#which I will hopefully be able to get more of

[livingmybestfakelife]

Concrete Rose

After recovering from camera flashes burning your eyes and the pack of people screaming your ears off. You had yourself a well needed glass of champagne that was offered to you by one of the waiters. Your manager Jerry, the slime ball that he is, had guided you through the private room of the Winifred Hotel to greet the other guests. You all had just gotten back from the Los Angeles premiere of your new picture, and now you’re at the after party that you honestly didn’t want to be attending. But it would be in bad taste to not be here when the studio had paid big bucks to make it happen. Oh well, next month your contract will expire and hopefully with your record of bringing in box office success, they’ll let you negotiate fewer movie deals.

But that was just wishful thinking. These people were greedy and wanted every dime out of their stars at all costs. Which is why when you begin to show signs of not being able to handle the long film hours, they instructed Jerry to put you on some Benzedrine, which you quickly became addicted to, so to mellow you out and make sure you slept you were also put on Veronal. Your body began to get even more sick from being on it, but you also felt drained from being off of it. You didn’t know what to do or who to turn to. Hollywood isn’t the most sympathetic place, especially not to an actor. So you swallowed down your feelings and decided that the show must go on.

After being talked to death by all of the sycophants and hanger ons. You walked towards your table, but before you could sit down you heard a familiar voice fill the room.

“There’s my girl!”

You turn around to see Stack in one of his favorite suits and hat. His huge and charismatic smile stays on his face as he walks towards you and engulfs you into a warm tight hug. His cologne is sure to stick to your dress which you don’t mind, you missed the comfort of him being in your presence. He and Smoke were a constant cloud hanging over you your entire life. In both a good and bad way. Good in a way that you had protection, guidance and support when your folks were working or you were out and about outside of their watchful eyes. And bad whenever you wanted independence, to think for yourself and make your own decisions. No one ever asked them to be what they were to you, they didn’t have to, it’s what they assigned themselves to do.

Their mother and yours had a girlhood bond that never died, even when the twins’s mother’s passed away. Your mama kept her memory alive. It was so strong that the adoration they shared with one another was the same type their children inherited with each other. They had gotten pregnant within the same year, the twins being born seven months earlier than you. You’d think it was seven years earlier with how overprotective they were, as if you were a baby who need the big kids to watch over you like a hawk. People who didn’t know y’all would’ve thought you were siblings with how close you were, but no, they were just a pair of misfits who didn’t play about you.

“Stack? Whatcha doing here? I thought you were still in Chicago”

“Yes well we’re on vacation….why aren’t you happy to see us?”

“Of course I am just wasn’t expecting you”

Smoke stepped up from behind Stack and hugged you as well. Though his was less suffocating. His eyes lingered around your face and the rest of your body as if he was checking for any abnormalities. He was satisfied that you were physically in one piece, but something still bothered his spirit, he could see it in your eyes that you weren’t in any emotional peace. It was one of the things that you hated about him, that he was so observant and could read you so well. Sure, Stack would notice some things, he wasn’t an idiot, but you and Smoke held a different type of bond that Stack couldn’t get from you. And he preferred it that way, he was always the one who reminded you to come to him whenever something was wrong, that he’d handle it if it was something very serious. He felt some guilt that he felt like he was hiding things from Stack, but once you two began talking and tuned out the world, he forgot all about how his little brother would feel.

“Hey Stack, why don’t you go get yourself something to eat”

Stack sucked his teeth, he didn’t like how he was being pushed away.

“Man we just started talking, what’s the rush?”

“Just for a minute, you’ll get your chance”

“Yeah whatever, hey don’t go too far, I’ll be right back”

Once he was out of the way, Smoke lifted his arm so that you can snake yours around his and you two walked to your table. He pulled your seat out and you gracefully sat down like you were taught to do in the etiquette classes that the studio had you attend early into your career. He pushed your chair in and sat next to you. You waited for him to bombard you with the questions you were expecting. He picked at the table cloth that was draped over the round table, he didn’t care for this environment, he despised it just as much as you did. It was too stiff for his liking, he knew that he and his brother were being judged the second they walked through the hotel doors, unfortunately for everyone else they weren’t intimidated by the stares and whispers, they weren’t there to impress anyone, their only mission tonight was to check on their friend and to find out if the information they heard through the grapevine was true.

“Jerry been doing right by you?”

You nod and took a sip of your champagne, he knew that by you avoiding his eyes you were lying, it’s like you forgotten that he knew you like the back of his hand.

“He been drugging you?”

You cough from your drink going down the wrong pipe, you never got used to him not mincing his words, he got straight to the point every time, refusing to sugar coat things, it was a waste of time.

“Where the hell did you hear that from?”

“It’s true ain’t it?”

You sigh and place your drink down.

“If you mean making sure I take my medicine as scheduled then yes”

“That ain’t no medicine you should be taking and you know it, ain’t even prescribed by a respectable doctor”

“Smoke please, you wouldn’t understand”

“I understand that you’re being used as a circus animal, hopped up on bullshit you don’t need!”

“Keep your voice down”

“I don’t give a shit if these muthafuckas hear me! Let em!”

“Elijah please!”

He silences himself from his rant when you call him by his real name. He knew you were serious when you called him and Stack by the names their mama’s gave them, the look in your eyes hurt him, he didn’t enjoy when you looked like you were disgusted by him, you were supposed to be happy to see him, to feel safe and wanted, now it’s like you didn’t even want to know he existed, it broke his heart.

“Look I….I just didn’t like what I heard, that’s all, okay….hey look here”

He gently grabbed your chin and moved your head back to look at him. Only you could humble him like this, knock him from his high horse and shut him up. It wasn’t his intention to upset you or make you feel ashamed from your problem, Lord knows he was far from perfect himself and had his own ways of self medicating. But he wanted more than that for you, you were still sweet Little YN, the one Stack would hate being left out of playing with when y’all were youngin’s. He would do anything in his power to make sure you kept whatever innocence you had left in you.

“It’s just a little pick me up, it’s nothing, I can quit anytime I want”

He took you by the arm and placed you on his lap, when you cuddled up in his arms he saw the tears beginning to spill from your gorgeous eyes, the ones you got from your dear mother. He reached up and wiped them away and kissed your temple.

“We’re leaving okay. We’re gonna get you out of here”

“Wait, no we can’t I have to stay, Mr. Burnell-“

“Fuck Burnell, I’ll deal with him later, him and Jerry are gonna pay”

It was useless to argue with him anymore about this. The twins already heard the dirt, even while all the way in Chicago, the juicy details of what went down in Hollywood was nationwide, if not universal. And one of the eyes and ears they had working in the studio informed them that while things were fine the first few years of you being here, things soon turned how they typically did for pretty young starlets like yourself. You were overworked and overwhelmed and occasionally propositioned for inappropriate favors. The latter you managed to avoid actually having to be forced to go through with by this informant of theirs being one of the higher ups who had enough power to step in and prevent it from going any further than that. The letters, phone calls and occasional visits from Smoke and Stack wasn’t enough to shield you from the wolves that stalked around you every single day. It was time to come in and take matters into their own hands. They never wanted you in this industry in the first place, trying hard to convince you to work for them as their secretary in their “office” while in Chicago, but you wanted to live out your dream in the entertainment industry, so they finally gave in, a decision they’d regret for the rest of their lives.

You nodded and he helped you stand up and held the small of your back while guiding you out of the party. You keeping a kind face and excused yourself from the party, claiming exhaustion, which wasn’t too far from the truth. He kept you close to his side while you two made your trip to the elevator and while it took you to your room to the sixth floor. He unlocked the door with the key you gave him, but then he suddenly stopped you from walking any further. He felt as though something wasn’t right, his former war instincts kicking in when he smelled gun powder in the air. He told you to stay in the hallway while he pulled out his own piece and rushed inside, closing the door behind him. You were confused, you told yourself he was being paranoid, you weren’t close enough to the door to smell anything and you were too into your own head to feel the danger in the atmosphere, so you waited, and let Smoke have his little moment of overprotectiveness.

———————————————————————————

Smoke has his gun trained in front of him as he walked down the hallway that was in the entrance of the door. Once he turned the corner, what he saw in front of him wasn’t something he was expecting, at least not yet.

Laid out in a pool of his own blood was Jerry, the tall, lanky man was now even more paler than he naturally was. He was as dead as a dog, that much was obvious. He walked closer to the corpse and looked around to see who else could’ve been here, this wasn’t self inflicted, someone had took him out.

“Ay! Whoever is here come on out now!”

Soon some heavy footsteps walked out of the bathroom to his right. He spun in the direction and kept his gun pointed, out walked Stack with his sleeves rolled up and wiping his now bruised hands with one of the bath towels. Smoke put his gun back in his holster and stepped towards him.

“Stack what the fuck did you do?”

“I took out the trash”

“Dammit Stack! Why the fuck did you do that huh?! Ain’t no telling who could’ve heard them shots going off”

“Relax, I timed it with the fireworks”

“Man what the fuck?! Fuck! Fuck! Stack!”

“Ay man, calm your ass down, he’s out of the picture like we agreed to remember? Quit acting like you didn’t want his ass dead too”

“Of course I did but-“

“But what? Huh? He’s gone like we wanted. Riiight?”

“Stack you killed him in a public building”

“You acting like I wouldn’t know how to clean up after myself”

“St-“

“Or that you weren’t planning on doing it yourself”

He paused at his brother’s words. What he said and the way he looked him showed him that Stack knew something that he thought he kept well to himself and one of the mafiosos that he planned this out with.

“What? You thought I wouldn’t find out? Come on my nigga surely you don’t think I’m that stupid, that I play so much that I wouldn’t pay attention to your moves, that I wouldn’t know that those errands you had me do was a distraction to make sure I was out of the room while you and Ignatius planned out how to drop Jerry off of the face of the Earth? You think I’m stupid?”

He shook his head but Stack wouldn’t let him insult him anymore with whatever lie he was about to cook up. He had enough of the secrets and being pushed aside.

“You’ve been doing this shit to me ever since we were kids Smoke. You stuck me with the job to be the comedian that would keep her laughing, distract her from whatever bullshit life had thrown at us. All while you snuck off with her and let her tell you her deepest darkest secrets, let you kiss her, hold her….be her first time”

Smoke’s face gave himself away. Once again another secret that he thought was kept between you both, was one that Stack had known about all along.

“Yeah, didn’t think I knew about that shit huh? Muthafucka I saw the tail end of it, it was obvious when you were buttoning up the back of her dress that you had just got done making her a woman”

He chuckled bitterly, shaking his head.

“Stack, look, what YN and me have ain’t got nothing to do with you alright, it wasn’t on purpose and it wasn’t to hurt you”

“Nigga shut up, I don’t wanna hear nothing else from you tonight. Just call up Ignatius to help me with this”

Smoke gave up trying to reason with him, nothing he could say could mend the pain he caused him, even though it wasn’t on purpose, you and Smoke really did have more chemistry with one another when came to matters of the heart. Stack was your heart but Smoke was your soul.

Before he could attend to his request, the door opened and closed and soon you walked around the corner and your mouth trembled looking at Jerry’s dead body. You looked at the twins who cursed themselves that you had to see this. Thought you were no stranger to violence, having grown up in neighborhood that was its own version of the Wild West, you never actually saw a dead body in person outside of a funeral, it was surreal to you.

“Baby doll, I had to do it, he was gonna kill me first”

Stack had managed to convince you that Jerry had gotten upset at them coming back to Los Angeles after hearing how he was contributing to your excessive drug use. That when Jerry caught him packing your bags, he came in cussing up a storm and demanded he leave. And when he refused, Jerry had came at him with a knife and that’s when he shot him. The crime scene looked convincing enough, the knife wasn’t too far away from Jerry’s corpse and your bags were halfway packed. You had no reason to believe he was lying, and it’s not like Jerry wouldn’t have eventually been killed by someone else anyway, having more enemies besides the infamous Smoke Stack Twins. You nodded and walked over to Stack and hugged him, he once again held you tight and kissed your bare shoulder, all while Smoke watched on. Stack had grown tired of his big brother being the one who took on majority of the credit of protecting you, being the one you took more seriously when it came to your well being, tonight he held the title of your hero.

“Hey listen to me okay, I want you to back downstairs and get yourself something to eat, if anyone asks, say you wanted to put something on your stomach before going to bed, once I come back down to get you all of this will be cleaned up and we’ll go over our cover story alright?”

You nod and kiss his cheek. Smoke watches as you rush out of the room before turning back around. He couldn’t think of anything to say to him right now, his nerves still bad about everything, all he could do was nod and go to the phone and had the operator connect him to Ignatius’s house.

“Hey, you’re late for the card game, you coming or what?”

“Nah I’m coming, be there soon”

They both hang up and an awkward silence clouds the room.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Would you have taken me seriously? Or just think I’d treat her like the other women who’d entertain me around town?”

“YN ain’t that kind of girl, Stack”

“You think I don’t know that? I would’ve never played with her!”

“I know that”

“Then how come you never backed off? You know me well enough to know I felt”

“Because I didn’t want her to look at any other man the way she looks at me”

“Not even me?”

He looks away. That was all the answer he needed. After that night things would go back to normal, the three of you would leave Los Angeles after Smoke had bought you out of your contract. It was back to Chicago for all of you, the twins would continue with their business with Al Capone and you would become the secretary they wanted you to be. But the tension between the brothers would continue to hang in the air, you would remain oblivious to it, but the twins would always be reminded of it every time they looked at one another.

tags:

@rolemodelshit

@uzumaki-rebellion

@childishgambinaax

[wings-of-ink]

Checking in - Author Updates - Quick Poll

Hello all! I hope you are all doing well!

I wanted to check-in. I don't have a ton to say on development, just wanted to keep you in the loop on where I am at personally since it tends to affect production speed. I also have a question for you at the bottom.

As I've posted about before, this year has brought about some challenges for me. There aren't a ton of good developments on that front, and my job is being...difficult. The (technical) good news is that I am still employed, but some days I wish I weren't. (I'd much rather be writing IFs, lol.) There is still uncertainty about the future of my job because it is at the mercy of the whims of my government. But what is more pressing currently is that my employer has opted to treat its employees worse (let me tell you, this is a feat because they've never really treated us well), by making our lives and jobs harder. I've made some "worst-case scenario" plans to prepare, so I'm just getting by one day at a time. Oh...and I also have needed to work overtime again, so that's another time suck there. Ugh. In May, I'm taking a couple days of off for me to rest.

In more recent news, I am doing physical therapy...yippy! In recent months I have struggled with my right shoulder. I assumed it was one of those "you're in your late 30s" pains, and I just dealt with it. Don't do that, by the way. I have a very bad habit of just doing with little regard for pain and discomfort. But, it got difficult to hug without pain, and nothing messes with my huggin'. We really don't know what is wrong with my shoulder/arm, but I'm doing virtual (oooh shiny) PT (not the Silent Hill variety) to hopefully correct the issue. If I don't see results, I will need expensive tests and scans. No worries currently, though, I don't think this will slow me down much at all. I can still write and I don't experience any discomfort when I do.

I'm also still working on a coding class, which is self-paced, but I'm sticking to a lesson schedule to make sure I get it done. I would really love to be able to make improvements of my own to GC or even make my own Twine Template someday.

So, in more fun development news, Chapter 6 is growing steadily. And so is Chapter 5, technically. If you missed it, check out this Tumblr ask where I talk a bit about that. The ask and answer contain some slight spoilers for Ch 5 & 6, but nothing too specific.

Chapter 5 is up by a bit over 1500 words, if you're curious, and Chapter 6 is up to over 69k words. I am wrapping up a big moment for Zahn, which might be a bit heavy. After that, there's a more fun moment, which will present a few coding challenges for me, but I'm looking forward to it. *rubs hands together like housefly*

Finally, I have a question for subscribers or those who may want to sub in the future. I find myself wondering what else to post about at times. Especially when I have inordinately busy weeks, I just can't think of things that you may want to see other than peeks at the chapter. I sincerely wish I had more time to add more projects. I have so many ideas kicking around in my head...

So, I was wondering if you were interested in seeing things other than God-Cursed that I have worked on. These would be things that may or may not become much of anything later, so I wasn't sure if there would be much pull to see them (or if it would just be a cruel tease, lol). I have an incomplete IF that I did to help me learn Twine a couple of years ago. I used it to just get acquainted because I am very much a hands-on learner. It's a humorous and simple story (loosely) based on an actual time in my personal life. I have debated about finishing it. I have a couple of others as well where I was playing with a story idea to see how it felt. I also have a complete romance novel which I am slowly editing for publication.

Patreon, Ko-fi links if you want them.

So that's all for me. If anything big happens, I will let you know! ^_^

Take care, everyone!

~Lunan

[cheriladycl01]

The Rookie Prodigy - Carlos Sainz x Driver! Reader Part 9

Plot: You are a rookie coming into the 2022 season of Formula One into Alfa Romeo with team member Zhou Guanyu, being in a mid tier team can you help them rise up the ranks. What pressures occur for the only rookies within the 2022 line up!

Guys i feel like i have so many series out, i forget so easily the plots and stuff so going back and reading 8 parts takes a while so sorry that these are pretty slow! But hopefully i have more time now!

You and Carlos didn't really talk about you staying with him and no-one else found out. You remained in his home, which was awkward for him to explain why there was a girl staying with them, a driver no less.

But once he'd explained what happened to your home and how you felt you were met with open arms, particularly by his dad who seemed more than happy to have you around as he was able to talk to you openly about rally and how he was looking to participate again.

It was a very long week where you didn't leave the house at all. You remained tucked away until you met Zhou for the drive to the track. All of the team was fussing over you and you didnt know why.

"Oh my gosh Y/N? Are you alright?"

"It cant have been easy, i dont know how you're staying so strong!"

"These fans are crazy, but you should have told us. We'd have stayed with you! Cant believe you were alone!"

"Wait, whats happened?" you ask looking at all of them.

"We've seen the article about your house being broken into. Says it happened twice! Your dad was there the second time!" she says and you can feel your heart sink. You'd turned your phone off as it was relentless with every app whether it was comments or tags people were blowing up your phone with notifications.

"Wait my dad was there? I only knew about the first time is he okay?" you ask the social media manager who starts to pull up articles as you try to turn your phone on with shaky hands.

"I'm not sure it says it's suggested he's in critical condition" she explains but the words seem to blur as the apple logo comes onto your screen showing you that your phone is rebooting. You turn away as the team member is mid sentence, walking off somewhere round the back the try and calm down, looking through your phone.

You put your phone straight into do not disturb and go straight to the messages seeing both your parents and some friends have in fact messaged you about what happened.

Your fingers fumble, trying hard to get to the correct app as quickly as possible rather than flicking through random apps due to your brain just melting on the spot. You keep your head clear enough to get you to Whattsap, seeing many messages from friends and family. Even some of the drivers had messaged to make sure you were okay.

Lewis was one of them.

You swiftly reply to everyone assuring them you are okay, whilst having phoned your mum to see how your dad was. He had a bruise on his face, clearly he had put up a fight protecting your property which made tears brim your eyes.

"Dad, I'm so sorry" you say looking over him, stiff as a board despite the smile living his face.

"It's okay, honestly it isn't as bad as it looks, i didn't even have to go to the hospital. They pretty much left the minute they realised the place wasn't abandoned and decided today wasnt the day to risk getting caught" he explains and you're happy to feel some relief that it wasn't as bad as the article had let on, saying 'he could be in critical condition but family has yet to speak out.

She couldn't fathom why people were so interested in her life that it went as far as to extend to her parents and how they were and what they were doing.

Seeing your dad sat with a huge plate of dinner, your mum waiting on his hand and food referring to him as the brave hero whenever he asked her for something. Which she was right, he was a lot braver than her having stayed the house to watch over it.

Your dad, being your dad, said not to worry about all of this and too just focus on the race ahead which was the most important thing for the weekend. The police were doing everything they could to make sure the house was safe going forward. You just had to have faith and get focused.

Which when Zhou rounded the corner, he was shocked to see that split second decision to cross your face, a sad overwhelmed anxiety ridden girl had turned into a feirce and focused lady.

He was impressed with how quickly he'd seen that change occur.

"Y/N?"

"Zhou?" you ask turning round to see your racing partner.

"I saw the articles, is everyone okay?" he asks coming up to you.

"I just got off the phone with my dad, he's okay. But i was just really worried" you explain, a sigh of relief leaving the both of you.

"That's good, and atleast the police seem to be taking it seriously. Do you recon you'll go back before Monaco?" he asks looking over you, holding onto your wrist to make sure everything is okay.

"No, i cant even look at my place" you sigh.

"Well, I'm getting a hotel so you can stay with me. I don't mind, we're used to it anyway!" he offers and you smile, thankful to have Zhou as a close friend.

"Yeah, i think that would be good. I would see if i could stay with Lewis or Max but ... i don't want anymore trouble than one photo, one interaction has already caused me" you explain looking at him, he guides you back to the Alfa Romeo unit, walking into the hospitality as you guys continue to talk about everything that has happened.

"Yeah can we have 2 of the super smoothies please?" he asks politely before getting straight back into conversation with you. "So this has all happened because one picture came out about an interaction between you and Lewis in the paddock?" he asks in disbelief.

"Where have you stayed since Miami" Zhou asks.

"Erm, well i actually stayed with Carlos for a bit, i didn't want to risk staying with my parents incase that got them involved or doxxed" you offer to Zhou whose eyes widen in shock.

"You're playing a dangerous game Y/N! The whole reason you ended up in this mess in the first place because you were seen with a male driver!" Zhou says softly taking your arm as the concered friend he is. You couldn't understand the difference between yours and Zhou's friendship vs you and Lewis or you and Carlos.

"Why don't they hate me talking to you then?" you push, crossing your arms over one another.

"Well, i don't have many crazy fans, but Lewis and Carlos do... thats where it comes from!" he explains and you take a seat slumping into it.

Why'd life off the track have to be so exhausting.

"I don't know how much longer i can deal with this Zhou" you sigh, looking up and thanking the girl who'd brought over your drinks.

"You can, and i promise you it will get easier!" he smiles.

Taglist:

@littlebitchsposts @hockey-racing-fubol @laura-naruto-fan1998 @22yuki @simxican @sinofwriting @lewisroscoelove @cmleitora @daemyratwst @lauralarsen @the-untamed-soul @thewulf @itsjustkhaos @purplephantomwolf @chasing-liberosis @summissss @gulphulp @starfusionsworld @jspitwall @sierruhhhh @georgeparisole @youcannotcancelquidditch @tallbrownhairsarcastic @ourteenagetragedy @peachiicherries @formulas-bitch @cherry-piee @spilled-coffee-cup @mehrmonga @curseofhecate @alliwantisadonut @dark-night-sky-99 @i-wish-this-was-me @tallrock35 @butterfly-lover @barnestatic @landossainz @darleneslane @barcelonaloverf1life @r0nnsblog @ilove-tswizzle @laneyspaulding19 @malynn @landosgirlxoxo @marie0v @yourbane @teamnovalak @nikfigueiredo @fionaschicken @0picels0 @tinydeskwriter @ironmaiden1313 @splaterparty0-0 @formula1mount

[nope-asdf]

Ramble of thoughts and a small sketch dump under the cut.

Y'all can't convince me that my boy looks absolutely NO different than he did before that portal accident. Whether his "molecules got rearranged", or is walking around both alive and dead at the same time like Schrodinger's cat, or any of all the different headcanons that exist out there, surely there has to be SOMETHING that's not quite right, right?

That's why I really like to draw Danny's human form's eyes like the above concept art. I like the idea of his eyes passively being the only visual hint that not everything is as it seems. The eyes are the window to the soul, after all. Maybe it's too obvious, idk, I might scrap the concept at some point. But no one on the show has ever noticed the consistently blatant use of his powers in plain sight either, so I guess it wouldn't be too much of a stretch.

Likewise, just like how Danny's human eyes will glow green when he's angry, I think it would be cool for his ghost form to also have a version of his "scary eyes" that's more dynamic than a simple brighter glow than normal. I feel like the idea of his pupils changing color to a bright yellow makes it much more intimidating than normal (I mainly took inspiration from the old Pet Sematary movie when I first thought of this, which freaked me out as a kid, so maybe it seems more eerie to me than it actually is, idk, I just thought it was a cool concept).

From a quick glance around the tumblr I didn't see anyone else have this sort of headcanon. Of course I didn't look very hard either so I'm sure there's something similar somewhere probably that I missed, but I wanted to throw it out there anyway.

(Also, I've been working on a couple of projects that I hope to be finished with soon, hopefully I'll be able to get done with those and post them within the next week or two. Or three. Or so. Idk, I have a full time job and part time job so it's hard for me to balance things.)

[gingerbreadmonsters]

oyster eater

or: ask, and you shall receive.

gn!reader, brief and casual descriptions of blood, injury, and corpses, but really it’s just ooey-gooey vampire family fluff. there was a star danced, and under that was i born. inspired by there’s nothing too good for my baby (alt version here). william eating more than just his words in 9200 words or less.

the record alexis is listening to is the supremes a’ go-go, which came out in august 1966 and was the first album by an all-female group to reach number one on the american billboard 200. hm, i wonder who might have been around back then to buy a first pressing of that album…? vincent, on the other hand, is listening to danger days: the true lives of the fabulous killjoys, because he’s a diehard pop-punk truther and we all know it.

if you’ve read glass jaw then you know the drill, but if not: longtime readers may be aware of my sinophone!solaires hc, so ENGLISH SPEAKING READERS – please have a look at this pronunciation guide i made! it’s not too long, and i PROMISE it’ll help <3

It’s Wednesday, which means the Solaire house is busy, as usual.

The housekeepers have been in since early this morning, which woke all three of them up – he could swear he’d barely fallen asleep before the intercom started to buzz, quiet to a human but painfully loud to vampire ears. Blearily, he’d reached for the control pad on the bedside table that opens the driveway gate, clumsily pushing his long hair out of his face and dragging himself out of bed to get dressed so he could go and let them in.

It’s not worth letting them use the keypad lock. He’s tried before, but it just makes him paranoid, if he’s honest – something doesn’t feel quite right about allowing other people to come into the house whenever they like. Who knows what they might get up to, or who they might tell the code to? Better to just wake up early, and deal with the inconvenience later.

He’s not entirely convinced he’d had all the buttons of his shirt in the right buttonholes, but by the time they’d driven up to the house, he’d just had enough time to run a hand through his hair and throw his housecoat on over his shirt and trousers before opening the door. Nobody seemed to notice, so no harm done, hopefully.

The children hadn’t come down for breakfast straight away, but they’d definitely been awake. He’d heard Vincent groaning into his pillow at the sound of the doorbell, and he’d felt the phantom sting of Alexis falling out of bed all down his left side when the vacuum cleaner suddenly came on in the study. Even though their bedrooms are upstairs on the other side of the house, he’d still been able to hear the pair of them fussing about how cold it was, so he’d adjusted the temperature up a few degrees from the thermostat in the kitchen.

Ordinarily, he’d feel a little bad about waking them up – housekeeping normally comes just after noon, so it doesn’t interfere as much with the nocturnal hours – but he did tell both of them yesterday that the maid would be coming early today, so it’s hardly his fault they didn’t go to bed early enough.

Yawning, he adjusts the heat on the hob and reaches into the cabinet for some bowls. It’ll still be a little while before he needs them, but he’ll get them out now so they’re ready.

Actually, he may as well just set the table now. He keeps the bowls by the hob, but lays out the placemats and spoons on the kitchen island, along with some coasters to keep the surface clean. The kettle starts to rattle on the stand, nearly boiled, so he takes the tea cups out of the cupboard and starts to make the tea – perhaps it’s just his age, but he can’t stand tea that’s too hot. If he makes it now, it should have cooled down enough by the time everything else is ready.

The blinds are closed against the weak winter’s sunlight outside, and it’s bright and warm here in the kitchen. The smell of jasmine is light and pleasant as he breathes in, mixing with the sweetness of the ginger he’s already chopped, and he closes his eyes as he leans against the counter.

The maids are cleaning in the living room next door, quietly enough that he can still hear Alexis and Vincent moving around upstairs. One of them must be brushing their teeth, if the sound is anything to go by, and there’s the soft sound of slippered feet walking back and forth across soft carpet. Someone in the walk-in wardrobe, perhaps?

Eventually, the soft ping! of the hob timer going off shakes him from his daydreaming, and he hurries over to check on the pan. It looks good, so he reaches over to get a spoon from one of the tablemats, and tastes a little just to make sure that the texture is right. Satisfied, he adds the ginger, the spring onions, the stock, and a little bit of salt.

Perhaps just one more taste, only to check – yes, that’s just right. Now, to fetch the decanters from the fridge…

“À table!”

He calls up to the children, knowing they won’t be long, and pulls open the fridge door. The tray is cold in his hands as he slides it off the shelf, carrying it over to the kitchen island and setting it down in the middle of the three table settings. His is on the short end, facing away from the door, while the other two are along the long edge to his right.

Ah, the tea must have cooled down by now. As he walks over to the counter to get the teapot, he can hear the soft slap of slippers on hardwood, slow footsteps coming down the stairs, and he smiles to himself as his son peeks sleepily around the doorframe.

“Good morning, xiaozhi.”

“Zao a,” Vincent mumbles, rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand as he sits down at the kitchen island in his pyjamas. “Tired.”

“I can see,” William replies, and puts a cup of tea down in front of him. “Too tired even to hold the hairbrush, ah?”

He laughs as Vincent sticks his tongue out at him, dark hair sticking up in all sorts of strange directions, not even bothering to try and disguise his truly spectacular bedhead. “Eat, and you will feel better.”

Alexis comes around the corner just as Vincent picks up his spoon, bundled up in her fluffy yellow dressing gown, eyes narrowed against the bright lights overhead. She ignores Vincent entirely as he tries to trip her up with his foot when she walks past, instead choosing to unceremoniously walk straight into her father, pressing her face against his chest and immediately leaning all her weight on him.

“Lili, still asleep?”

She grumbles wordlessly into the lapel of his housecoat, letting him wrap one warm arm around her as his other hand holds his tea cup. The Maker’s bond between them thrums contentedly with her closeness, the two of them fitting perfectly together as they always do.

The tea is a good temperature now, hot but not painfully so, and he takes a sip before leaning down to kiss the top of her head. “You should eat before it gets cold, mon ange.”

“Mmnh.”

Slowly, Alexis manages to tear herself away and goes over to sit next to Vincent, drooping over the bowl in front of her. He nudges her with his elbow, and without looking she knocks the side of her foot lightly against his ankle. William, watching them, brings his bowl over and sits down next to Vincent as Alexis picks up the decanter of O positive in the middle of the table, and pours a hearty splash of blood into her jook.

“Your appointment is at nine o’clock, yes?”

“Mm-hmm,” she replies through a yawn, stirring around and around until the pale cream colour of her breakfast has completely disappeared, dyed a vibrant, appetising crimson instead. “Said the silk’s from a different supplier, so it’s thicker than usual. Means they want an extra muslin fitting, and then it’ll be done by next week.”

William nods, and waits for her to put the decanter down before taking it himself. “When you finish, then we can go out.”

There’s a lot they’ve got to get through today, and all three of them are quite tired, so breakfast is a mostly silent affair. The soft click of the windows being opened in the study is faintly audible over the low drone of the vacuum cleaner out in the foyer, accompanied by the faint sound of a spray bottle. For the console table by the door, perhaps?

Although there’s nothing much happening this week, the calendar for next week is packed. He and Vincent have dinner at the House of Baz on Monday, then all day on Tuesday the children are up at SkySide to meet a prospective client while he finishes up the buyout on that new property in Florida. Alexis will be out in downtown Dahlia on Wednesday morning for brunch with the Aguilar ladies, then in the evening she’s meeting him at the Pham estate for an informal dinner while Vincent has drinks with some of his friends from the social club.

“Ba?”

On Thursday, it’s set to be a nightmare. A timezone mix-up by the new secretary means he has a call with the SPM office in Hong Kong scheduled for some ungodly hour on Thursday morning, then a shareholders’ meeting in town to discuss the merger that was supposed to happen before Christmas but he suspects is being pushed back to May, and then all three of them are meant to be flying out for the biannual charity fundraiser in McKinley.

…God in heaven, it’s going to mean that dreadful local wine they all seem to love. He’s never tasted anything so painfully sweet, and the worst part about it is that he can’t even discreetly refuse, because he’s fairly sure the hosts own the vineyards that make that awful stuff in the first place. Make no mistake, the houses out there are generally very pleasant to be around, but it really does make you wonder – can they really not afford to get anything good, or do they just ch—?

“Baba, do you…?”

“Hmm?” William startles, looking up to see that Vincent’s brought the pan over from the hob, offering him some more. “Oh, yes…”

He adds a splash of A positive to his breakfast while Vincent spoons some more jook into his sister’s bowl, and sips a little more tea as well. “Thank you, chéri.”

At the very least, the venue should be interesting enough. It’s apparently a new build up in the mountains, designed by some superstar new architect they’d shipped over from Switzerland or Sweden or whatever. Despite the acres of glass windows it’s undoubtedly got, the event starts in the early evening so nobody will have to worry about the sunlight – which would all be very lovely if the mountain setting didn’t mean that there’s also no airstrip. Instead, everyone’s having to fly into the closest airport, which is still several hours’ drive away in the middle of nowhere in Colorado.

Time will be tight, but they should make it in time. The hosts are sending a driver to collect them, so he doesn't need to sort it out himself, thank goodness. He and Alexis are leaving the next morning for a few days at the lake house in Maine, which will be a nice chance to relax. One of the young gentlemen from the house that’s hosting has a birthday on Saturday, so Vincent’s staying out there to ski with them for the long weekend before coming back to Dahlia on Monday afternoon.

Speaking of, he needs to make sure all of the suitcases are sorted and ready ahead of time for when they head to the airport on Thursday. The timing of this birthday excursion is a little inconvenient, seeing as it means they’re having to get all of Vincent’s skiwear out of storage now instead of in a few weeks’ time, when they’re going to Hokkaido together, but they’ve had worse itineraries before. Last year, he was falling over Alexis’ snowboard in the hall for what felt like months, after the trip to Switzerland had to be pushed back at the last minute.

In any case, the situation is the same. It’s going to be a hectic week ahead, which means an awful lot of work to be done now, before the deadline gets too close. He’s never liked cutting it fine if he can help it – preparation is the only proper way, after all. Intense preparation, perfect execution.

Today is for sorting out clothes, which shouldn’t be too bad if everything goes to plan. There’s meant to be a delivery from the milliner’s in about an hour, so that should arrive during Alexis’ dress fitting, and after that they’ll head into town. The children both have some shoes to collect, and then he and Vincent are going to the tailor’s to sort out a few last-minute things while Alexis has her nail appointment. He’s got that new suit jacket that just needs an extra dart or two, and there are a few buttons on Vincent’s waistcoat – the nice silk one from Malaysia that’s got all that lovely embroidery – that are starting to come loose.

After that… oh, what was it they needed to do? Ah, yes – Vincent said he’d ordered something for Alexis that they have to go and pick up. He’s not said what it is, so presumably it’s meant to be a surprise for her. Probably some new jewellery, if the address he said yesterday has anything to do with it, but knowing Vincent, it really could be anything. A new tennis bracelet, perhaps? The clasp on her favourite one needed repairing, so she’s been wearing one of her charm bracelets instead while it’s being fixed.

Once all that is sorted out, whatever it is, perhaps it will be time for lunch. They haven’t been back to the Rosewood for so long, and it would surely be nice to go and sit down in the tea room for a little while. Maybe it’s the fault of his old-fashioned sensibilities, but it really is one of the best places you can go for tea in Dahlia.

The service is very pleasant and prompt, the pianist is excellent, and everything is always so delicious – oh, the scones with the lemon curd are particularly good. Bitter things do taste so lovely with blood.

He sighs, faintly aware of Alexis and Vincent bickering about something or another. The selection is reasonable, but if only there was a little more variety. The establishments in Dahlia that keep blood are fairly numerous, considering its cornerstone status, but he does miss Paris. Not Paris now – he’s there far too often to have the chance to miss it, really – but Paris back then, in the days before he’d ever even thought of travelling to America.

The blood clubs they used to have around the turn of the last century – no, perhaps it was the century before…? Yes, yes, it must have been. He can still remember the smell of the gas lamps they used to use in the days before electrics, the tiny basements they used to be packed into like sardines in a tin. You never left without a headache, they used to say, for one reason or another. His throat dry from laughing, his tongue sweet from the wine, stumbling out onto the cobblestones in the hours just before daybreak.

Ah, they were always so much fun. What a thrill! There’s nothing quite like that now.

They’ll certainly go for lunch, he decides. At the very least, it will be good to get out of the sun, weak as it may be at this time of year. It’s not ideal that they’re having to go out in the middle of the day, but at least it’s not as bad as it will be in summer – when it’s cold, all the layers and layers of clothes and hats and scarves they have to wear don’t look as unusual. Granted, the car windows are all tinted, and all the places they’ll be going to are very used to their sort of clientele, but it is nice to blend in a little.

They must enjoy it while they can, after all. The summer is so dreadfully hot and bright here in California, somehow more torturous with every passing year. Palm leaves riffling in the midday breeze, soft cotton clouds drifting gently past. How it wears on you, how exhausting it is in the heat, sneaking fearful glances up at the blue sky and worrying always about the blistering terror of the sun.

“Gloves, today.”

The two of them nod, still half-heartedly kicking each other under the table in a way that would surely break any human’s ankle, and Alexis scoops up one last mouthful of blood from her bowl.

“I thought it was meant to be cloudy.”

“Lace will do.” William shrugs, eyes closing momentarily as he dips his head slightly to the side. “Cloudy, yes, but bright as well.”

He sighs, satisfied, and pushes his chair back to stand up. “You should get ready for your fitting, mm? They will be here soon, I think.”

The housekeepers can sort out the dishes – it’s far too early to be worrying about all that. Vincent takes a final gulp of tea before abruptly getting up out of his chair, and Alexis nearly knocks the empty jook pan off the table with one fluffy sleeve as she accidentally smacks face-first into his back.

“Hey!”

Vincent hisses when she pokes him in the side in retaliation, his thin pyjama shirt no defence against her sharp nails, but settles for just narrowing his eyes at her. “Jiejie!”

She just rolls her eyes as he fights to get his slippers back on, having kicked them off next to his chair while he was sitting down, and breezes straight past him towards the door. “Yeah, yeah. Thanks for breakfast, ba.”

Honestly, the pair of them. He smiles as Alexis kisses him on the cheek as she passes, before disappearing around the corner and upstairs in a flurry of soft yellow cotton. “You’re welcome, chérie.”

“Thanks, ba.” Not to be outdone, a newly-slippered Vincent shuffles over to kiss him as well, wrapping his arms around his father’s waist and settling into his embrace. “Love you.”

“I love you too,” William replies, words muffled slightly by Vincent’s bedhead but no less heartfelt. “I love you very much, xiaozhi.”

He says it a lot, truth be told, and it’s such a comfort to be able to say – it wasn’t always an easy thing for Vincent to hear, much less accept. Alexis was the same, when their family was still so very new, but he thinks it’s got more to do with the state of Vincent’s human life than anything else. It wasn’t easy to come to terms with his death, the knowledge that his human family would never know what had happened to him, that they were still alive, but unreachable.

At least for Alexis, she always knew that there was nothing she could have done – she would have bled out on the floor, alone, and nobody would ever have known. He would never have admitted it, but Vincent was the same. It wouldn’t have mattered. Even if he’d been found alive, William had seen enough of the dead and dying to know immediately that he wouldn’t have survived for long.

It’s almost funny to think about, now, considering what’s become of him. Who would have thought that the boy who fought so fiercely to hold onto his human life would have found such happiness in his undeath?

He always thinks of that gala, the dinner at the Giuffrida estate in Sicily. It must have been ten years ago, or maybe fifteen? He’d not really been paying attention, engrossed in discussion with one of the Lombardy cousins that he hadn’t seen for decades, when a sudden spike of sickening terror flared in his chest, cold blood running even colder as his head whipped around to where he instinctively knew his progeny was in danger.

Lijie—!

The horrible thud of Alexis’ head hitting the floor, the stem of her wine glass crunching in her involuntary grip as she fell. Vincent, sprawled across the marble floor at the end of the bannister, champagne shattered on the floor where he’d been standing a half-second before. Clutching his sister to his chest as she lay limply in his arms, stunned – William had shivered at the howling torrent of protective rage that seared through their Maker’s bond as Vincent’s eyes found the pathetic, trembling shape of the man who had dared to trip his lady sister down the stairs.

A moment of madness, the stupid animal had stammered, nothing more than – than an accident, just a mistake, sir, I swear! My – my deepest apologies, sir, forgive me, forgive m—!

He hadn’t even lived to hit the floor. The room seemed to sway with the telltale vertigo of telekinesis as Vincent reached out a furious hand to drag the man down towards him, and like a flash of lightning in his fingers the stiletto knife hidden by his ankle had already cut the man’s head from his body, and was buried to the hilt in the sticky mess that used to be his heart.

Cored, like an apple. Vampiric blood, thick and bitter, leaking onto the tile.

Lexi – Lexi, jiejie, I…

William had excused himself from the conversation, quickly scooping up his daughter and ushering her and Vincent into one of the quieter adjoining rooms before anyone could say anything. Alexis had been fine, more surprised than anything as the tender bruise on the side of her head quickly healed over, but the two of them had been inseparable for the rest of the night.

And just like that, it was a fact – a rule, something that everyone knew. Perhaps it hadn’t been clear, but now nobody could possibly doubt it. The Solaires have always had a unique talent for retribution, and Vincent Solaire would do anything for his sister.

Footsteps on the hardwood. They stay there for a little while, eyes closed, until the housekeepers come in to start cleaning up. “Come on, chéri. Time to get ready.”

Vincent huffs, opening his mouth to say something, but—

Bzzzz!

“I’ve got it!”

The intercom goes off, and a fully-dressed Alexis comes racing downstairs to the control panel, pressing the button to open the gate with one hand while the other taps rapidly at her phone. “God, I thought they were coming later…”

Briefly, her eyes flick over to where her father and brother are still standing in the kitchen doorway, before going back down to her phone. “Didi, they’re not here for a pyjama party.”

She starts walking towards the door as the sound of a car coming up the drive gets louder, and Vincent scrambles towards the stairs before she can open it. “I’m going, I’m going!”

Laughing to himself, William goes to follow him, already thinking about what he’s going to wear today. “Don’t have too much fun, xiaoli.”

“Whatever.” She opens the door, and he feels the smile spread across her face more than he sees it. “No promises.”

It doesn’t take long for him to get dressed, all things considered. They’ll be going out for lunch, so he ought not to look too haphazard, but there’s no sense in overdoing it – no need for all the fuss of a frock coat when a morning coat will do perfectly well. His shirt is cream, not white, and his tie is a relaxed, dusky shade of pink to contrast his sky blue, paisley pocket square.

He’s just taking his waistcoat off the hanger when Vincent pops his head around the doorframe, unbuttoned jeans hanging off his waist as he fiddles with the earring in his right ear.

“Ba, are we doing anything this evening?”

William shakes his head, trying not to look too suspicious. “Not that I know of.”

“Cool.” Just like that, he’s fishing his phone out his pocket, tapping away at the screen and swearing under his breath when his earring falls out again. “Gav wants to go to some club he found in Central.”

Oh, Gavin. He’s so glad Vincent met that boy. They do get on so well, and even Alexis – well, Alexis hasn’t killed him yet, which is promising. “As long as you’re back for lunch tomorrow.”

“Can he come?” Vincent asks, scarlet eyes bright with excitement. “He’ll bring his partner too, probably!”

“His partner?” William pretends to think about it for a second, before he nods with far too much solemnity for the situation. “Well, why didn’t you start with that? Of course.”

Call it what you will, but he does adore Gavin’s little partner, the Freelancer who has the apartment downtown near that bar Porter likes. He remembers the rabbit-fast rhythm of their heart the first time they met, looking nervously around the foyer of the Solaire house like they’d accidentally wandered into a lion enclosure, almost jumping out of their skin when Vincent appeared behind them and held out a hand to take their coat. That must have been, what, two or three years ago?

Thankfully, they’re not nearly so skittish now. They’re hilarious, once you get them going, and remarkably insightful for someone who only found out about empowered life such a short time ago. They might as well be family, to be perfectly honest – there’s always a dinner invitation in the post for them, and Alexis almost tore Vincent’s arm off when he accidentally spilt coffee on their jacket, like she was their sister and not his.

Vincent grins, and scoops up his stray earring from the carpet as he wanders back down the hallway. “Merci!”

Ah, young love. Or whatever it is that those three have going on.

He really ought to go down and see how Alexis is doing, so he fetches his gloves from the drawer – dark kid leather, today – and drapes his waistcoat over one arm to take downstairs. He’ll just put it on in a minute. Briefly, he considers a hat, but he really can’t be bothered today, so he picks up the fa zan that’s still on his desk from a few days ago on the way past. It’s gold, with a little bit of jade for decoration, so it should go well enough with the rest of his clothes.

As he goes downstairs, he leaves his gloves on the side table in the foyer, but keeps his waistcoat with him. Decades ago, he would have been horrified at the impropriety, the idea of leaving his room without it to keep his trouser braces covered, but recently he’s stopped caring so much. Besides, it’s not like Alexis hasn’t seen him in them before, and he couldn’t give a damn what any of her tailors think of him when he’s the one who pays their wages.

There’s music coming from the living room, and the low sound of the record player spinning. He can’t quite put his finger on what the song is, but it’s frustratingly familiar. One of Alexis’ old records, maybe? It certainly sounds like it.

“Chérie?”

William knocks softly against the doorframe, and smiles as his daughter’s face lights up when she sees him. “May I come in?”

Alexis nods, arms out to her sides as one of the seamstresses neatly pins and re-pins the two raw edges of muslin closed, all the way down the side of her ribs, while another adjusts the measuring tape around her thigh.

“Can you just, uh…”

She waves vaguely at the mantelpiece over the fireplace to his left – he sighs, shaking his head fondly even as he goes to pick it up for her. It’s half-empty, cherry-scented lip gloss stamped sticky around the rim. “Magic would be too much, I assume.”

“Mm-hmm,” she mumbles into the offered glass of wine, “easier to do it normally.”

“Yes, for me to do it.”

“Yeah.” She grins, a little arrogant and ever so charming, and thoroughly ignores it when he rolls his eyes. The woman kneeling in front of her ducks out of the way so she can lean forward, as much as the half-constructed dress she’s being sewn into will allow, depositing the glass back into his outstretched hand.

“How much longer?”

“Not much. I already chose the pankou, so it’s just the rest of the measuring and then that’s it.”

He hums in acknowledgement, sitting down on the sofa opposite her to put the glass down on the coffee table. There’s a display box already there, so he leans over to inspect the selection of pankou the seamstresses have brought – there’s a particularly lovely set shaped like plum blossoms, along with an utterly adorable set of white rabbit-shaped pankou that he’s very tempted to have added to one of Alexis’ summer dresses.

One set is separated from the rest in a small plastic case, and he picks it up to examine the design. The knots are neat and clean, stiff silk ribbon folded into elegant golden sunrises, classic but not tacky. Yes, these should go well with the fabric she’s chosen. It’s not here today, but he saw the box of samples she’d been choosing from last week – if he remembers rightly, she’d picked a lovely blue silk, all light and airy. There had been a book of embroidery patterns as well, and she’d immediately taken to one of the more complicated designs, full of delicate orchids and butterflies.

Just thinking about it reminds him – didn’t she have another dress with orchids on, not that long ago? Or perhaps it was wisteria… yes, that might have been it. Some sort of purple flowers or other, to match her purple birthday cake. It was really quite a sight, tier after tier covered with so many edible flowers that it had been hard to find space for all the candles. Fifty on the top for all the years since her Turning, and the rest scattered across the other tiers wherever there was space.

She’d been so pleased with it when it arrived, insisting that everyone at the party ought to have a slice, only for Porter to conveniently disappear out onto the balcony for a smoke a few seconds later. Goodness, he wishes he’d had a camera with him – he remembers the panicked look on Porter’s face when she’d descended on him with a plate stacked high with desserts, swiftly crushing his cigarette in her fingers and all but forcing a forkful of lilac-coloured frosting in his mouth before he could escape.

Oh, how the time flies. If he concentrates, he can almost hear the sound of the champagne fizzing in his glass that night, almost smell the drifting smoke of blown-out birthday candles. All those years, decades and decades now, swallowed up fast and slow at the same time. Fifty years. Has it really been that long? It only feels like yesterday when she was young – she and Vincent, both.

…Well. Young, he says, as if that means anything at all. Everyone's young compared to him. An entire desert in an hourglass, the slow perfection of a snowglobe. Suspended in amber, pickled in formaldehyde. A statue gathering dust.

His children are everything to him. That's just the way it is. They're his whole world, the most important creatures to ever walk this earth – and of course they are, they're his family. William Solaire will never be alone again. A father, he's a father, and it's the most splendid and wonderful thing that ever was or will be. There is no House of Solaire without its son and daughter.

Big eyes in a little face. That doesn’t mean it’s not painful.

Because it’s not real, is it? It was never real, it could never have been real. Mine, they’re mine, he thinks – but born to what mother? William Solaire has no wife. They’ve always been mine, he insists – but wearing whose face? The only features he gave them were the fangs.

He never knew his children as children. He didn’t name them. He didn’t raise them. They were already fully-formed when he found them, already grown up without him.

A dying woman on a filthy floor, shallow breaths like mist in the freezing night, crawling away from the sticky mess of organs that had once been her attacker. One hand clutching the ruins of her neck, thick blood pouring sluggishly over her fingers and down her chest as she tried in vain to hold her throat together tight enough to breathe. A dying man, struggling weakly against the seatbelt that kept him pinned to the chair, dark blue bruises painted over crushed ribs and a collapsed lung. The last one still alive, souvenir sunglasses dangling from his collar, still clutching the wrist of the splintered corpse hanging limply next to him.

It’s just a fact. Blood relatives. A night without clouds, the great eye of the moon peering down from the sky.

But how else can he explain it? How else could he know? It doesn’t make sense. William Solaire closes his eyes and sees it all, sees a whole life a thousand times over, unfolding forwards and backwards and over itself like a great kaleidoscope. Crystal shapes and endless colours crashing over him, vast and grand and gorgeous – the lead-lined window of a cathedral raining down in a million slivers of stained glass, glittering in the creases of his skin and catching in his hair.

He sees his little girl, no more than knee-high as she toddles past him through the living room, tiny fingers curled around the soft stuffed bunny she refuses to put down. He sees the colourful flower clips in her short hair, the miniature ruffles around the tops of her miniature socks. The blanket she likes to lay on is spread out in front of the armchair where he sits, an island of blue and green squares atop the cream-coloured carpet, and the books he likes to read to her are already next to him on the coffee table.

Sugar and spice, the cinnamon swirl that runs right through her like sweet rock. She’s oh so lovely, so small and soft and giggly – honey Alexis, perfect in miniature. Darling creature, the tiny angel that fell to earth and landed in his lap.

Remembering is so easy. The precious weight of his little girl in his arms, only ever a daydream away.

It’s not just her, either. Suncream smeared across a tiny little face, white streaks smeared into black hair by messy little fingers. He remembers the garden as it used to be, the scarlet shade of the acer tree by the patio, the smell of honeysuckle thick in his throat the day they took the stabilisers off and Vincent rode his bike across the grass for the very first time. The blue plastic plate he insisted on eating from for every meal, the pair of yellow velcro sandals that always used to fall off no matter how tightly you did them up. His gorgeous boy, his only boy. Vincent and his megawatt smile, blindingly bright and instantly adorable, the treasure of his bleeding heart.

It must have been real. It must have been. Alexis, rucksack in hand, surreptitiously rolling up the waistband of her uniform skirt in the hallway before she leaves for school. Vincent, almost unrecognisable under a thick layer of face paint, gleefully holding up a plastic pumpkin full of sweets. Birthdays and Christmases and summer holidays, trips to the cinema and splash fights in the bath.

They’re his children. He’s their father. Nothing else could ever make sense.

And no matter what anyone says, hasn’t he taught them well? The Solaire siblings are the golden darlings of society, charming and clever and ever so beautiful. They’re well-travelled, they’re eloquent, they’re good with money. There’s a sort of gravity in the way they move, an easy charisma that’s impossible to resist. Funny, but never foolish. Kind, but never naïve.

Every single day, he’s nothing but proud of them – the way they talk, the way they dress, the way they dance. It’s like helium, filling him up and up and up until he thinks he might burst, lightheaded and fizzing and terribly dizzy. If it were up to him, he would do nothing but adore them, not a single other thing than kiss them and kiss them and kiss them for forever, until his unbreathing lungs ran out of breath and his unblinking eyes tired to look upon them.

MISSING, PRESUMED DEAD. It was an impossible choice, but it wasn’t a coincidence. The kidnapped woman and the stolen man, his children that are hostages that are corpses. It’s too much, he feels too much. Can’t swallow it down, can’t make it go away, coughing and spluttering around the sugar-coated shape of my darlings, my darlings, come here and never leave me.

Stuck in his throat, choking him. It’s painful, the stomachache of a sour death and a spoilt future. His eyes water, tears curdled like milk, but he doesn’t notice – because the cloying smell of sweet decay turns into something rich and vibrant, something filling and tempting and irresistibly moreish.

Four hundred years is a long time to starve. He can’t help it, he can’t help it, he’s so hungry. A weak and starving creature, clawing at its own flesh for something to eat, turned inside-out with loneliness. My children. His teeth tearing through a stranger’s neck, hot muscle and cold skin, baked Alaska brain freeze. Blood on blood on blood, cheesecake on mille-feuille on tiramisu.

And that’s just what the problem is, isn’t it? William Solaire is a dead man, a handful of dust in an unmarked grave, gorging himself on good things. It feels good to eat, so he fills his stomach with formaldehyde – it feels good to breathe, so he reaches up through the earth for some fresh air. Hedonism, it turns out, is a beautiful thing. It feels good to be rich and it feels good to be powerful and it feels good to never ever be alone again.

Yes, the sugary sharpness of afterlife everlasting. Pastry flakes all down his shirt, buttery and golden, a sticky smear of strawberry jam all down his sleeve. Ice cream and banana slices, jelly and sprinkles and chocolate sauce, stacked up in a tall parfait glass with a wafer on top. There’s sherbet powder all over his fingers, vanilla custard dripping down his chin. A candyfloss boy and a crème brûlée girl, with red velvet eyes and crêpes suzette smiles, and the caramel sticks his sharp teeth together.

He can’t love them in a way that’s human. Die now, or live forever. Toffee apple sweet and lemon curd bitter, sugar and chocolate and sweet, sweet cream.

“Does this look alright?”

A muslin-clad Alexis twists from side to side, dressmaking pins catching the light as stray threads of cotton float silently to the carpet, laser-focused on her reflection in the standing mirror to her left. All William can think is that she is the most beautiful princess that there has ever been or will be.

What he actually says is a little less complimentary.

“...Hm.”

“Baba!” she huffs, shifting slightly from foot to foot. “Is it okay or not?”

“You would look beautiful in anything, mon ange,” he laughs, left hand absentmindedly fixing the folds in his shirt where it’s tucked awkwardly under his braces. “But is it comfortable? Can you walk in it?”

Obediently, she goes for a lap around the living room, walking on her tiptoes to imitate the high heels she’ll be wearing. As she walks, each step in time with the music playing softly in the background, he suddenly remembers what the record is called – of course! This is one of her really old ones, isn’t it? From before she was Turned, even.

None of his possessions from his human life had survived. Standing over her twitching, gasping body, flushed with the heat of her blood and dizzy with the rush of the Maker’s bond sewing their minds together, he’d known even then that he didn’t want the same thing to happen to his new daughter.

For obvious reasons, she hadn’t been able to go and pick her things up from wherever she’d been living, so as soon as she’d woken up he’d had to ask her for the address. Luckily, she hadn’t been declared missing yet, and he hadn’t let the Department know that they needed to fake her death, so it had been fairly easy to sneak in the next night. Her apartment had been in a mostly-unempowered part of town, and there were no surveillance cameras or electronic locks in those days. Just a window, a key, and as many of her belongings as he could take before the sun rose.

He’d have gone back to get it all, if he had the chance, but it was difficult to tell what was hers and what wasn’t. If only her roommate hadn’t been such a light sleeper…

Mm, he’d almost forgotten about that girl. What was her name again? She’d heard the window opening and called out for Alexis, loudly enough that the next-door neighbours had surely heard her through the wall. William had frozen, only halfway through the window frame, and she must have seen his shadow on the hallway floor – Christ, the sound of her scream had been so terribly, painfully shrill. As fast as he could, he’d scrambled into the apartment and forced open her bedroom door, grasping her face in his hand and staring into her terrified eyes so that he could Trance her.

He’d made her go back to bed and forget that she’d seen or heard anything, but it was too late to do anything about the neighbours, who he could hear whispering nervously to each other through the wall. The risk of breaking covert was just getting higher and higher, so he’d cut his losses – quickly, he’d packed up as much of Alexis’ room as he could, and swept through the apartment for anything that looked like it belonged to her. It hadn’t been easy to get it all out through the window, but he’d been gone before the knocking at the door started.

Never mind. Once she was declared missing, the police seized some of what was left, and it was no trouble at all to steal those out of the evidence packets. And once she was declared dead, her human family came to collect the rest. They’d even put it all into boxes so it was easy to carry.

Alexis had been so happy when he’d come back home with all her missing things, eagerly rifling through the boxes like a child on Christmas morning. So happy, in fact, that she hadn’t even noticed the Invocation setting in.

It wasn’t much. Just enough to take the edge off. Enough to make it a little less painful, enough for her to not miss them quite so deeply. The face of her roommate would fade into a gentle blur, the memories of her family and her friends and her whole human life would settle into soft focus. She’d remember her best friend’s name, but not quite recall her voice – she’d know her mother’s birthday, but not how she liked her coffee. She’d remember the colour of her boyfriend’s car, but not his last name, not the dress he’d bought her for her birthday, not the bouquet of flowers that were still sitting on her bedside table, not the date she was supposed to go on the day after she died.

…Well, perhaps he’d got a little overenthusiastic when it came to the boyfriend. Never mind. Not much to be done about it now.

“How does it feel, mm?”

Alexis nudges her calf with his foot as she walks past. “Seems like it fits.”

“Good.”

He nods contentedly, idly shrugging on his waistcoat as she totters over to collect her glass from the coffee table, gulping down the rest of her wine. It’s lucky that human alcohol can’t get them drunk, else he’d surely need to have words with her—

“Do you remember Sylvain?”

William pauses, unblinking. Alexis stares at her empty glass.

“...Sylvain?”

“The Amaranthe boy.”

A fleeting image in his head, the trembling tingle of their Maker’s bond. A young man dressed in silk, blonde hair pulled back and tied with a ribbon. Low wooden heels clicking on the terrace of a forgotten house, an almost-unnoticeable tear in the cuff of his jacket. A cousin of a nephew of a sister-in-law, or some vague impression like that.

All the blasted Amaranthes look the same. William shakes his head. “No. I don’t.”

“He gave me this bottle as a gift,” Alexis muses, tipping her hand from side to side to watch a single, lonely drop of wine slide around the bottom of the glass. “Said I should save it for a special occasion.”

She smiles faintly, and William can taste the memory on his tongue. Perhaps you and I could share it sometime, Princess Solaire.

He raises an eyebrow, glancing at the empty bottle on the mantelpiece. “How cruel of you, xiaoli. He’ll be disappointed.”

“No,” she says evenly. “He won’t.”

Footsteps from behind, feigned casualness. Your boyfriend has terrible manners.

Does he?

Mm-hmm. The beginnings of a headache starting to form, hairpins digging in too tightly. Thought you’d be the type to train them better, really.

This one’s different.

How so?

Well, considering he doesn’t exist, it makes it pretty difficult.

Doesn’t exist… Red eyes narrowing, then a shrug that comes too easily. My mistake, then. I’ll have him boxed up for you to take home.

You’re too kind. William can feel Alexis getting more and more suspicious, her recollection coloured with mistrust. Give him to my brother, then, if you see him. His car has a little more room than mine.

Your…. A sudden silence. Your brother?

“Was this the first one Vincent was there for, then?” he asks, as the seamstresses start to help Alexis out of the muslin dress.

She nods. “Yeah.”

He winces, the impression of bright lights in the corner of his eye, the shadow of Alexis’ hand gesturing to one side. He’s in there somewhere. Haven’t you met him, yet?

A pause. Cold blood turning to ice.

That depends.

On what?

An infuriating smirk, and a pulse of fearful rage that makes William’s hand twitch with Alexis’ urge to slap the Amaranthe boy right across his ridiculous face. You never struck me as the sisterly type.

You wouldn’t want me to strike you, I’m sure.

Funny. I said the same thing to your brother, but he doesn’t listen as well as you.

He feels Alexis opening her mouth, but the remembered voice interrupts before she can speak. You don’t have to lie, you know. If you want a guy around, there are easier ways than making daddy give you a little brother to look after.

William’s fangs drip with Alexis’ venom, laughter short and sharp and furious. You think I’m keeping him as a whore?

Not a very pretty one, spits the boy. He’s not good enough for you.

And you are?

Of course. I’m the only one who’s good enough, and you know it as well as I do.

He turns to leave, gold brocade glinting in the low light, and William feels his heart rate spike as Alexis sees red.

Lay your hand upon my brother and you lay your hand upon the House of Solaire, Alexis hisses, sharp tongue like the savage crack of a whip. Even you couldn’t be that stupid, could you?

And you wouldn’t be stupid enough to threaten me, would you? Or has House Solaire forgotten the debt it owes to House Amaranthe so quickly? The legacy of our—

Legacy? Alexis spits, and there’s a flash of a mental image – a high-heeled shoe, crushing a human skull into powder. Like you even know what that means.

More than you, the boy scoffs. You’ve not even hit your first century yet, dolly bird. Left your miniskirt at home, huh?

I’m surprised you know what a miniskirt is, she replies archly, and William feels her silently cursing the fact that he knew she was turned in the sixties. Not like anyone lets you under them these days.

I wouldn’t want to be under yours, certainly.

She pouts, mockingly. No? You’re missing out, then.

“What did he mean by that?”

William blinks, shaken from Alexis’ recollections to see her out of the muslin and half-dressed already, pulling her shirt over her head. “Pardon?”

“The… that debt,” she says, voice tinged with confusion. “Did they do something for us?”

Has he really never told her?

The Amaranthes are Old Blood, technically, although not by that name. The current head lives somewhere near Deauville, as if that fools anyone. They’re not even French, at least not originally – they’re actually a branch of House Abendroth that managed to escape the frenzy of vampiric persecution that swept across Europe in the mid-eighteenth century.

If there’s a debt he owes to anyone, it would be to House Abendroth. His Maker’s blood still soaked into his clothes, half-dead from exhaustion after crossing the border into – well, it wasn’t even Germany at the time, just a duchy he hadn’t cared to learn the name of, as he fled the smoking, screeching ruins of that awful clan. He still remembers looking up at the manor house by Lake Starnberg, freezing and hungry as Elisa dragged him through the gates, and thinking that he must have found heaven.

It’s a debt he never got the chance to repay, a debt that burned along with the Abenroths when the human hunters came for them. A splinter branch of a family tree that’s nothing more than deadwood. House Amaranthe are nothing like Elisa.

“Nothing of note,” he manages to say. “Nothing worth remembering.”

Alexis clearly doesn’t buy it, but she just blinks and looks away. “Okay.”

A minute passes. The seamstresses finish packing up and quietly excuse themselves with a bow.

“Did you kill him, at least?”

Alexis huffs, and it’s nearly a laugh. “Obviously.”

“How?”

For half a second, he’s back in her head, leaning over a balcony and picking dead skin from under her fingernails. A blonde corpse leaks blood into the fountain on the terrace below, twisted and crushed until it’s almost unrecognisable, fine silk sodden with water.

“I do hope that’s not our fountain.”

“It was at some party in Budapest, so no.” She’s dressed now, fiddling with one of the charms on her bracelet. “We left before they even finished clearing it up. It was fucking boring, anyway.”

“Who’s partying in Budapest?”

Vincent’s voice is muffled slightly by the walls and the ceiling, although both of them can hear the rattle of his jewellery case as he rifles through it in his bedroom. That boy wears so many rings, it’s a wonder he can even lift his hands out of his pockets.

“Not you,” Alexis yawns, “unless Gavin’s planning on flying you out tonight.”

“He might.”

“The clubs in Budapest aren’t that good.”

“They’re good!” Either Vincent is more attached to Hungarian nightlife than he lets on, or he’s finished picking out his jewellery – either way, he comes lolloping down the stairs and saunters into the living room, dropping himself onto the sofa right in his sister’s lap. “You’re just bad at languages.”

Alexis wrinkles her nose haughtily and pokes him in the side. “Everybody understands vodka Red Bull.”

“They understand that you have shit taste in drinks.”

“You drink Buck’s fizz! Like a fucking teenager!”

“I drink it ‘cause it comes with th—”

The intercom buzzes, and thank God, it must be the milliner’s delivery. Discreetly, William stands up and heads for the control panel in the foyer before they start biting each other. If he doesn’t see it, it never happened.

The delivery is swift, only two crates this time, so he leaves them by the bottom of the stairs to sort out when they get back from their shopping trip. Speaking of which, they really ought to get going. There’s an awful lot to do.

While he’s there, he uses the landline to call ahead and tell the Rosewood to expect them around one o’clock. They know to always give them a table away from the windows, but he makes a point of asking for the eventide menu, regardless. You can’t be too careful.

He goes back into the living room to find the children glaring daggers at each other, which would probably be more meaningful if they weren’t also curled up together against the arm of the sofa like puppies, pointedly ignoring the low murmur of satisfaction that William can feel through his Maker’s bonds.

God, they’re so adorable.

“Zou ba.” He shakes his head fondly, and goes to get his coat from the hook by the front door. “We’re already late.”

“What?”

“Wait, really?”

…They’re not late at all. It’s just funny watching Alexis scurry upstairs to get her handbag when he knows she left it in the kitchen last night, and Vincent tripping over his own feet as he tries to put his shoes on without having to undo the laces.

Smiling to himself, he reaches into the console table drawer and picks out a random set of car keys, before heading out to the garage. To his delight, it’s Vincent’s red Purosangue that lights up when he clicks the button.

“Lili, are you driving today?”

“Yes!” She comes racing out to the garage, Vincent in hot pursuit, and plucks the keys from his outstretched hand. “I’m driving!”

“What? Ba!”

It’s too late. William snickers as he opens the passenger side door, delicately adjusting his gloves as he sits down. “Too late, chéri.”

“It’s my car!”

“Get in, then,” Alexis says through the thick tint of the driver’s side window, and grins as Vincent grumpily opens the door behind her and slides into the back seat. “So fussy.”

She starts to reverse out of the garage, but it’s quite obvious that she’s not really sure how big this car is, getting dangerously close to the wall when—

Thump!

“Didi!”

Vincent just cackles to himself as Alexis stamps on the brake, hand still resting against the doorframe he’d just hit. “That’s never going to not get you, is it?”

“I swear to God, I’m gonna kill you!”

“You said that last time!”

“Savages,” William mutters, mostly to himself, “my house is full of savages…”

The bickering between the front and back seats quickly turns into a heated argument over who gets to choose the music, and William closes his eyes as Alexis finally gives in and lets Vincent connect his phone to the car Bluetooth while she drives down towards the gate. He ends up choosing one of his favourite albums – it’s some sort of rock-pop something or other from about ten years ago, maybe twenty, the story of which he’s tried unsuccessfully to explain to William about a hundred times.

My darlings, my darlings. A plate of lilac-coloured frosting that’s more candles than cake. Tiny yellow shoes, Velcro straps undone, lined up by the door. The little brother who’s not so little, the older sister who never gets older. He could never love them less, only more and more and more.

William smiles. The gate opens automatically as they get closer, and Alexis turns the volume up as she drives through. Vincent just sings even louder.

-

link to the oyster eater pronunciation guide <3

main masterlist

this is an original fanwork by @gingerbreadmonsters - please do not repost or misattribute

[elegantballetalk]

Today's watch:

Maria Khoreva overview of Vaganova Academy focusing on years 1-5

My very not perfect translation:

Perhaps in this video, I’ll be able to debunk some of the untrue myths—and bring the true ones to life, one way or another.

Today, I want to share my learning experience with you. I studied at the Vaganova Academy from first through eighth grade, completing the full course of secondary vocational education. After that, I enrolled in the correspondence bachelor's program at the Faculty of Performing Arts, where I studied for three years. And now, this year, I’m finishing my master’s degree in the Faculty of Pedagogy.

I’m incredibly grateful—to the city, my family, my country, the circumstances, and all the people who supported me—for giving me the opportunity to gain such unique knowledge at the Vaganova Academy. To be able to touch this place steeped in history has truly been a gift.

Now, I’m excited to talk about how certain events influenced my life—and how different moments during one’s training can shape a student’s future in general. In our pedagogical master’s program, we study how to properly design a ballet training curriculum, how to combine physical and psychological aspects, and how to approach administration. Looking back now, especially at my time in the performing faculty, I see myself in a very different light—hopefully, a more accurate and kind one.

So today, I’d like to revisit those memories with you. I think it will be very interesting. Let’s get started!

(By the way—speaking of which—it might be a good idea to make a separate video someday about the whole admission process to the Vaganova Academy. It’s a big topic on its own. But for now, I’ll skip that part.)

I want to start my story with the school’s opening ceremony—our “line,” as we call it. If I remember correctly, it took place on September 7, not the 1st, because the Academy doesn’t always follow the standard rules of regular schools. Of course, Vaganova combines both general academic subjects and specialized ballet training, but I’ll talk more about that later.

So, our ceremony was on a rainy, cold day. There's a tradition at the Academy: a strong, stately boy graduate carries a tiny first-grader on his shoulder, and she rings a bell. This ritual is known as the “First Bell.” Every little girl in our class probably dreamed of being the one to ring it—including me. About 30 ambitious girls were admitted to our class, and from day one, everyone wanted to be first. I wasn’t chosen for that honor, unfortunately—but that’s okay. More was to come.

At first, I thought the hard part was over once I got in—but that wasn’t quite true. The first lessons were... strange, and to be honest, a little boring. I remember my very first classical dance class. We started doing slow movements, facing the barre. The teacher talked about ���supporting legs”—the ones we stand on—and “working legs,” the ones that move. She said they “work,” like workers in a factory.

I was placed at the side barre, on the first line—not a prestigious spot. The central barre positions were the most desirable. We were placed randomly at first, and I remember standing there, staring out the window, far more interested in what was outside than in the slow, repetitive movements we were doing again and again.

In fact, during our very first classical dance class, I don’t think we did anything besides those tendus. It amazed me.

Before joining the Academy, I was involved in rhythmic gymnastics—I had already done some fouettés, a few jumps, and choreography classes were part of our training. So, when I started at Vaganova, I couldn’t understand why we were going back to such basic, seemingly simple movements. It all felt too easy to me.

But I couldn’t have been more wrong.

My first classical dance teacher—who, in ballet, is considered one of the most important figures in a dancer’s life—was Elena Georgievna Alkanova. A truly wonderful, soulful woman, who still teaches at the Academy. She brought a remarkable balance of discipline and love for the art into our classroom. She was meticulous with us, especially when it came to the most foundational elements of classical dance.

To me, being the head teacher of an elementary-level class is the hardest job in ballet. Children arrive either knowing nothing or, worse, having learned things incorrectly. Some come in with fixed ideas of what ballet should be, while others are simply bored. The teacher’s role isn’t just to teach proper technique from the very beginning—it’s also to light a fire in their hearts, to instill genuine love and motivation for the art. And doing that with young children is no small feat.

The method of Agrippina Vaganova—after whom the Academy is named—emphasizes a gradual progression: from the simplest ballet movements to the most complex variations. This means that in the first few years, there's no place for imitation of adult performance. Vaganova herself was a unique figure—a brilliant dancer who became a visionary theorist. She laid the foundation of the Russian ballet tradition that has amazed the world for generations.

In her writings, she stresses that the most important thing is to master the very basics—battement tendu, for instance, which is simply extending the leg along the floor to the side, or demi-plié, which is just a bend in the knees, but in a turned-out position. These movements may seem minimal, but they’re absolutely essential. From these foundations, all future grace, strength, and precision are built.

She even warned against assigning overly complex combinations too early in training. Why? Because when you skip the basics, students lose the ability to control their technique during more advanced movements. Ballet is built on perfect geometry—every line, every position must be precise from the very beginning. Without this, true mastery is impossible.

And yes, for all the beauty in Vaganova’s meticulous method… it could feel mind-numbingly boring. The exercises were slow, corrections were constant, and as young students, we didn’t yet understand why we had to "suffer" through such repetition. That was probably the biggest challenge of the first year.

Eventually, the movements became more difficult and more interesting. But to execute them correctly, we needed to rely on a growing internal mechanism—like mental gears slowly turning. I could feel new neural connections forming as we learned to process and apply the technique.

One correction from first year I’ll never forget: I was asked to lift my leg to the back, but keep my hip bones completely straight and motionless. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. How could that be anatomically possible? I was supposed to maintain a perfectly square alignment of my shoulders and hips while raising the leg behind me. But that’s exactly what classical ballet demands. We had to memorize this “geometry” so deeply that it would become second nature—even in the most advanced movements later on.

Looking back, classical dance lessons were without a doubt the most vivid, unforgettable part of my time at the Vaganova Academy. They were also the longest. Every day, we had what we called simply classics, and each session lasted around an hour and a half—though in reality, it was often longer. That's because we always ended up eating into our breaks for the sake of classical class. Typically, we had two double lessons: like real university-style sessions, with a break in the middle, and then another break before the next subject in the schedule. So, when you factored everything in, our “hour and a half” of classical dance often stretched quite a bit longer.

Now, I’d like to share how training is generally structured at the Vaganova Academy, especially the combination of academic and ballet subjects. Children enter the Academy after completing the fourth grade in general education. From there, they continue their academic studies alongside intensive dance training. Subjects include math, history, physics, chemistry, social studies, geography, and others I may not even remember now. We had etiquette lessons. We had English and French. French, in particular, was crucial because ballet terminology is still entirely in French. We had to learn not only the names of movements but also basic grammar and sentence construction to understand the meaning behind those terms—what exactly we were being asked to do in each movement.

There’s a common belief that in specialized institutions like music or ballet academies, general education is weak. But honestly, that wasn’t the case at all in my experience. Our academic standards were very high. In our cohort, there were two classes—A and B—and ours was an all-girls class for the first few years. Oh, how we all tried to be straight-A students! The competition was fierce—not just in the ballet studio, but also in our academic classes. We even competed in math! I’ll never forget mental arithmetic. It was terrifying. Our class teacher, Aleksandrovna Putina, and our math teacher—who was firm but progressive—used a very particular method. She would hand out a sheet of paper, quite small in size, and dictate math problems out loud, one after another. If you didn’t finish solving one before she moved to the next, your whole plan could fall apart. These were complex tasks too—definitely not easy. We trained our brains as much as we trained our bodies. Especially in those first few years, the workload was intense. The combination of general education and ballet was a huge challenge.

Our daily schedule typically started at 9:20 or 9:30 in the morning and ended around 6 p.m. Most days included a classical dance lesson in the middle. Lessons at the Academy usually began either at 9:00 or 11:00, depending on the class and level.

But one thing was certain: classical class always had to come early in the day. That’s because classical dance serves as the foundation and warm-up for the rest of a dancer’s training. It prepares the body, sets the tone, and tunes the mind and muscles for everything that follows—whether it’s rehearsal, another discipline, or a performance. That daily ballet class is essential—not just physically, but mentally. It’s the core of academic classical dance, and everything else builds from it. To properly integrate into the rhythm of academic classical dance, it made no sense to schedule ballet lessons later than early afternoon. That’s why classical classes were always set for either 9:00, 11:00, or at the latest, 1:00 p.m.—to accommodate all the various student groups, levels, and teachers across the Academy’s many halls.

Naturally, not everyone could take class at the same time. So, we were split across those three time slots, and our class almost always got the 1:00 p.m. slot. Only in the first year did we study at 9:00 a.m.—and I remember clearly how much I disliked it.

Imagine this: it's 9:00 in the morning, you’ve just rolled out of bed, and you’re already heading through the cold, damp streets of St. Petersburg—which somehow feel chilly even in summer, and downright miserable in winter. You arrive half-awake and have to immediately start moving your legs, performing precise ballet movements.

And what were we wearing? Well, in first grade, the uniform was just a simple leotard and socks. No warm-up gear, no tights covering the legs—completely bare. It was always cold and terribly uncomfortable to begin the day like that.

Later on, starting at 11:00 or 1:00 felt far better. We never had lessons at 11:00 during our entire time at the Academy—and I always thought that would have been the perfect time. I was so happy when I finally joined the theater and had the luxury of taking class at 11:00 every day.

As for the ballet studios themselves, the Academy had a quirky naming system. At first, I remember the “first top” and “second top” halls. Then after a few months, we started using names like “first bottom,” “second bottom,” “third A,” and so on. Only two studios had special names. One was “the hall,” where all senior exams were held. The other was “the large hall,” where major rehearsals for our graduation performances took place—the same performances that traditionally took place on the prestigious stage of the Mariinsky Theatre.

So, classical dance classes were slotted into that central daily space, and everything else—academic subjects—was arranged around them. We studied Russian, Piano, music, math, chemistry, physics, social studies, and so on. We started physics and chemistry a little later in our studies, like regular students in a typical school.

We even took the Unified State Exam like everyone else in Russia. We struggled through practice tests, official exams, and written assignments across all our subjects. We really did try to keep up with academic life and took it seriously.

At the same time, we had ballet-specific subjects—both practical and theoretical. As I mentioned earlier, we had etiquette and French from the first grade. I think French ended around the fourth grade, though to be honest, I don't remember exactly. We also had a course called “musical game,” which later evolved into music history and cultural education.

These cultural classes gave us inspiration, helping us become more educated and artistically aware—especially within the context of ballet and the broader cultural world.

All of this—the combination of general subjects and specialized classes—helped us grow into educated specialists in the field of ballet, culture, and dance. One of the first special disciplines we were introduced to in the first grade was historical dance. It’s actually a very interesting subject. We were taught ballroom dances, courtly steps from different eras—it was a completely different rhythm compared to the slow, mechanical exercises of classical dance. Historical dance gave us a chance to actually dance a little, to start feeling our own movement coordination, to get a sense of our organic relationship with dance. That’s so important at the beginning, because classical lessons at that stage were filled with endless repetitions of the most basic mechanics. So this subject gave us a breath of fresh air—something playful and expressive to balance things out. It was also one of the rare classes where we got to stand in pairs with boys, laugh, feel awkward, and slowly learn to overcome that awkwardness. Of course, that discomfort would eventually disappear in our later years at the Academy, and especially once we entered the world of theater—but in the beginning, it was a whole experience in itself.

Our teacher was Nina Viktorovna Ivanovna(?)—a very beautiful woman, always graceful in how she demonstrated movements during historical dance classes. Sometimes she’d raise her voice, but always with warmth, never in anger. We only had historical dance for 45 minutes, twice a week, but even so, those lessons had something truly magical and engaging about them.

I wonder what image you have in your mind right now. What do you imagine when you think of the Vaganova Academy? What do you see when you picture the primary school students? Little girls with neat ballet buns and perfect posture, already imagining themselves as future ballerinas?

Well, let me tell you—we didn’t have a strict school uniform, but we definitely had a set uniform for ballet class.

While we were in our general education classes, there was a sort of unofficial dress code—something black and white, ideally a white top and black bottom. But in reality, it was hard to stick to these rules because we constantly had to change clothes—before and after classical dance lessons. And we always ate into our breaks, so we had very little time to switch outfits. Before class, we also had to warm up properly, so our clothing needed to be functional and warm. In the corridors and classrooms, it could be quite drafty—which, honestly, seems inevitable in any school in our cold northern city. So of course, we all tried to adapt as best we could. Our moms tried to dress us as cozily and warmly as possible.

At one point—I can’t quite remember which grade it was—we were even allowed to wear special tracksuits, custom-made by the Grishko company. These were lilac-colored and specifically designed for students at the Academy. We wore them over our ballet uniforms, with our leotards underneath.

In first grade, the uniform for classical ballet class was all white: white leotard, white skirt, white socks, and white soft ballet slippers. Actually, in the very beginning, we weren’t even allowed to wear skirts—we had to be in just the white leotard. At the time, we didn’t really notice how uncomfortable that was… but looking back, it definitely was.

Now, as an adult, I’d never go into a ballet class wearing just a leotard from the start. I need warm-up clothes at the beginning of a lesson to properly heat up my muscles. Then I can gradually peel off layers—take off my woolen warm-up gear—and be left in just the essentials, which allows for better visibility of muscle work during the lesson.

Over time, the Academy’s ballet uniform evolved a bit. For the younger classes, the leotards were turquoise. Then, starting in 4th and 5th grade, they became lilac. From 6th to 8th year—what we called the “courses”—we wore coffee-colored leotards, like a latte shade.

And speaking of classes, there’s an interesting detail about the naming of grades at the Academy. You enter the Vaganova Academy after finishing 4th grade in a regular school. So, in terms of general education, you're starting 5th grade. But at the Academy, that same year is considered first grade. So the sequence goes like this:

1st year at the Academy = 5th grade general school

2nd year = 6th grade

3rd year = 7th grade

4th year = 8th grade

5th year = 9th grade

6th year = 10th grade

7th year = 11th grade

8th year= 12th grade

So, while we were studying general school subjects like 10th and 11th grade students elsewhere, we were also receiving a professional secondary education in ballet.

Girls were allowed to start wearing special ballet leotards from the second year. So we got used to all of this from a young age.

Now, about this eternal debate: “a leotard—necessary or not?” Ballet uniforms are an essential part of a dancer’s wardrobe—not just in class, but also on stage.

I remember going through a bit of a rebellious phase when I first started working at the theater. I stopped wearing leotards and tights to ballet class. It felt like now that I was a real artist, I should be as free as possible. I thought, “I’m not a student anymore; I don’t need to follow these rules.” So for a while, I didn’t wear a leotard in class. And yes, in some ways it really was more convenient—you didn’t risk ruining a leotard or tights that you might need for a performance.

But after a few years in the theater, I came to realize that ballet leotards and tights are, in fact, one of the defining symbols of an artist’s discipline. And now? I wear pink tights every day for class—because I want to see my legs exactly as they’ll look on stage, in front of an audience.

I also remember that for quite a long time, I was totally lost trying to navigate the Academy’s corridors—I was constantly confused about where everything was. Although to be honest, compared to the Mariinsky Theater, the structure of the Academy building is actually quite simple.

The building itself is beautiful. It was designed by the Italian architect Carlo Rossi, and it stands on a stunning street—one of those perfect architectural imperial ensembles. The street ends at the Alexandrinsky Theater, and the entire row of buildings is painted a soft, pale yellow that gives the whole area an imperial, majestic feel.

I remember being told in class that the street’s length is 220 meters, its width is 22 meters, and the height of the buildings lining it is also 22 meters. Even the numbers speak to a kind of beauty. And the love for beauty wasn’t taught only in ballet lessons, but also in our general education subjects. It was in everything around us—even just walking down the corridors.

Portraits and epigraphs hung on the walls—images of legendary ballet dancers, iconic figures of our art. And of course, all of that couldn’t help but inspire you.

Even now, when I return for exams during my master’s program, I look at those portraits with deep respect and admiration. Now, of course, I understand so much more. I can truly appreciate who these people were—and that’s exactly why they leave such a strong impression on me.

But even back then, something was being built inside of me—a foundation for a lifelong love of this art. A love that’s stayed with me for my entire career... and for life, really.

But after such an enthusiastic monologue about how wonderful, beautiful, and inspiring it all was, it’s only fair to move on to a harder topic—an alarming one, and for us students, the scariest of them all.

Even now, I still remember, with a flutter in my chest and a kind of inner shiver, the classical dance exams. It seems strange to talk now about how anxious we were, but honestly—there are no words to convey the fear. It was pure horror.

And you had to fight that horror—right up until graduation. For some reason, this exam remained the single most terrifying part of our lives as students at the Academy.

The thing is, each year the Academy holds exams in all of the core dance disciplines. But the classical dance exam? That’s the most important one. Sixty students were admitted to our class. By graduation… maybe only half remained. Every year, students are weeded out—those who didn’t manage to master the program. Because the Academy simply can’t produce that many ballet specialists. The training process is grueling and intense.

And here, of course, we have to talk about something heartbreaking—not just the academic challenge, but the physical toll. The tragedies that come from the body not cooperating.

Sadly, and to my deep regret, it happens: some students enter the Academy, study for years—even just one year is a lot, especially for a fragile child’s mind—and they can’t imagine any other path than becoming a dancer. They’ve become totally immersed in this life, in these ideas, in this system—a beautiful system, yes, but also a strict one. And suddenly… the body fails.

Maybe like a weightlifter, your body becomes too muscular. Maybe you begin to grow too fast, or you lose strength. And it’s a tragedy, because that child has no control over it. It’s just genetics. It’s some cruel mix of factors that can’t be influenced or predicted.

Ballet is an aesthetic art. And unfortunately, the jury sitting at those classical exams must assess not only performance, but whether a student matches the visual and physical ideals of the art form. Those who don’t fit that standard... are expelled.

I hate that word—expelled. Expulsion. “You’ll be expelled.” We heard it constantly—from teachers, from classmates. That word burrows into your subconscious. It has a kind of dark, heavy power.

And yes, precisely because of that word—and not only because of it—but because of everything around it, those classical exams were so frightening. It felt like everything—absolutely everything—depended on that one day. How you looked that day. Whether you could nail certain pirouettes or other elements. Whether your turnout was enough on that day. Whether your skirt was correctly aligned with your leotard on that day. It seemed like your entire future would depend on the commission’s evaluation of that day.

But in truth, that’s not how it works at all.

What really matters is how well you know the material. How attentively you’ve listened to your teachers. How engaged and present you’ve been throughout your training. And strangely enough, how much you can remain yourself—not following anyone else’s instructions except your teachers', not trying to mold yourself into what you think the system wants, but working diligently, persistently, with your hands, your feet, your whole being—on yourself.

That’s what truly determines your path.

But at the time, we were convinced the whole world hinged solely on those exams: on that one moment—on that exam.

The anxiety would start building at least a week in advance. A whole week where I could barely breathe. I couldn’t even take a full sigh. And oddly enough, it felt like you had to keep yourself wound up before the exam, just to stay sharp—to make sure you didn’t forget anything, to boost your concentration.

Even now, before performances, I don’t get as nervous as I used to before those exams. And our teachers? They were just as nervous as we were.

After I passed the classical exam, all the others—even those in other special disciplines—never seemed quite as terrifying.

For example, in the fourth year at the Academy, in addition to historical dance, we had a subject called character dance. On stage in classical ballets, this includes dances like the Hungarian, Polish Mazurka, Russian, Spanish, Gypsy dances—all the national folk styles. In ballet, these are called character dances.

The exam in character dance was also challenging and unpredictable. We were definitely afraid of it—but not as much as classical.

I remember starting this whole story with how bored I used to be—just standing there, watching people move their strange little feet, doing strange movements with no meaning. But that boredom faded very quickly. The teachers’ demands grew, and we slowly began to understand what was expected of us. We started to realize how important it all was.

And then came this enormous sense of responsibility. Responsibility to ourselves. To our families. To our parents who supported us through all those years at the Academy. Their support—honestly—it was immeasurable. I don’t know… it seems to me they were far more nervous than we were.

And you’d think, “How is it even possible to be more nervous than we are?” But I’m sure of it—our parents were.

That responsibility—to all those who believe in you—starts to sink in. You must get a good grade. You must make your teacher proud. You must prove to everyone that you can.

That understanding hits quickly. It hits when you see how your classmates are managing certain movements—when you notice that you can’t do something someone else can. Or vice versa—when you suddenly can do something others can’t. And then your name is used as an example, and you feel like, “Okay, I have to do even better. Even better.”

And of course—it was unbelievably interesting. That’s when our journey as ballerinas truly began. Every one of us thought so.

I won’t say it was easy. But I can’t help but admit—it was genuinely fascinating.

Speaking of fascinating moments: one of the most fun parts of our training was stage practice. Especially in the first few years, stage practice was pure joy. Because it happened on the stage of the Mariinsky Theater.

The thing is, in many classical ballets, there are roles for very small children—little ones, who look almost like babies on stage. And that’s where first- and second-year students came in. We were those “babies.”

I don’t even know why it worked that way—but somehow, we really did look much younger than we actually were. Maybe it’s the costumes, maybe it’s the magic of ballet.

And you know what? That illusion of youth continues all through Academy training. Ballet girls and boys… somehow always end up looking older later, and younger earlier.

They seem to mature later. Maybe because of the immense workload. Maybe it’s the refined atmosphere inside the Academy. Who knows?

So, on the stage of the Mariinsky Theatre, we probably didn’t go out right away—but the Academy’s students did, in various performances. There was the Waltz in Sleeping Beauty, the children’s dance in Shurale, the elves in A Midsummer Night’s Dream—and that one was one of my absolute favorites. I got to perform in it as a child, on the stage of the Mariinsky Theatre.

I even took part in the premiere of that ballet. The directors came from the Balanchine Foundation to stage it. It was a completely new experience for us—we weren’t dancing classical choreography, but something fresh, modern, and unfamiliar. George Balanchine’s choreography was introduced to us for the first time as students, and it had us doing these unusual, fascinating movements on stage.

We got to try on new costumes—sewn just for us. Brand new elven headdresses. This whole elven fairytale world of A Midsummer Night’s Dream was magical.

By the way, this ballet—Midsummer Night’s Dream—if it ever comes back to Russian stages, I highly recommend seeing it. It’s like a gentle fairytale, but also a breathtakingly beautiful visual story set to Mendelssohn’s music. It makes you think about things. It makes you marvel at the beauty of Shakespeare, the brilliance of Mendelssohn, and the elegance of Balanchine’s choreography. If you ever get the chance, do watch it.

There were some standard roles for the youngest children in stage practice—like the children kidnapped in the Waltz from Sleeping Beauty, or the children's dance in Shurale. But I didn’t get cast in those parts—I was a little taller than what was needed for those roles.

So instead, in my first year, I danced… a dwarf.

Yes, a dwarf! It was actually a really funny part because kids were supposed to look cute and endearing—and we wore these enormous masks. Honestly, I don’t even know what they were made of. Maybe papier-mâché? The dwarf masks looked amazing from the audience—adorable and just fun. But inside the mask? Honestly… you could barely see anything. At least in mine. I danced that dwarf part several times in a row, in different casts—but I still don’t understand how I managed to dance properly in that mask. It was like moving through a fog. At the Academy, we’d rehearse everything in the studio without the masks, super carefully—but as soon as we put them on, and went out on stage, it was chaos. And then, right as we entered as dwarfs, the lightning and thunder effects would start. In the darkness, with those masks on, we couldn’t see a thing. We bumped into each other, missed our marks—it was kind of a disaster, but also kind of hilarious.

That ballet is still performed now, by the way, at the Minsk Theatre. It’s a beautiful production, a fairytale again—this time about a bird-girl and the arrival of evil spirits. It gets very dark on stage during those scenes—so, naturally, we couldn’t see anything then either. And, as little kids, no one really tells you how to handle that kind of thing. Still, it was a fascinating experience. I think it was actually more exciting than some of the standard children’s dances.

I danced dwarfs in Shurale. I danced elves in Midsummer Night’s Dream. And I also participated in the annual Nutcracker production.

The Nutcracker was performed entirely by the Academy. The graduating students danced the lead roles—Masha and the Prince. Students a bit younger danced the snowflakes, the waltz of the flowers, the parents at the Christmas party—and the youngest children performed as kids at the tree. Every age had their part. In third grade, I danced the pas de trois. And I also danced the doll. It was always an immersion into another, completely magical world. My warmest first memories of the Mariinsky Theatre come precisely from those days of stage practice.

I recently wrote about how even the apples and cutlets in the Mariinsky Theatre buffet left the brightest and most delightful impressions. Just getting to rehearse and perform there was special—but those little details made it unforgettable. Sure, we could dance these same parts in the Academy’s rehearsal halls, and we did, for a long time, over and over. But to actually get to the Mariinsky Theatre… to feel it not just with your hands and feet, but with all your senses—that was a different kind of magic. The cutlets, the cottage cheese casseroles—I adored them. They even gave us those big liter juice boxes for a while, and it all felt so amazing. It seemed to us that someone cared so much about us there. At the Academy, of course, people cared too. But it didn’t feel the same. At the theatre, we felt like royalty—just because we were given such delicious food. Afterwards, we would dance, rehearse, and walk around with joy—completely absorbed in the enchantment of ballet.

That’s probably all I can share with you today, if I try to keep this in the format of a regular conversational video—10 to 20 minutes. Otherwise, I could go on for tens of hours. I could honestly talk about this endlessly.

I am infinitely grateful to all the teachers who guided us through that journey, to everyone who surrounded us at the Academy. I’m grateful to my classmates. To the older students who helped us. To the younger students who stressed because of us.

It was such a beautiful, magical process—and I can’t wait to tell you about my time in the senior classes. There’s so much to say about that. We started having special disciplines, the stakes got higher, the emotions deeper, and everything became much more difficult—and sometimes even painful.

[imagobin]

📸The Jacob Alden Files📸

Hi... guess what, I'm obsessed with this man, which is tough when most of his source material game aside had been WIPED off the internet... Being a Jacob fan in 2025 is like surviving on crumbs

But when I unlock a new fixation AND there's lost media involved? I get stupidly invested, it's like "Oh, you don't want me to find info about the guy...? Too bad" I'm terrible. But let's go! Let's give Jacob a taste of his own medicine and stalk him back!

Yee Haw I found the old site

Gotta give props to another Lurking for Love fan @starrgirlella for first finding about this, her pinned post started my hunt lol go check her post out too since she has screenshots of Noah Vega's corkboard (supposedly the other dateable character in the game)

Back in 2023 there was an official Neocities page about Jacob! Unfortunately, the original link to that page is dead now...

Or not quite as it turns out.

The page was just archived under a different name, and I found it ✨

SPONGEBOB

Yes, it's literally called Spongebob lmfao ANYWAY you'll see that the page itself is basically just a shell of what it used to look like, but it's still accessible so there's that.

However, in case even the archived site goes down, I did take screenshots of all the info there, to ensure this stuff isn't lost even once the full game comes out & some of this might not be canon anymore.

Screenshots wooo

In the past, Noah Vega's link was the only one that led somewhere, that still holds true, but unfortunately all it leads to now is a black page.

---

The voice claim

Big thaaaanks to @ alanorion on youtube for putting this together! If y'all ever needed to listen to the man's voice...

here you go ❤️

---

Lurking on AO3 for fun facts

I don't often go on AO3, buuut, through that video I did find out some canon Jacob facts are hidden on there, so I had to check things out lol.

Thank you to @ InZzzomnia707 on AO3 for translating all these from Russian to English!

WARNING! Some chapters on here are 18+!!

Jacob Alden's funfacts★ - InZzzomnia707 - Lurking For Love (Visual Novel) [Archive of Our Own]

This work is still being updated!!

I did take screenshots of all this too juuust in case, but I just wanted to share a specific one here that has really only made me love him even more.

Screaming-

---

Highly likely to be the official Jacob Playlist

Cause it's from the same account the playlist from the old site was, not sure tho, but enjoy regardless ✨

---

And that's it folks! This is all I was able to find... for now lmao there's bound to be moooore and I will keep looking until I burn myself out... jk

Hopefully these bits will be enough to feed some more headcanons about him? Some scenarios? It's definitely fed my brain at least- expect some works from me woo!

If you happen to have more canon stuff about him, feel free to add to this! ❤️

See yaaaa!

[sleepless-prince]

AYO WICKED (MORE SPECIFICALLY FIYERO) ENJOYERS‼️

FANFIC ALERT

(Small preview at the bottom)

Since it really feels like it’s on its feet now and I think I’ll be able to start pushing it out publicly soon, I wanted to announce:

I have a wholesome Fiyero fanfiction I’ve been working on that started just due to the fact that Fiyero is accompanied by a Horse in the movie version. I immediately jumped as

1) A Horse

2) The bond and respect between my own horse and I

Currently it’s a boy and his Horse (more so, a Horse and his boy) on the trek to shiz.

There will be some bits of Fiyeraba later, probably some gelphiyero too, but it won’t be the main focus. I wanted this fic to focus on the friend/familial relationship the could exist between Fiyero and Feldspar.

However, I will note: I’m someone who grew up with Wizard of Oz and didn’t get into Wicked until I was older. With things the movie has done and mentions it’s made in comparison to the og stage production, I’ve been having the fun of making my own sort of amalgamated world of Wizard of Oz lore and Wicked lore and making them play nice together. Don’t worry though! It’s not unfamiliar as Wicked is still the focus and you wont be lost if you don’t know anything from the Wizard of Oz books. It doesn’t require that knowledge at all and only acts as some fun nods and namesakes if you do know.

NOW, I don’t really know yet how far I’m going with this fic and where it will end, so we’ll see. I do have two other fic ideas in my head though (if I ever do them) that would be connected to it. One a sort of.. prequel, and one a continuum.

(Like.. this fic is also just named “Honse” rn in my docs because I’ve yet to think of a title for it 💀)

Currently it’s at 2~3 chapters and I’ve head a couple friends reading it as it’s created for their reactions and feedback. So.. I honestly can’t wait to, hopefully soon, share it!

For now! Please enjoy the sort of.. introduction as a sample 🥺

——apologies if the format transferred weird——

"Shiz University.. sure, why not? The most acclaimed university in Oz. The "Shiznit." The top of the top that even Mr. Better Than Everyone Else Wogglebug praises. The perfect place to send a prince, but how long do you think it will take until I achieve their final disappointments?" The Winkie prince tossed a stray twig into the fire and sat back with a stretch.

"Well, personally, I think you could do great there, Fiyero." The Horse of a different color couldn't help but nicker as he laid down. "If you would just start reaching out to your teachers, or even me for that matter, instead of continuously pushing it off.. That never does you any good, you know. Besides, I've heard the professors at Shiz are quite good! A few of which I’ve heard are Animals!" Feldspar spoke proudly before grabbing an apple to snack on.

Of course Feldspar would be giving him a sort of.. pep-talk with Shiz only being another day away. No one knew him better than that Horse. He had a decent hoof in raising the prince afterall. It made Fiyero both very glad and somewhat afraid that his parents had agreed to the idea to let him travel with Feldspar. Although, there wasn't much convincing that needed to be had. They had immediately been on board with it from the second they heard it. He always enjoyed getting to travel with Feldspar anyway, getting moments to explore the roads less traveled (Oz knows Gillikin country had plenty of areas less traveled) and getting to camp out like this. These moments where there were no expectations and all the pressure would lift away from his body. Moments where his brain felt completely at ease. Not heavy or foggy, not scattered or numb, just.. clear.

"And, personally, I think you have too much faith in me," Fiyero didn't catch the smirk that casually slid onto his face. "However, I will admit that I am at least a little excited about the Animal professors. I always liked the Animal teachers better back at home anyway."

"Hmm," Feldspar shook his head before grabbing one of the apples to toss at the prince. Fiyero had to scramble a little, the heel of his boot kicking up dirt from the forest floor, but he managed to catch the apple before it flew over his head. Feldspar tried to hold it in first, but failed as quiet chuckles still escaped him. "You should believe in yourself a little more. And I don't mean when you're prancing around like a young pony."

"I do not prance around! I flaunt. Very strategically." He took a bite of the apple, turning his chin up in mock offense.

"Oh, I am very sorry, Your Highness. You flaunt around like a young pony." Feldspar's laughing was louder this time. "But I am serious, Fiyero. I want you to take care of yourself. Maybe find yourself some good beings to hang around with this time, hm? Some real friends?"

“I do take care of myself," he dismissed with a wave of his hand, "As for the other thing, I can at least promise you that I’ll try. Genuinely.” ‘Genuinely’ was the funny little keyword. He would genuinely try, he always did. Maybe it made it a little hard to make genuine connections when he kept his genuine self locked away, only for a select few to find out. However, it was always easier to get others to like you by locking that away. It made things less complicated and it never let anyone get too uncomfortably close either. Sure, he would watch and carefully decide who he might actually like, but the prior made it easier to drift around if he so needed.

“Well, a promise to try is the best I can ask for.” The horse settled, letting the prince finish his apple. Feldspar took the moment to sit in a comfortable silence, looking up to the sky. The stars shone brightly through the leaves and branches, making it look like a few were peeking out at them from behind the trees. It made him a little sad, bringing the thought to mind that these moments may start to become scarce. His young human, the one he swore to protect and look after, the one he had joined on many adventures, the one he witnessed almost every milestone of, Feldspar knew he’d soon be expected to fully step into princely duties. In a way, Shiz felt like the start of some sort of countdown and he knew Fiyero thought the same. He could tell from the way they had, admittedly, taken a longer route to Shiz.

“Do you want your blanket tonight?” The horse’s thoughts were interrupted by Fiyero who had stood back up to get to their supply. They hadn’t brought too much with them themselves, having sent a lot of their things to the school separately. This left their little mound of items being mostly made only of necessities for travel.

“Ah, no, no,” Feldspar looked over and his ears perked forward as he watched Fiyero rummage around their things.” I think I’ll be fine for tonight. Although, as always, I do appreciate you asking.”

“Of course, friend. You’re the one doing most of the work this journey. Checking in on you might be the absolute least I can do. Aaand, I couldn’t really tell if you were admiring the dark or just trying to predict tonight’s weather.” The prince replied with a slight chuckle as he grabbed his bed roll and blanket. Despite the various other… reputations that Fiyero had made for himself, Feldspar had always been glad to know the true Fiyero. Even if he knew that the prince had never truly allowed even him completely in. Despite the constant pressure and high expectations he grew up under, he was a good kid.

As the quiet settled again, leaving only the sound of the gentle breeze that weaved its way through the trees, Fiyero got comfortable for the night. Laying back on his mat, he let out a sigh through his nose. There was a chance that they would make it to Shiz tomorrow and he needed to start planning what he would do, what his entry would be, and how he’d come off. It was a top of the line university, but so were the schools he attended back in Winkie Country. However, with this being Gillikin Country, he no doubt would have the extra flair and draw of being a prince from another quadrant of Oz. Most people never got to do more than read about the other quadrants, so anything in regards to another quadrant tended to easily get people curious and excited.

“Goodness,” Feldspar spoke after his head lifted up into a yawn, bringing Fiyero’s attention back to the Horse. “That seems like the cue for me to start drifting. Rest easy, Your Highness.” With the campfire dimming, it was getting a little harder to see the Horse, his blue coat starting to meld with the dark of night, but Fiyero could still make out the movement of another big yawn from his friend. He couldn’t help but let a few gentle, warm laughs escape before rolling back over on his mat.

“Goodnight, you old Horse.”

[badlifedecisionshotline]

☆~《What is & tips on working on your intuition》 -for angry and hopeless

<From someone with lots of experience>

Now whats intuition?

Intuition is the ability to access information out of thin air, even though there's no way you could've gotten it via logic — yet it's somehow correct.

How is this definition important?

Because many beginers confuse paranoia, expectation and desire with intuition. So to be able to diferentiate them from intuition, its good to keep this in mind.

But what if they already know that, and are still struggling?

The way it functions (at least for me) is by giving me information via feeling. Which makes it hard to decyfer for some (more on it later). The feeling is calm, its not trying to get your attention. It's there, completely neutrual. It doesnt *try* appeal to you or not appeal. It's simply just there. And often times the first thing/feeling that comes to mind when needing an answer/etc etc.

What to do if you struggle decyfering it?

Ask yourself what makes you feel that way, what comes to mind/assosiations. And in general people who are disconnected from emotion struggle with this. So this post might be a wake up call for some (hopefully)

Exercises?

Theres many different kinds of exercises, and online theres many too. But for me i have a few tips on how to practice decyfering it.

You can Google surch/use pinterest and surch up "animal/pet/dog/cat" (and before you do:)

Ask yourself the hight

Colour

Fur thickness

Fur texture

Contex? (Sitting, jumping, playing)

And probably even more important advice-

• Dont insoult and shame yourself for not getting it right. Glaze (idk what else to use so stay w me here) yourself for even getting anything at all/trying to better yourself.

Treating yourself like shit wont help you at all. Shame is the opposite of motivation, and eventually you WILL absolutely give up if you continue. Because you'll make yourself believe you just can't or that something is wrong with you.

[Tw just straight up agression]

Things like this are a bumpy fuckin road. And if youre the kind that thinks this way AND is rough/pissed off– youre a fucking dumbass. A FUCKING, IMBECILE. OF COURSE YOU WONT UNDERSTAND SHIT IF *ANYTHING* NOT BEING FROM THE FIRST TRY AND BEING 100% MAKES YOU PISSED. STUPID FUCKING IDIOT. STOP ACTING LIKE EVERYTHING IS SERVED ON A SILVER PLATTER FOR YOU. GROW. THE. FUCK. UP. BE REALISTIC. TAKE YOUR TIME MORON.

However, if you're not: (no agression)

Its going to be ok, its most likely because you dont believe in yourself. I was there too. I was both of you- Hell one time i was so paranoid about getting it wrong that I sircled all the wrong answers on the test i didnt study for (on an easy, suposed to be free points, test).

Now, i can help people and am pritty good at using my intuition. So please, if you dont trust yourself, trust me (a bit weird since we're strangers but alr XD)– i really was there. Be kind to yourself. Youre learning, so take your time. And much love

God i feel like that one Gordon Ramsey meme

"WHAT ARE YOU??" "An idiot sandwitch"

"Oh precious, oh precious little thing"

[tactful-kind-daedra]

She doesn't rush in her movements, despite the temptation to get it over with as quickly as possible. The layers have to be taken away, but that is the crux of the matter. Daedra doesn't really know what ails him - some kind of open wound, clearly. However, the fall hadn't seemed that devastating. Perhaps a pulled muscled or a twisted ankle, but Percy's injury seemed much more dire.... and she knew he was not faking.

So, she worked slow and as steady as she was able. Her hands awkwardly trembled from time to time, unsure of when she would be greeted with a 'surprise' she was probably not expecting. When Percival took to guiding her slightly awkward hands, she didn't pull away or even flinch. She'd helped in the first aid tents numerous times. It made her feel useful... when she had been distinctly not so, on the battlefield.

When she heard his quiet words, she stilled for a moment.

"I---well, I try to be," she replied just as demurely. Not quite shy, but more... perhaps unsure of what a good reply was, given the moment. "I'm just doing what anyone else with decency would be."

She'd like to think so anyway. How could you just walk off when someone was in need of help?

Eventually, the remaining layers of his protective gear were carefully pulled free. They did not pull away as easily as the others, and it soon revealed why. Daedra's eyes narrowed as she hissed from the sight. Now it made sense: he'd landed on various glass jars he'd been keeping on his person. She had little idea what had been in them, hopefully nothing equally as damaging. Percival still seemed lucid, just... not enjoying himself. Which was semi-assuring...

"Um...do you have anything here?" she eventually managed out, having to swallowing down the awkward lump in her throat. This would not be pleasant for either of them... but it had to be done.

"A container... bandages--- things to help with this?

She'd need a tool to get the shards out, among things to get it clean. Percival atleast seemed experienced with such things.

The instant Daedra places her hands on his clothing, instinctive tension holds Percy’s shoulders up. He never felt… safe when leaving his undressing in someone else’s hands. Even before he left, the opportunities he had to control his world around him he’d take. As she proceeds, He’d wordlessly assist her to get all of the layers of the garb off, shifting around as peels the first layer off, it resembling a zippered coat as Percy slips his arms out. He doesn’t need to be as loud, since the two of them were inside the cabin, so he’d just speak a bit quieter, but still bluntly…

“You’re a… good person, Daedra…”

Once she places her hands on the final layer, he’d seemed to have relaxed quite a bit, especially after hearing her words, and would let out a soft groan-. And wordlessly, Percy’s hands would move, placing his palms under her wrists, and very minimally guiding her on how to take the bottom layer with the least amount of pain, it wouldn’t just go straight up and off, one had to make room, and pull at the side so it wouldn’t graze the injury under it. As it comes off, His head would lull to his left shoulder, as he’d start to close his eyes. One half of the hardest part would be done-…

(injury:tw)

As soon as the shirt comes off, Daedras senses would be barraged by a variety of scents, some flowery, others sharply metallic as some of the crushed glass falls out from under the coat-… There’s the distinct metal scent, centered around the array of sizable glass shards embedded in his side, and various alchemical reagents that seem to have broken in and around the wound, causing red, splotchy burns around and across his midriff, and worse around the gash, with some small clearly irritated areas. He’d seem to want to guard the area with the glass embedded, but with his gear off and skin exposed on his top half, there’s a lot of old wounds and scars that he instinctually wanted to cover, as he turns his head away from her a bit. He’d avoid talking for the moment, letting her choose to talk or ask any questions. He personally despised when people tell him how to treat them, so he’d offer her the same courtesy.

[shamera]

42k into writing this November!! And I stopped mid-sentence because I suddenly very very badly wanted to write cat!Klein. My dudes, it was like a pregnancy craving, I literally stopped typing, lol.

BUT THIS STORY HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH THAT (unless I revamp my entire outline to include cat!Klein, which I am very tempted to do), because omg. Sequence 4 literally has the ability to shapeshift into animals (around the same size), and also furthers the Marionettist ability to possess animals and transfer his abilities (which, with the shapeshifting, means HUMAN VOCAL CORDS) so cat!Klein is literally, and easily, possible in canon.

...Instead, I will amuse myself with the fact that I find Fors really, really funny unintentionally.

[reksink]

Shelter

[lucalicatteart]

A new sculpture! Finally... I feel like I never sculpt anymore since I'm always sick or have some 500 other things going on or projects to finish, but I'm trying to schedule time to do it more often this year hopefully..! Just a generic fantasy creature as usual, but did try making the eyes a little more sparkly this time.. hrmm..

[bubaboos]

good luck buying tickets today!!

[obsob]

do you make enough money from selling prints in etsy to sustain your life? how are you able to afford this beautiful house and time to crochet and go on walks and all of that? i’m not asking for nosiness but because i’m trying to figure out what i would need to do in order to make my life financially sustainable… is art an option… etc

short answer i mooch off my bf <333333333333333