achieved their desired result - and only until they come across the next goal in their journey. A Time player isn't happy without a goal to work towards, a craft to polish, a prize to win - but this driven nature can easily be its own downfall, as it leaves little room for the player to admit to their own shortcomings, or ask for help from others. Moreover, their focus on minutiae can leave them blinded to the bigger picture, and it's easy for a time player to fall to despair, able to do nothing more but spin their wheels. They're prone to directionless anguish, frustration, and resentment towards the seeming futility of their actions, becoming destructive and defiant even when it doesn't serve them to do so.

At a toxic overabundance of their Aspect, Time players become explosively destructive. The ultimate "goal" of all things is death, with which Time is associated, and accordingly, Time players have a penchant for aligning themselves with futility and entropy, struggling so hard that their thrashing leaves a trail of annihilation in their wake. With their Aspect "inverted," Time players detach entirely - they can become so fed up with struggle that they simply opt to lay their weapons down and let the end take them. It's very easy for them to come to the conclusions that either everything matters, or nothing matters. This superficially resembles Space and its big picture thinking, but note that its framework of struggle, and whether or not a goal needs to be pursued, makes it a Time concern.

But the inherent meaninglessness of existence is, in itself, an important realization to make - that whether or not anything "matters" in the grand scheme, things can still be worth doing, worth caring about, and worth investing in. This realization allows the Time player to attack their goals with renewed vigor and greater clarity, which in turn means that the party becomes an efficient, well-oiled machine.

BREATH / BLOOD

Breath and Blood are both concerned with directionality, interpersonal relationships, and autonomy.

Breath is the Aspect governing freedom, liberty, and independence; it is a force that breaks shackles, clears out social norms, and refutes "the rules," whatever those rules may be. Breath players can't be tied down, whether by physical bonds, societal rules, or even the ineffable forces of the narrative itself. They are leaders of example, pioneers, and trailblazers, opening new paths for their teammates to follow.

Breath players are goofy and gullible, often with hearts full of childlike whimsy, naivety, and even immaturity. They are friendly and well-meaning, fond of simpler things, and easily swayed by others. They approach the world with a sincere and innocent good-naturedness, like a baby animal before it learns to be fearful of danger. Something about this sincerity seems to make Breath players irresistible to others, and they often find themselves the subject of romantic attraction. However, in this childishness is also the great pitfall of many Breath players - their natures are naturally conflict-averse, and egotistical the way a child can be, failing to see beyond themselves. They can be incredibly callous when not considering the consequences of their actions, or the viewpoints of others.

At their worst, Breath players are irresponsible and callous. They'll shirk the consequences of their actions, blaming anybody but themselves, or simply choose not to care who they hurt in order to get what they want. They may even choose to stop making choices for themselves, leading to the "inversion" of their Aspect - a voluntary loss of freedom and independence, derived from an Breath-like aversion to responsibility, which superficially resembles the bondage of Blood.

But if they are able to overcome these tendencies, a Breath player will learn what true responsibility looks like - responsibility for themselves, their choices, and the effect they have on others. Armed with this, a Breath player's ability to break bonds can be focused into a clear force for good, clearing away all obstacles and harmful societal standards, leading the charge into something new and beautiful.

Blood, in sharp contrast, is the aspect that governs bondage, contracts, and interdependence. It is a force that binds. Under Blood's sway are not only romantic entanglements, but familial, friendly, and societal ones as well. This aspect sees overlap with Heart, but the division is this: Heart concerns itself with feelings, and Blood concerns itself with compatibility. Blood players are diplomats, forces that remind us all that we are more similar than we are different, and that that similarity should bring us together when we are on the verge of pulling apart.

Blood players, reflective of their Aspect's association with bonds, tend to be neurotic and obsessive. They have a tendency to over-examine and overthink, constantly fretting over the infinite and infinitesimal variables that influence the shape of society and interpersonal relationships. However, this judgmental nature stems from a deep well of idealism and empathy; Blood players can't help but care about others and wish for the best for them. In a way, this makes them one of the most mature members of the team, being concerned with its overall well-being. Unfortunately, their prowess does not extend inwards, and their assessment of themselves is usually direly incorrect - all the worse because Blood players always feel responsible for those around them. Blood, being the Aspect concerned with interdependence, is the weakest one when all alone.

Thus, it's easy for the Blood player to wind up controlling - desperate to make sure everyone is moving according to their vision, they'll become iron-fisted dictators, with a "my way or the highway" approach to social interactions. It's easy for them to wind up pariahs of their own making, becoming so critical of others, or so adamant about enforcing their own will, that they inadvertantly sever their ties - something that superficially resembles Breath's independence, but is truly a result of Blood's neuroticism.

But with that space and separation can come great clarity. Blood players must learn to relax their grip, and allow people room to breathe - including themselves. Once able to grasp that sometimes bonds must be forged with a soft touch, Blood players' natural empathy shines through, allowing them to build something so much kinder and greater than the sum of its parts.

LIGHT / VOID

Light and Void are both concerned with knowledge, ontology, and "narrative relevance".

Light (as well as its counterpart) are perhaps best understood through the lens of "narrative" - this idea that, of all things that do and don't exist, and all events that do and don't happen, only the ones put to page are "relevant". Thus, Light is associated with knowledge and luck - that is to say, it's associated with the knowable, the objective, and the concrete, and the ability to determine "important" events. Light players have read the book they're participating in, and able to serve as luminary guides from one plot point to another, lighting the lampposts for others to follow.

Light players, naturally, are erudite and educated, possessing keen intellects and cunning minds. They are fond of knowledge itself, of markers of status and prestige - whether that's wealth, the adulation of the masses, or a massive library. They harbor a desire to be important, to be seen, to be acknowledged, and are happiest when they are looked up to. Conversely, they deal poorly with being looked down upon. Their confidence transmutes easily into hubris, and they struggle with having that pride challenged. As such, they tend to be volatile and unpredictable, quick to retaliate against those who threaten their egos, or obsequious to those whose acknowledgement they desire.

Their desire for the limelight can quickly spell disaster - they can become incredibly cruel, harsh, and egotistical in their pursuit of narrative significance. They forget, in their obsession, that they, too, are fallible and flawed, and the inevitable reminder can come very harshly. Light players struggle with moderation, and as such, when they feel shame, they'll often take drastic measures to cope with it - deliberately darkening their own influence or intellects, removing themselves from the "story" entirely - something which superficially resembles Void's penchant for the background, but which is firmly rooted in Light's obsessive need for drama.

But in experimenting with narrative insignificance, Light players can reach an epiphany - in their absence, others may shine, and that can be a wonderful thing. Light players, then, can learn to shine not just for their own sakes, but for the sake of others, allowing them to weave a story even more brilliant than any that can be weaved alone.

Void, in contrast, is the blank spaces between the words. That which is secret, subjective, unknowable - these are Void's domain. It's associated with taboos and hidden things, sexuality and pleasure. It's also associated with the empty canvas - the blank space before creation, and the oblivion to which creation is eventually destined for. Thus, it stands for infinite possibility, though the collapse of those possibilities into a reality removes that reality from Void's domain.

Thus are Void players ever cosigned to the background, though this generally suits them fine. Void players are very self-possessed. Where Light players tend to exaggerate and complicate, Void players are honest and simple, preferring straightforward solutions. They don't tend to think very hard, instead letting intuition and emotion guide them to where they want to be - which makes them one of the more stable personalities on a team. However, this simplistic, feelings-driven approach often leads to pleasure-seeking behavior, poor impulse control, and overindulgence in vice, and from there, to irrelevance, with which Void is so closely interlinked.

Void players are especially prone to vice, and at their worst, will become so drunk on pleasurable activities that they pursue them to the active detriment of the party's goals or the Void player's self-improvement - making them the ultimate irrelevant character. They can also very easily drag others into their mélange, with a forcefulness that resembles Light's illuminating guidance, but which is ultimately rooted in Void's pursuit of personal pleasure.

But there's a lesson to be learned in Light's domain: how to bring themselves into relevance and greatness. A Void player, once they learn to pursue not just personal pleasure, but a greater satisfaction for the collective whole, can drag the Void behind them, kicking and screaming, to where it'll be of use.

MIND / HEART

Mind and Heart are concerned with what it means to be a sentient being, with identity, and with why we do what we do.

Mind is the Aspect associated with logic, rationality, karma, ethics, and justice. To a Mind player, they "are" because they "think". They are keenly aware of the consequences of every action, and well-versed in cognition and behavior, such to the point of manipulating others with ease. Deeply concerned with the "effect" of cause-and-effect, Mind players are always cognizant of debts and credits, where justice is owed and where it has been over-meted, and their subtle machinations culminate, like well-placed dominoes, in grand and explosive finales.

Mind players are schemers - it's in their nature. They have a tendency to view the world as a puzzle or game, with themselves and the people around them as pieces on a board, and set as their standard rules the laws of ethics and karma - owed debts and overhanging credit - guilty and innocent. Mind players are wickedly cunning, and have an high success rate with every scheme they commit themselves to, but the grand downfall of all these tendencies is that they tend to lack in a sense of identity, and have a poor grasp on their own emotions or desires. While they may know how to provoke a desired reaction, they don't know how to change someone's mind. They often find themselves grappling very painfully with their own selfhood, with feelings of emptiness, inadequacy, or uncertainty.

Thus, a Mind player at the worst zenith of their Aspect is heartless and cruel. Leaving no space for empathy or even personal feelings in their plans, the Mind player will plot for an ending as heartless as they are. But a Mind player is never truly without emotion, and ignoring their own feelings causes them to manifest in terrible ways - Mind players have a tendency to seek toxic, codependent relationships, hoping to find external validation, subjecting themselves to the wishes of others, which can appear like Heart's fixation on feelings and desire.

But in recognizing their own need for emotional validation, and the importance of their own feelings, a Mind player can realize that there's an entire dimension to the game they've been playing that they've been ignorant of. When a Mind player learns to temper their schemes with empathy, compassion, and kindness, how much more success they'll see - and how much happier that grand finale will be!

Heart, then, is associated with feelings, motivations, intuition, the soul, and the self. To a Heart player, they "are" because they "feel" like they are - and they're keenly aware of the multitudes that are contained within themselves. Deeply concerned with the "cause" of cause-and-effect, they're drawn to desires, those of themselves and of others, especially where strong feelings are concerned. Heart players are gifted with an intuitive understanding of those around them, both their good and bad qualities, and are tasked with the grand task of bringing out the best.

It stands to reason, then, that Heart players have a firm grasp on who they are and what they want. For the same reasons, it's difficult for a Heart player to truly hate or condemn another person, because they are so adept at understanding them. However, this understanding comes with a price - because the Heart player is so aware of themselves, they can't escape their own worst traits - nobody self-loathes as accurately as a Heart player can. Nor can they ever truly be untruthful with another, making them poor manipulators. Capable of presenting a different facet of themselves as the situation calls for it, certainly, but just as it's impossible to lie to a Heart player, who always knows how someone really feels, it's impossible for a Heart player to lie to themselves.

With this sincerity comes vulnerability. Heart players wear theirs on their sleeves, and at their worst, this can make them demanding, needy, and sensitive - so eager to connect with others emotionally that they'll cramp themselves to fit others' desires. But they can't ever keep this up for long; Heart players have a tendency to withdraw from others after being hurt too often, finding it easier to be alone and silent about their feelings than to deal with the pain of rejection. They may even work to manipulate others, preying on their emotions and desires to force them to act in their worst interests. This superficially resembles Mind's cold logic, but unlike Mind's cool rationality, Heart's aloofness is a mask, an attempt to avoid pain by pulling away.

But this isn't purely a negative, because a Heart player can learn a healthier form of detachment, and separate out healthy and helpful desires from harmful and detrimental ones. Given this clarity, the Heart player becomes the team's emotional core, able to raise up each teammate's best qualities, while helping them deal with their worst, enabling everyone to be the best possible version of themselves - which the Heart player knew them to be all along.

LIFE / DOOM

Life and Doom are concerned with outlook, with journeys, and with trials and tribulations.

Life is an aspect concerned with healing, growing, and improving. It is associated with beginnings, optimism, and positive emotions. The very essence of Life lies in its healing abilities, in this idea of overcoming the odds and triumphing over hardship and difficulty. Life is action, movement, and motion, and its players can scarcely hold still. Life will find a way - and Life players harbor the same immutable belief; they are the most stubborn weeds in the garden, the cockroach that survives the apocalypse, and the beating heart that refuses to stop.

Life players tend to be optimistic and confident. They are self-assured individuals, with a stubborn belief that good things are on their way, and any hardship they face is not only temporary, but something that can be overcome. They can find the silver lining in any cloud, and enjoy themselves under any circumstance. They love to nurture, to care for others, though this love has a tendency to be one-sided. Indeed, Life's stubborn nature is its players' greatest pitfall; their persistence easily becomes obstinacy, and their confidence can become condescension. Their self-assured nature easily becomes egotism, and they can have great difficulty grappling with those who don't share their views - even coming to oppose those who bring emotional pain and suffering that can't be easily fixed.

It's very easy for a Life player to decide another person isn't worth their attention, and opt to leave them behind - after all, Life has to move forward, no matter what it tramples in the process. At their worst, they're stubborn to the point of not listening to anyone but themselves, confidence becoming blockheadedness. This focus on forward progress without looking back can even cause Life players to become harmful to others, so focused they are on their own growth that they don't notice that they're choking everyone else out. This may resemble Doom's death in its worst case - arresting everything else, eventually blocking even their own path with unruly, out-of-control fecundity.

Thus, a Life player needs to learn to more gracefully accept Doom's influence - to pause, slow down, and consider viewpoints that are negative, unpleasant, or difficult. A Life player, endowed with moderation, will be able to cultivate a bountiful garden, rather than an unruly jungle - a place for all to flourish and live in plenty, never wanting for anything.

Doom, then, is the aspect concerned with death, with rest, and with endings. Doom is associated with suffering and with negative emotions, with peace, with sleep, and with dreams. Doom players have a natural penchant for prophecy, and are often dual dreamers, able to take advantage of both Skaia's oracular clouds and the Horrorterrors' voices over Derse. All things must eventually come to an end, and not all times will be good; in these troubling times, Doom players shine, as they are the guides who call the murk home, and know best how to navigate rough waters, course-correcting until the storm passes.

Doom players tend to be deeply pessimistic. They experience, to a much more magnified degree than others, negative feelings and impulses, and it's difficult for them to see the world without seeing its flaws, first and foremost. They are not healers, but commiserators, those who understand greatest that sometimes there's no way to deal with tragedy but to simply sit with it and wait for it to pass. The counterpoint to Life's insistence on breathless positivity, Doom is a reminder that pain, grief, sadness, shame, and guilt are not unnecessary things - in fact, excising them can lead to terrible consequences. Doom players are the universe's martyrs, often taking it upon themselves to course-correct, to sacrifice themselves in order to give others a chance to continue on, to avert a terrible fate.

Unfortunately, this tendency also brings with it a tendency for Doom players to wallow in misfortune, or worse, to take themselves out of the picture, giving up entirely on seeing a better ending. As if energized by their own sense of futility, a Doom player at the "inverse" of their aspect may seem to echo a Life player's focus on forward progress and motion, actively spurring their team on towards an untimely demise.

A Doom player must learn to harness this sense of progress for good, rather than harm. A Doom player, once able to grasp the joy of life even in the greatest depths of despair, will be able to fill even the darkest hours with peace, meaning, and hope.

HOPE / RAGE

Hope and Rage are concerned with permission, and are the lens by which we define reality.

Hope is described by Hussie in the book commentary as being "framed as the most powerful aspect" because it is, literally, an aspect that defines reality. Its specific ability is lies in reducing the "fakeness attribute" of something, thus making it "real". Hope is associated with convictions, with idealism, with faith, order, holiness, and, of course, with magic - which Hope turns real. Hope is permission itself - a reality-breaking ability to look at the world and decree that it must be another way, a way in which the Hope player believes it ought to be.

Thus, Hope players tend to be hard-headed zealots, with no self-awareness whatsoever. Their inclination towards powerful beliefs makes them very difficult to dissuade from a path they've set their minds to, and their specific suite of abilities makes them terrifyingly likely to make their vision come true. Hope players are usually not particularly cunning, nor particularly intelligent, nor even particularly empathetic. Given the Aspect's focus on conviction and faith, it's usually very difficult for Hope players to notice anything occurring beyond their own minds and feelings. Thus are Hope players hopeless optimists, hopeless romantics, and hopeless in general - often great sources of embarrassment to their teams, as their naked sincerity is painful to witness. However, their ability to define reality does not leave them when their beliefs are faulty (which they often are, given Hope players are not particularly introspective, either), which is what makes a Hope player so dangerous.

A Hope player can easily be set on the wrong path - as convicted as they are, and as difficult to shake from that conviction as they can be, Hope players can easily march down a path of destruction, if not persuaded with a deft touch and gentle guidance. In the event that their faith is broken, Hope players easily become despondent and lost, floundering and wishy-washy, which superficially resembles Rage's self-consciousness, but is truly just a lack of direction.

But Rage has a powerful lesson to teach Hope players - that of questioning themselves, interrogating their own beliefs. Once their convictions have gone through rigorous scrutiny, revised into the best, brightest versions of themselves they can be, a Hope player is a worker of miracles - speaking into existence a beautiful future on faith alone, proclaiming that how they see the world is how the world shall be.

Rage, then, is the power of denial. If Hope reduces the "fakness" of a thing, then Rage reduces its "realness". Rage, too, is a means of defining reality, in this case taking a torch to the aspects of reality that it rejects. In more passive Classes, this works in subtler ways, stoking others towards destructive fury. Rage is associated with anarchy, chaos, revolution, destruction, anger, and nihilism. A Rage player will not suffer a world that does not satisfy them, breaking it to pieces, such that something new can take its place.

Therefore, Rage players are prone to harboring anger and resentment, discontentment with the status quo, and faith only in that what currently exists must somehow be dismantled. However, unlike Hope players, who can't help but be pathetically sincere, Rage players are incredibly self-conscious, and often try to mask and hide their embitterment and anger. This, ironically, leads to further ostracization, as others can tell they're being inauthentic. This only further compounds their sense of alienation, and drives them further into smoldering resentment. This makes Rage players sound volatile and dangerous, and they are - but the same fury that moves them is the fury that ignites revolts and tears down oppressive regimes, a necessary and vital well of energy and momentum. It takes careful handling to ensure that the team's Rage player can channel this energy towards righteous causes, rather than marking all as a target for their destructive ire.

In the worst-case scenario, the Rage player turns that rage out indiscriminately, deciding that there is nothing worth fighting for - only unpleasant things to be brought to ruin. This is Rage at its toxic overabundance. Conversely, a Rage player can retreat so harshly into their mask that they allow others to dictate their beliefs, taking them to heart - an action motivated by Rage's destruction (this time, turned inwards) that superficially resembles Hope's convictions and faith.

The true path for a Rage player is a healthy balance - to allow themselves some of Hope's sincerity, and by doing so, to become more sincere and true. This will let them release the pressure of their mounting ire, such that it can be converted into productive, rather than destructive, energy - the heralds of a revolution, razing away the faulty, corrupt old systems such that something better and new can take their place.

CLASS

As previously stated, Class governs a character's character arc - the character's starting circumstances, whether their conflict is primarily internal or external, and what major aspect of their Aspect becomes a hurdle for them to overcome.

In the same way an Aspect's sways tie into the character's base personality, the character's Class abilities tie into the kinds of struggles they face, and have great influence on how their Aspects manifest.

That being said, a character - and their Class - are always subject to their Aspect, as their Aspect is tied fundamentally into who they are. Thus, it can be said that a Light player will always have an affinity for knowledge and provide Seer-esque guidance even when not in a Seer role, a Doom player will always have prophetic abilities even with a non-prophetic class (note that Mituna, an Heir, still had prophetic visions, despite those generally being the realm of Mages and Seers), and a Life player will always have a penchant for healing, even paired with a destructive Class like Prince or Thief (the Condesce, after all, could still extend life; a Prince of Life would likely manifest not as one who causes plants to wither and die (this would actually suit a Prince of Doom), but one who destroys in the way of nature overtaking an abandoned shack, or a forest breaking down a body).

This means that when a character's Classpect inverts their Aspect, it doesn't mean that they suddenly become a hero of the opposing Aspect - rather, it means that, at their very worst - at the nadirs of their character arcs - they will lean so much into their Aspect's worst traits that it will superficially appear as the opposite, when all it really is is an absence of themselves. Dave, a Time player, usually so attentive to detail (despite his disaffected facade, he's always paying rapt attention to Karkat's rants, and noticing all the clues pointing to his destiny of defeating LE), at his lowest emotional point (arguing with Grimbark Jade after sobbing about his lost childhood whimsy), states that he doesn't think Lord English is that big a deal, and never even did anything directly bad to him or his friends - when he was literally directly haunted by LE via Cal his entire childhood. Similarly, Rose drinks herself stupid in order to cope with her mother's death.

Note how, superficially, this almost appears to be an invocation of Space's "big picture thinking," its passivity and permissibility, or how Rose's case appears to be Void's tendency to indulge in vices and pleasure - but they're not. Time's worst traits superficially resemble Space, Light's resemble Void, and vice versa - Grimbark Jade is the Condesce's taskmaster, and Porrim at her worst was as much of a nag as Kankri, trying to do a Time player's managerial job. Horuss and Equius at their worst won't shut up and won't stop talking over their partners. So on and so forth.

Finally, Calliope tells us a couple things about Active/Passive pairings. The first is that Calliope introduces the idea of paired classes with the idea that both Rogues and Thieves "steal" (and later, that both Princes and Bards "destroy"). This presents the idea that both classes can be roughly summed up with the idea that every pairing can be summed up with a common theme.

The second is her description of what makes a Class Active versus Passive - that Active Classes move their Aspect to benefit themselves, whereas Passive Classes allow their Aspect to be moved in order for others to benefit. In a way, they're like active and passive voice in grammar (to tie in with the way Classes and Aspects are so tied to ideas of narrative and character arc) - an Active Class performs their Aspect, and a Passive Class allows the Aspect to be performed "by others" (the famous piece of advice regarding telling the two apart being that a sentence written in passive voice can have "by zombies" tacked to the end of it - eg, John is attacked "by zombies", as compared to active voice - John attacks).

Thus, the Class pairings, along with their basic themes, are as follows:

KNIGHT - / MAID +

"One who controls."

Knights and Maids are paired together through two key factors: the first is that they both hold leadership or managerial roles; the second is that both classes carry the connotation of serving a Lord. Fittingly, they are both struggle with the control of malicious forces - Knights with prophecies indicating their role as heroes, Maids with direct usurpation by malicious forces.

PAGE - / HEIR +

"One who inherits."

Pages and Heirs are paired together because they both fundamentally deal with the great inheritances placed before them. Pages can come into incredible, limitless power - but they must struggle and work hard for it; Heirs begin the game in societal comfort and wealth, and must learn to defect from their decadence.

THIEF - / ROGUE +

"One who steals."

Thieves and Rogues are highly adaptable, as Thieves are capable of fantastic on-the-fly adaptation, whereas Rogues have an infinite toolbox at their disposal. They are both provocateurs, shakers of the status quo, though the Thief does so for personal gain, while the Rogue does so to right injustice.

MAGE - / SEER +

"One who guides."

Mages and Seers are tied together by the gift of prophecy and future sight. Seers are privy to the endless branching paths that the future may take, while Mages are gifted with the ability to outright determine a future that will certainly happen, appearing to be prophecy.

WITCH - / SYLPH +

"One who changes."

Witches and Sylphs are individuals blessed with great magic, but poor judgement. Sylphs heal and nurture, but are drawn to those with strong desires, and enable them to cause great harm; Witches, meanwhile, possess strong emotions, which they often use as moral guidance, for better or worse.

PRINCE - / BARD +

"One who destroys."

Princes and Bards are representatives of society - the one who determines its course, and the one who recounts its passing. Princes suffer from a toxic overabundance of Aspect, and are prone to spectacular meltdowns, whereas Bards are always poised for a crisis of faith. Both are responsible for catastrophic failures - but also breathless victories.

INDIVIDUAL CLASSES

KNIGHT

"One who controls [Aspect] or controls using [Aspect]."

Knights are frontline warriors, rallying points behind which the party falls into line. Although they are often leaders, just as often, they are logistical planners, strategists, or simply the team's beating heart. They are almost always thrust into positions of narrative significance, often carrying grand destinies or even outright heroic prophecies on their shoulders. The are the party's rallying force, its center, and a guiding light - the one to lead the charge, behind which the party will follow.

The primary character struggle a Knight will have is with crippling insecurity. Knights are prone to self-loathing and imposter syndrome, and will often adopt a façade in direct opposition to their aspect (ie, their fundamental personality) in order to cope with their feelings of inadequacy. Thus, their relationship with their aspect becomes love/hate - though they're naturally drawn to their aspect, and even naturally skilled at utilizing it, they have a tendency to become their own worst enemy, as their insecurities make them push their façades, and their façades distance them from their aspect.

"Controlling their Aspect" means that the Knight has easy access to their Aspect, wielding it like a tool or weapon - for good or for ill; "controlling using their Aspect" is what grants Knights their leadership abilities, able to dictate how others ought to act in accordance with the Knight's Aspect - whether their understanding of their Aspect is high or low, whether their advice is good or bad.

Therefore, at their worst, a Knight will fall prey to their insecurities, retreating into their facades, rejecting their Aspect, which will allow disharmony or misuse of it to proliferate throughout the team. They may even wind up deliberately twisting their Aspect's presence within the team so that they never have to be confronted by it; these distortions ripple outwards and eventually culminate in major catastrophes, all on account of the Knight's negligence.

But at their best, a Knight is a shining beacon and guiding light; when they come to terms with themselves, and allow themselves to be comfortable in their own skin - when they no longer allow themselves to be ruled by their insecurities and anxieties - they ensure that their aspect is harmonious wherever it appears throughout their party, and can wield it expertly as a weapon, as if it were their own flesh and blood.

MAID

"One who allows control through [Aspect] or allows [Aspect] to be controlled."

Unlike Knights, which take positions of frontline prominence, a Maid is a managerial presence in the backlines, though no less crucial for the smooth functioning of a party. Just as the invisible hands of the hired help keep a household running, the Maid will be called upon to provide vital services to keep the game stable, even if those services are more noticeable by their absence than their presence. Maids are often the party's unsung heroes or even shadow leaders, tugging at invisible strings, fingers on the pulse.

A Maid's primary character struggle will be that of escaping oppression. Maids tend to start the game in positions of subjugation or subservience, especially to malicious forces, and their abilities often end up being exploited to serve their masters' ends. Therefore, one may even have the impression that a Maid is ruled by their aspect, held prisoner and slave - at least until they're able turn the tables.

"Allowing their Aspect to be controlled" means that Maids are capable of directly dispensing their aspect unto others - a Maid of Time can dispense time unto foes, pausing them in their tracks; a Maid of Life can grant so much life that they can revive the dead. Their boons are great and direct, straightforward in a similar manner to Knights. "Allowing control through their Aspect" grants them their uncanny managerial abilities, as their aspect dictates the realm in which nothing occurs without the Maid's knowledge or permission, a realm made available to whomever the Maid's allegiance lies with.

Thus, at their worst, the Maid becomes a saboteur. Exploited by malign forces, their abilities to allow control over others through their aspect, or control of their aspect, makes them perfect vehicles by which their aspect can be hijacked or usurped, and made to turn against the party, and they often find themselves placed into these positions through no fault of their own. It takes the party banding together to shake off the forces that would keep a Maid in bondage.

However, at their best, Maids ensure that the party can never go too far off the rails. There is a place for everything, and everything will be in its place; a Maid is a supply line, a safe haven, and a promise that everything will be neat and tidy when the party returns from war. When the Maid belongs to themselves, their homestead becomes a fortress, and nothing occurs under the Maid's watchful eye without their express permission.

PAGE

"One who works to inherit [Aspect] or inherits [Aspect] for themselves."

Pages are a class defined by promise. As the name suggests, a Page begins weak, but has the great potential to develop into one of the most powerful players in the game. The exact nature of a Page's powers are vague, not because they are insignificant, but because they are so great that it's difficult to encompass them all. At the apex of their arcs, Pages are capable of miraculous feats, overpowering even Lords and Muses - if only they could reach that point and stay there.

A Page begins the game weakest of all, reflective of their long journey of growth. Where most classes only fall into deficit of their Aspect at their lowest emotional points, Pages begin their arcs in deficit - exhibiting character traits opposite to those their Aspect normally encompasses. Moreso than any other class, a Page must learn to grow into their Aspect. Weak-willed, naive, and easily hurt, Pages require careful nurturing if they're to come into their own.

"Working to inherit their Aspect" describes the endless journey of growth the Page must undertake - one with many missteps, backslides, and setbacks along the way. Still, they "inherit their aspect," meaning that their full potential, when realized, is overwhelmingly great - practically becoming their Aspect in humanoid form, capable of utilizing it to its glorious full potential.

However, their nature defeats them, and even if they can attain this state, the Page usually can't stay there for long. At their very worst, the Page's deficit of their Aspect's better qualities can turn the Page into a gravitic well of misfortune - an albatross about the party's neck, the centerpoint, if not inciting incident, of a massive disaster, as their team is sucked in by the Page's natural weakness.

But this is only true as it contrasts to a Page at their best - having grappled and won with the greatest of all weakness, a Page is poised to come into the greatest of all strength. Shown kindness, compassion, and support, a Page at full power reflects a party at their best. A Page at full strength is breathtaking to behold, an unstoppable force of nature, their Aspect made manifest.

HEIR

"One whom [Aspect] grants inheritance or inherits [Aspect] for others."

Heirs, in contrast to Pages, start the game strong. They usually belong to the upper echelons of their respective societies, a position of great wealth, leisure, and comfort, and are set to be inheritors of even greater wealth. Similarly, their Aspect comes to them as if of its own will - it is powerful, but difficult for the Heir to control, reflecting the wealth and status they've enjoyed as birthright.

An Heir's main challenge is that of examining their privilege, and learning where they wish to spread the gift they've been given. Because of their positions of sheltered comfort, Heirs are not particularly world-wise, and often harbor massive blind spots to the suffering of others and the ills of society. As such, they tend to be fairly aimless, given great power but no strong motivations, and have a tendency to simply indulge in their Aspect without contributing great help or hindrance to their team at all.

The Heir's Aspect is practically an independent entity. Being one whom "their Aspect grants them inheritance" refers to how the Heir starts powerful, able to summon their Aspect to perform great, miraculous acts. However, it is highly intuitive and difficult to control. The Heir's challenge lies not in attaining great power, but in attaining control over, and the ability to direct, their existing abilities. Once they do, they can "inherit their Aspect for others" - Heirs become a conduit through which their party can experience their Aspect, making it a usable pool of wealth for them all to draw from. However, because of their comfortable positions, many Heirs end up dallying, finding no pressing need to do so.

But this dallying hides a ticking clock. An Heir's inheritance will come to them, one way or another, and if they aren't ready to receive the great responsibilities that come with such great power, then the power will eventually consume them. An Heir with no clear direction will eventually become lost to their Aspect, entirely removing both from play. Like how wealthy inheritors simply become part of the status quo, so, too, does an Heir disappear into their Aspect, fixing it in place.

Thus, Heirs must learn where they have been blind, where they have been foolish, and what it means to be underprivileged. Then, once they turn their energies towards addressing those injustices - to taking responsibility for building a better future - when their wealth comes to them, they'll be able to distribute it where it's needed most. An Heir, fully-realized, brings their Aspect to heel, and makes it a resource available to their entire team, as if welcoming them all into the family.

THIEF

"One who steals [Aspect] or steals using [Aspect]."

Thieves are, as the name suggests, greedy - much of their arc revolves around a desire to amass wealth, though what's considered "wealth" varies based on the Thief and especially their Aspect. They tend to be callous people by nature, capable of ignoring or trampling over the feelings of others in order to take what they want, in the hopes of filling an emotional void the Thief may not even be fully aware of.

The Thief's playstyle is one of careful resource management. Reflecting a natural tendency to take "wealth" from others, Thieves are unable to use their Aspect without first "stealing" it - a subtractive act which leaves the victim bereft of the Aspect, weakening them in the process. Because of the finicky nature of these abilities, it takes great cunning to be a Thief, and the Class both demands and requires the player to be adaptable, flexible, and quick on their feet, able to effect complicated schemes and engineer the perfect situations for their powers to have the greatest effect. Thieves aren't necessarily strong, but they have a very high victory ratio, because they're experts at turning a situation to their own advantage.

"Stealing their Aspect" refers to the fundamental way in which the Thief class is played, this resource management game; "stealing using their Aspect" reflects how the Thief often becomes a malignant force within the party, viewing their own teammates as caches of wealth to plunder. Thieves are naturally prone to hurting others for their own purposes, craving drama and attention, and being of such callous dispositions that they're able to perform extreme acts of cruelty given the right motivations.

Thieves often become a target of ire within the party, disruptive forces whose quest for personal wealth and fulfillment comes at the cost of those around them. At their worst, they can bring so much heat down upon their own shoulders that the party feels the need to treat them like an enemy, which is disastrous for party harmony. Moreover, it's disastrous for the Thieves themselves, as Thieves seek wealth to compensate for some emotional emptiness, and making enemies of their friends only serves to deepen their ennui.

Thus, a Thief must be taught that true happiness and fulfillment doesn't come from the struggle for wealth, but from the building of something better with those they care about. A Thief, thus turned to heroic purposes, becomes the party's pinch hitter - an adaptable spy, an unpredictable maverick, an element of surprise - and above all, a reliable ally, capable of turning any tide in the party's favor.

ROGUE

"One who steals from [Aspect] or steals [Aspect] for others."

Rogues, on the other hand, call to mind such figures as Robin Hood, stealing from the rich to distribute to the poor. Rogues are at their best when they're agents of a well-planned heist, as they possess an unlimited toolbox - their own Aspect - to play with. Their Aspect is a treasure trove, just waiting for the Rogue to plunder it and share its riches - if only the Rogue can figure out how.

Rogues are forces of revolution. They naturally carry a rebellious spirit, one which bristles at injustice, takes a stand against authority, and questions the status quo. Their ideas are unfocused, however; they know they must rebel, but usually don't start with a clear idea of against who or what. They know that their society is injust, but they don't know how to address that injustice. They know there are villains, and may even know these villains' identity, but they don't know how best to defy them. In a similar way, they're often lost as to how to utilize their Aspect beyond its most basic applications, and usually require external assistance in order to bring out its full potential.

Rogues' true potential lies in "stealing from their Aspect" - an additive act, rather than a subtractive one, as a Thief's stealing is. Rogues are capable of removing their own Aspect's sway over another entity, allowing it to exhibit the characteristics of the opposite Aspect; a Rogue of Void can create things out of nothing, a Rogue of Heart can tease out behaviors and actions. They can also "steal their Aspect for others," allowing them access to their own Aspect's suite of abilities as well. This allows the Rogue incomparable flexibility, their abilities - like their dispositions - rebellious and subversive.

But their rebellious spirit, coupled with their lack of understanding as to who their real enemies are, is dangerous when left unchecked. Rogues often suffer from a failure to start, giving up on trying to understand the deeper implications of their abilities, and of the society they can't seem to find contentment in - but they can also suffer from a worse fate: rebellion without a cause. Rogues' free spirits can lead to them bucking the status quo in ways that actively harm others, performing acts of taboo or poor taste just because that rebellious energy needs to be put to use somewhere. These can have disastrous knock-on consequences, as some things are taboo for good reason.

Thus, Rogues need to be guided - to make connections with others, and come to a greater understanding of the world at large. Once they know their target, and what needs to be done, the Rogue makes sure there are no obstacles along the way - no safe is uncrackable, no prison inescapable, and no problem unsolvable, so long as the Rogue is there to work their magic.

MAGE

"One who guides [Aspect] or guides [Aspect] for themselves."

Mages are prophets, of the "always correct" variety - or so it seems. In actuality, Mages don't "predict" the future, they "choose" it - in a setting where the future is mutable, the Mage's ability is to speak into existence a future they desire, to tip the scales of causality and collapse possibilities into a single definite course. Their Aspect is the lens through which their "prophecy" occurs, a realm in which they command the fabric of reality itself.

As if to karmically balance this incredible power, Mages are afflicted by deep and terrible sadness. They start the game miserable, having been subjected to the greatest injustices their Aspect can offer, tormented by guilt, shame, and self-loathing. Their worldview has been shadowed with a lens of suffering and anguish, and so, too, is their view of the future. Mages usually begin the game having already set several prophecies into motion, and these early prophecies are usually obstacles that the party must overcome.

Mages "guide their Aspect" - this refers to the way their prophecies, that is, their chosen futures, always come true. Their visions may be limited to the sway of their Aspect, but it remains a powerful ability nonetheless. "Guiding their Aspect for themselves," then, outlines the Class's Active nature - the futures the Mage picks must be ones the Mage believes will come to pass.

Unfortunately, Mages have a tendency to pick ugly futures. This isn't out of malice or anger; this is because Mages start the game sad, and without intervention, grow sadder. They're prone to spirals of negativity, self-loathing, and depression, and as their outlook dims, so, too, do their forecasts. Mages suffer, but even suffering can grow familiar - can even appear comfortable or desirable, if the Mage suffers long enough. It's easy for them to grow so accustomed to misery that misery is the only outcome they can see - spelling doom for the rest of the party, one prediction at a time.

But a Mage whose party shows them kindness and forgiveness, compassion and empathy, can pull them out of their misery. How beautiful, then, the future appears! A Mage who believes in a brighter future is a force to be reckoned with. When a Mage can bring themselves to say, "and everyone lived happily ever after," you had better believe they did.

SEER

"One who who is guided by [Aspect] or guides [Aspect] for others."

Seers, meanwhile, are the true future-sighted, able to see the myriad paths the future could take. Like Mages, their Aspect serves as the lens by which their vision is colored; the Seer can sense, with fine accuracy, which paths are closest to the sway of their aspect, and which paths will take them further away. As if gifted with a guide to the game, their intuition is tied directly to the mechanics of SBURB, and they serve as the party's guides, a role indispensable in a game with so many moving parts.

Seers will struggle with blindness, first by hubris and ego, and then by self-harm. Seers begin the game quite full of themselves, proud of their prowess in their Aspect - usually arrogantly so. When this pride is inevitably shattered, Seers have a tendency to deal with their feelings of shame and guilt with willful, self-induced blindness - as if flipping a switch, they become ashamed of the pride they once placed in their Aspect, and seek to place as much distance between it and themselves as possible. There's comfort in ignorance, even if it renders the Seer useless.

Seers are "guided by their Aspect" - able to sense its presence, they gravitate toward it, and towards futures with it in abundance. And, in the same way, they "guide their Aspect for others," lighting the way for others down the path of greatest reward. Seers truly love their Aspect, no matter how much they may misplace their faith in it, and seeking it out is a great joy for them.

This is why a Seer at their worst is so tragic. By inducing intentional blindness within themselves, they are functionally deadening the strongest part of their soul. No matter the temporary relief this brings to the sharp, jagged pain of shame, it invariably deepens the Seer's suffering, as they deny themselves not only their own joy, but their ability to help others - another act which inherently delights them.

Thus, a Seer needs to be made to deal with their shattered ego head-on, to accept their own shortcomings, to become at ease with the idea that they don't have all the answers. Once their vision becomes clear, and their view becomes honest, the party nevermore has to fear becoming lost or straying from the path - the Seer will see to that.

WITCH

"One who changes [Aspect] or changes [Aspect] in others."

Witches are the winds of change, tweaking reality all around them until it suits their desires. A Witch is presence that commands both fear and respect, and their Aspect bows down before them, reduced to a mere minion in the Witch's presence, ready to attend to all their needs. In a way, the Witch's powers are straightforward - they can manipulate their Aspect as they desire, changing its qualities as they see fit. "How they see fit," then, is where the issue lies.

Witches are usually of "outsider" status, never truly being part of the society from which the rest of the party descends. Free from the same rules and common sense that govern the others on their team, Witches instead operate on a value system heavily reliant on their own emotions. What a Witch deems to be correct, to be true, or to be righteous, are often based not in any objective measure, but in subjective, emotional bias - and they're emotional creatures, indeed. Prone to fits of great anger, Witches can be benevolent one second and malicious the next, and their abilities let them imprint, to a greater degree than any other Class, their desires onto the world that comes after them.

Witches "change their Aspect," as in, the crux of their abilities lies in manipulating the qualities of their Aspect in their surroundings - extending, shortening, magnifying, shrinking, growing, removing… so on and so forth. It's a fearsome power. They also "change their Aspect for themselves" - their Aspect is hapless but to obey their desires; Witches change the world to suit themselves, and their feelings of how things "should" be often become how things "are" in short order.

Thus, a Witch who has been swayed toward evil entities and nefarious ends is a truly dangerous opponent - and it is unfortunately easy for this to happen. Witches' social isolation means they tend to trust their emotions, and a force that flatters these emotions can easily win a Witch's trust. By the same token, those that fail to flatter the Witch are often considered enemies, even if they're benevolent forces. A Witch's morality can thus become warped and topsy-turvy, which has grave consequences for the world that the Witch then shapes.

Therefore, a Witch's struggle lies in learning to see beyond their own emotions, to take in the opinions and assistance of others even when it seems superficially unpleasant, to move beyond the childlike rejection of that which is uncomfortable. Once able to see a more nuanced form of right and wrong, once able to tell evil from good, Witches can build even utopia.

SYLPH

"One who allows [Aspect] to change others or changes [Aspect] for others."

Sylphs are nurturers and healers; they bring to mind fey folk whose very footsteps cause plants to grow. Wherever they go, whatever they touch, all becomes suffused with the Sylph's Aspect, which flourishes under their careful cultivation. Sylphs adore their Aspect, and their Aspect adores them; Sylphs generally feel at peace with themselves, surrounding themselves with what they like.

A Sylph's main challenge - or rather, the main challenge that Sylphs wind up posing the rest of the party - is that Sylphs are enablers. They're attracted to those with strong wills and extreme dispositions, amused by the havoc they wreak and pleased by their attention. Sylphs love to pick out favorites and lavish them with care and attention, excusing any wrongdoing on their behalf and shielding them from consequences. At the same time, those who don't strike the Sylph's capricious fancy find themselves discarded in the Sylph's mind, shut out from the boons the Sylph can provide.

A Sylph is "one who allows their Aspect to change others" - this almost always manifests as healing, as it's an additive ability (that is to say, the Sylph can grant more of their Aspect to someone). "Changing their Aspect for others," on the other hand, explains this enabling nature of theirs - the Sylph will intervene to make the world into a playground for their favored individuals, even to the point of turning other, less "interesting" teammates into playthings for the Sylph's beloved.

Thus, while the Sylph themself isn't particularly prone to wild mood swings and acts of malice, their influence can still cause disaster by allowing unscrupulous individuals to flourish - even encouraging their worst tendencies. A Sylph's touch is subtle, but that subtlety only lends it an insidious quality, as the Sylph quietly works against the good of the many for the cruel, selfish pleasures of the few. At their very worst, the Sylph can deem themselves their only favorite, and render everyone else a minor character in their one-man show.

Thus, Sylphs must be challenged. They must be made to reckon with the fact that favorable treatment is not necessarily kindness, and that bias can easily become harm. When a Sylph is able to grasp the difference between bias and doing good, and tune their approach toward that greater good, uncolored by bias and personal preference, then there is no place safer, kinder, and more conducive to growth than the Sylph's embrace.

PRINCE

"One who destroys [Aspect] or destroys using [Aspect]."

Princes are the most anxious, psychologically anguished members of a party. They suffer from a toxic overabundance of their Aspect - its traits are taken to an extreme, and not only the Prince, but those around them, are made to suffer for it. Princes are naturally set on a path of self-destruction, the culmination of their uncontrolled accumulation of their Aspect, and their meltdowns are spectacular, taking their Aspect - and whoever is unlucky enough to be in the same room - with them.

A Prince's challenge, therefore, is as simple to understand as it is difficult to overcome. The Prince needs to learn how to calm down, relax, and find inner peace. Princes are terribly prone to circular thinking and downward spirals. Their natural inclination is to feel anxious and responsible, like they carry the weight of the world, and this causes them to act out in extreme and aggressive ways. Eventually, others pull away, put off by the Prince's intensity. This only deepens the Prince's malaise, and Princes are - pushed by this hovering sense of urgency and catastrophe - willing to employ drastic, desperate measures to enforce compliance with their wills. They wake on their moons early, reflective of their driven natures. They're determined to a frightful degree, and no sacrifice is too great, no work too dirty, if it means achieving what they see as the greater good.

Princes "destroy their Aspect" in this way - by presenting their Aspect at its worst, they make others take distance, ruining it for everyone else. Their hard wills, intense emotions, and unshakeable drive to do what (they feel) needs to be done - at any cost - is their source of power. Thus, Princes "destroy using their Aspect" - their toxic overabundance of Aspect lets them channel it into a pure, annihilatory force; what they lack in the delicate utility of the other classes, they make up for in raw, ruinous power. Princes can easily deal the greatest damage in a combat scenario, their ability to destroy overriding nearly everything that would stand against it.

Thus is the problem with Princes. They're ticking time-bombs of anxiety and frustration; when they finally go off, they carve a path of destruction, before ultimately self-destructing, leaving no trace of their Aspect behind. Not only that, but it's very difficult to defuse the bomb early; Princes have finicky, aggressive, and complicated personalities, and tend to react poorly to straightforward attempts to calm them down and reason with them. They often appear to be their own worst enemies, marching inexorably toward their own destruction.

But Princes not only can be saved, but must be saved. They must be saved because kindness and compassion must exist for their own sake, and a Prince rescued from their own worst tendencies is living proof of the truth of that sentiment. A Prince, given the peace they need to reorient their priorities, will not rest until they see a brighter future realized. They will be the first to rise, and the last man standing, banishing - as if by royal decree - all obstacles, all enemies, all misfortune, and all ills.

BARD

"One who invites destruction through [Aspect] or allows [Aspect] to be destroyed."

Bards are the wild cards of a party, responsible for both improbable victories and catastrophic defeats - sometimes both in a single session. The methods by which a Bard works are a mystery to even the Bard themselves, which make it easy for the party to dismiss their powers - and, by extension, the Bard themselves. After all, who would expect there to be consequences for something so ridiculous as a Bard?

Bards are usually targets of abject ridicule by their teams. They can't help it - they're religious types, or at least types that hold great, lofty, ridiculous beliefs near and dear to their hearts. A Bard's primary struggle invariably winds up being a crisis of faith. Bards begin the game with a positive, "correct" faith in their Aspect; however, something will inevitably occur that shakes the Bard's faith in this viewpoint to its core. In this state, Bards are incredibly fragile, and it's very easy for them to succumb to whispers of cruelty and destruction, for their beliefs to warp, and for the Bard to come to serve the worst aspects of the society they represent.

A Bard "invites destruction through their Aspect" - their powers are subtle, but have catastrophic effects. Bards are instinctively drawn towards causing the first flap of a butterfly's wing, which cascades into a grand, impossible karmic backlash. They "allow their Aspect to be destroyed" by being the conduits for the forces of their faith - whatever faith they hold - to wreak unimaginable consequences across the game.

Thus, a Bard must not be allowed to fall into darkness. The cost is too great. They must be treated with kindness, patience, and sincerity, and given a chance to re-establish their faith in a better, brighter future. If this can be done, then at the party's direst moment - in their darkest hour - they will find that kindness paid back a thousandfold, as an innocuous act by the Bard that no one remembers balloons into a miracle.

[butterysalt]

Ahhh thoughts about Laios Touden who would love you regardless of who you were. Your species, your race, your gender, your sexuality, none of those things matter in his eyes. Because to him, what makes you so wonderful and easy to love is that you’re simply just you. And there’s no other combination like you.

I get especially sappy thinking about it if you’re a tallman, too. At first, it seems like Laios couldn’t care less about humans. He always talks about how boring he finds his own race in comparison to others but it’s all heavily influenced by his own experiences growing up and being ostracized and bullied by those around him.

But just think about what it’s like when he meets you, another tallman. Yes, you’re human, but when he realizes that you won’t treat him differently for the way he is, he sees you as so much more than that. So what if you’re a tallman? A little thing like that doesn’t matter to him.

It’s not just that you’re “different from other tallmen”… it’s because you’re you. And he’s him.

Nothing more than that.

In an odd unlikely twist of fate, it seems that this time, the mundanity of it all is what completely captured Laios’s heart.

Just… you.