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writing the flashback scenes for W and seeing what an unhinged menace little MC can be when they see their best friend being bullied...

W is already down bad at nine years of age after seeing MC beat the absolute shit out of someone who badmouthed them. it’s not getting any better when they’re both older.

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Achilles and Patroclus

My MC and W from @childrenofcain-if !! they were so cutiesy as children smh smh 🥲

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There's not one RO of Asian descent in your story

We already don't get much rep in interactive fiction, wish you'd add one here too

here’s a question for you: which continent is india in?

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W + E

"All of Rhode Island laid out in front of your eyes, but all you could see was me"

Elaine Morozova (OC) and Wilhelm Ostendorf from the interactive fiction story by @childrenofcain-if

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bro the if community is so toxic and for what

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some food art !!

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This was originally just supposed to be my MC in her dress but then I drew M’s reaction and things spiraled from there… 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

The Ballad of the Young Gods by @childrenofcain-if! <3

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Jules Joseph Lefebvre

French, 1836 - 1911

flowers in hair

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Oh C wanted MC so bad during high school 😂 I bet they had a picture of MC in their locker and would never ever let anyone take a peak inside it

THIS IS INSIDER INFORMATION, BONNIE, WHO TOLD YOU THIS???

but yeah, romanced C had a sketch of MC on the side of their locker. they had to take it down real quick because one of their friends saw it tho...

their friend: “yo C, why do you have MC’s picture in your locker.”

C, after slamming the locker door shut: “it’s a character study for our art class.”

their friend, confused: “huh? but i swear it lo—”

C: “i’m going to skin you alive if you ever tell anyone about this.”

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never a frown, never a frown with golden brown

Vanessa Næsholm from the if @childrenofcain-if ＼（＾０＾）ノ it’s been so long since i made a fanart for V, so I decided to draw them. god my art style has changed a lot (i’ve been practicing chat) yap session + drawing details under the read more

i lowkey redesigned how i drew V a bit

first off gave them more curly/fluffy hair. i also feel like they’re hair would be slightly messy just a tad

second of all I kinda gave them more almondy-shaped eyes instead of droopy eyes. idk, i just felt like the shape really captured their anxious/self conscious nature while the droopy eyes gave them more of a “serene” look

i drew this at like one am chat am i cooked or am i cooked

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Song Jia photographed by Leslie Zhang for T Magazine China June 2019.

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My MC is dramatic enough to have a crash out over one B grade, all because they made their entire success quota revolve around the fact that they've always gotten straight As in every tests. College is gonna be such a rude awakening for them 😭

How would M react to an MC who is spiralling because of one average grade?

the dorm bathroom’s yellow light sounded like a dying insect, casting a sickly pallor over your reflection. you leaned against the sink, fingers gripping the porcelain until the skin covering your knuckles stretched as far as it could.

the mirror showed a stranger—sunken cheeks carved by sleepless nights, shadows pooling like ink beneath your eyes, lips trembling as if trying to outrun the sob lodged in your throat. your skin had a yellow undertone to it, thanks to the bathroom light, and it made you look like you had jaundice. honestly, you’d have preferred that to the situation you were in right now.

B. the letter glared in your mind, bold and mocking.

B. a splinter under your fingernail. a pebble in your shoe. a stain on a white shirt.

you’d handed in that exam with hands steady as a surgeon’s, heart singing ‘this was easy, per usual.’ but the grade had come back like a verdict: you were wrong. you’re just like everyone else. you’re not special anymore.

you’d spent years folding yourself into the shape of excellence—midnight oil burned to ash, highlighters drained dry, every social invitation declined with a polite, “i have to study, sorry.”

you thought about your wasted potential, the way you had spent your life striving, pushing, grinding yourself down to bone and nerve and exhaustion just to be the best, and now—what did you have to show for it?

your worth was an equation: As = brilliance, respect, worthy. without it, you were unspooled. a equation with no solution.

back in your room, you tore through the silence like a wild thing. the bottle of cheap vodka—pilfered from a party that D invited you to months ago, “for emergencies”—glinted on your desk. your hands shook as you unscrewed the cap, the smell sharp and chemical.

this is what failure tastes like, you thought, the first swallow burning a trail to your gut. the second was smoother. the third didn’t burn at all.

the room tilted, walls breathing in and out. you slumped into your desk chair, macbook screen still open to the grade portal.

B. you wanted to claw it out of the digital ether, scream at it until it rearranged itself into the letter above it. instead, you drank. and drank. the bottle became a companion, its weight in your hand a perverse comfort.

what’s the point? the thought slithered, oily and familiar. you’re a goddamn fraud. all those late nights spent studying, all that praise—for what? to plateau? to be ordinary?

your vision blurred. you imagined your classmates’ faces, their tight smiles. “oh well, they were supposed to burn out at some point.” your professors’ voices, syrupy with pity. “you’ll bounce back.” as if resilience were a trampoline to you, not a bruise.

the door creaked open. you didn’t turn. footsteps—light, familiar—paused at the threshold.

“hey,” M said softly, their deep, posh voice immediately recognisable.

you had half the mind to admonish them for entering your room without knocking, but you didn’t. you couldn’t. not when your tongue was feeling swollen, your throat lined with sand.

they stepped closer, their presence a warmth at your back. “you didn’t answer your texts. i… got worried.”

again, you maintained your silence. M furrowed their brows, walking closer to you. their hand hovered near your shoulder, then withdrew. they then crouched beside your chair, eyes level with yours. their umber brown gaze—flecked with gold, like sunlight through maple syrup—held no judgment. only quiet concern. “talk to me, love.”

you wanted to snap. to lash out. but their voice, steady as a heartbeat, disarmed you.

“i got a B, M,” you whispered, the letter a curse. “a B. do you know how many hours i—?”

“yes.”

the word stopped you. M rarely ever interrupted you in the middle of a sentence.

“i know,” they repeated, softer. “i’ve watched you. every library all-nighter. every time you skipped lunch to review notes. every moment you treated yourself like a machine.” their hand finally settled on your arm, a warm anchor. “i just wish i could convince you that your grades do not diminish the amount of work you’ve put into it, love.”

you shook your head, eyes now burning with unshed tears. “you don’t get it. i’m supposed to be brilliant. if i’m not the best, who the fuck even am i?”

M’s thumb brushed your wrist, a gentle stroke. “do you remember that one elective you took for astrophysics? the one with dr. conway?”

you blinked. of course you did. you’d transcribed almost every lecture to M, whether they wanted to hear it or not. they were never really inclined towards anything STEM related, but they still listened to you regardless.

“stars,” M said, “don’t measure their worth by how brightly they burn. they just… are. and even when they collapse? they scatter stardust. new planets. new life.” their voice thickened. “you’re not a grade. you’re a star. you think i don’t see it? the way you dissect a poem like it’s alive. how you remember every footnote, every theory of your ridiculously complicated classes.”

“that B?” M plucked the bottle from your grip, setting it aside. “it’ll never stain your potential. it’s a miniscule particle in the brilliance of your cosmos. nothing more.”

a sob tore loose. M pulled you into their arms, your face buried in their sweater—smelling of jasmine and the faintest trace of incense. they didn’t shush you. didn’t offer platitudes. just held you as you let your emotions pour out, their fingers carding through your tangled hair.

when the storm passed, they guided you to bed, your legs wobbling.

“sleep,” they murmured, tucking the comforter around you. “we’ll talk about this more when you wake up, if you still wish to.”

“okay,” you slurred, eyelids leaden. “good night.”

M smiled, a sad, sweet curve. “good night, meri jaan.”

as darkness crept in, you felt it—the ghost of lips against your forehead, featherlight. a breath, or a dream. but in that liminal space between waking and oblivion, you let yourself believe it was real.

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helllooooo i deleted my old blog cuz it was a side blog and it was lowkey annoying have to deal with that so i’m back yipeee