#...but having difficulty putting it to words

[slattlicker]

can u write maybe some comfort fluff for reader going trough a depressive episode (totally not projecting wdym)

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * a low spoons sort of day ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: a rough morning, a quiet lunch, and a long-distance boyfriend who shows up on your doorstep—and stays. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: this one’s for you, babe. for the days when it’s hard to cry, hard to eat, hard to answer a text—you’re not broken, you’re just tired. and you deserve love anyway. and remember: you are kind, you are smart, you are loved. don’t let anyone dim your light—not even yourself. ♡ i know the original request was for something fluffy, and i hope the comfort & fluff still shines through even if it leaned a little more hurt/comfort than expected.

warnings: hurt/comfort · long-distance relationship · therapist · y/n has depression · depiction of a depressive episode · executive dysfunction · intrusive thoughts/self-isolation themes · difficulty expressing emotions · eating struggles (not ED-specific) · emotional vulnerability/tough conversation · tenderness, softness, and healing cuddles

✧✧✧

you wake up because the light’s too bright.

not because you’re rested. not because you want to.

the sun’s hitting you directly in the face—low, late morning maybe, and sharp enough to hurt. you squint against it but don’t move. not really. just pull the covers a little higher and let your eyes fall shut again.

the room smells stale. your water bottle’s empty. something vaguely crusty’s on the nightstand from two-days-ago's attempt at dinner—probably takeout. you don’t remember. it doesn’t matter.

your phone buzzed sometime around midnight. schlatt’s name lit up the screen with a message that read:

gonna be real busy tomorrow, babe. not sure i’ll be able to call til later. love you. talk soon <3

you’d typed out “it’s okay, good luck <3” and then erased it.

typed it again. erased it again.

settled on a heart emoji and turned your phone face-down.

it wasn’t that you were mad. you weren’t. it just felt like... too much effort. everything does lately.

you know what this is. it’s the weight. the fog. the numbness and the ache. you’ve been through this before—hell, you’ve even sat in the therapy chair and named it. depression. clinical, cyclical, chemical. you know the words. you’ve done the reading.

it still doesn’t make mornings easier.

still doesn’t make the thought of brushing your teeth any less impossible.

you breathe out, long and quiet. your chest feels heavy. your head feels heavier.

but eventually—because you have to—you sit up.

not all at once. just enough to lean forward, elbows on knees, palms to your face.

you don’t cry. that would take energy. all you do is sit there, eyes open, breathing, trying to find the strength to stand up.

✧✧✧

you’re halfway through your soup when your therapist asks, casually:

“so, how’d the sandwich experiment go?”

you sigh. shrug. pick at the bread crust you’ve been slowly tearing into pieces.

“i stared at it for twenty minutes and then put it back in the fridge.”

she hums. not judging. just listening.

“you still have it?”

“yeah.”

“maybe toast it tomorrow. new texture, new try.”

you nod, knowing damn well it’ll sit untouched for another two days before you throw it out. but it feels nice to be given a gentle solution instead of a lecture.

she’s halfway through her tofu rice bowl—same thing she always gets on tuesdays. she’s always warm about it, too. offers you bites even though you never accept. makes quiet comments about the sauce being better this week, or how someone finally fixed the squeaky door to the front office.

she’s easy to be around. familiar.

“you seem... heavier today,” she says eventually, tearing off a piece of your untouched bread and dipping it in her bowl. “wanna talk about that?”

you stir your soup.

“i think i’m the reason i’m alone.”

she doesn’t flinch. just lets the silence breathe for a moment.

you keep going—slow. hesitant. honest.

“i—i told myself i needed space. from people. from everything. i thought i was doing the right thing, you know? like, letting myself rest. not forcing it.”

“and now?”

you press your spoon down. feel it scrape the bottom of the cup.

“now it feels like i never learned how to come back.”

her eyes soften.

“i push people away,” you admit, voice smaller. “and then i punish myself for it. like—of course no one’s here. you made it this way.”

“self-sabotage is sneaky like that,” she says. “feels like protection at first. then it builds walls you forget how to climb.”

you nod. swallow. stir.

she waits a beat longer, then adds—gently:

“but you’re not trapped. not really. just out of practice.”

you glance up.

she offers a small shrug. “you isolated to survive. that’s not weakness. that’s strategy. now we just need new strategies.”

you blink at that.

she nudges your arm with hers.

“start small. text one person when you think you don’t deserve it. let someone see you before you’re ‘fixed.’ remind yourself—connection isn’t a reward. it’s a need.”

you’re quiet. still chewing.

“hey,” she says softly. “you’re here. that matters.”

you offer a crooked smile.

“only because i was bribed with soup.”

she laughs. “see? new strategy already.”

you huff a laugh—small, but real.

for the rest of the session, she keeps it light. talks about a book she’s reading. mentions how the neighbor’s cat keeps sneaking into the front office. you listen. you sip. you chew.

it helps. it's nice to have a conversation with someone who isn't your boyfriend.

when it’s time to leave, she presses a granola bar into your palm like a secret mission and says, “for post-session blood sugar.”

you thank her. she tells you she’ll see you next week.

you nod.

but your smile fades the second you hit the stairwell.

✧✧✧

you sit in your car with the door still open, keys in your hand, soup-to-go container cooling in your lap.

you don’t start the engine. don’t even close the door.

just sit there—half in, half out—like the drive home is some far-off thing you don’t quite have the energy to reach.

your fingers dig into the steering wheel like it might anchor you. like holding onto something will keep you from dissolving.

your phone is face down in the cupholder. still on do not disturb. you haven’t touched it all day.

you know exactly what’s sitting in there.

a text from your mom, asking if you’re mad at her.

a message from robyn, still unread—from three weeks ago.

a photo in the group chat from an inside joke you weren’t part of anymore.

a voice memo from emily that you said you’d listen to “when you felt better.” you never did.

three emails from work. one of them marked “urgent.”

and schlatt—probably just a little heart in response to yours. maybe an “i love you.” maybe nothing, this time.

you can feel your face tightening, your throat closing. you tell yourself not to cry.

you don’t deserve to cry. crying is for people who still try. you haven’t tried. you haven’t reached out. you haven’t done your dishes. you didn’t even put the soup in the fridge last night, just left it on your desk until it curdled.

you’re disgusting.

your chest starts to heave—quiet, shallow hiccups of air you can’t quite catch.

you grip the wheel harder.

you remember the voicemail from your cousin. the one you deleted without listening to, because she always talks for ten minutes and you couldn’t fake interest for ten minutes.

you remember the birthday party you skipped. the friend you “forgot” to text back.

the way you didn’t answer the door when someone came by to check on you.

you remember schlatt asking “are you sure you're okay?” a few days ago—and how you smiled, tight and fake and practiced, and said, “just tired.”

you feel your lip wobble. you dig your nails into the heel of your palm.

you used to cry all the time. when you were a kid. when you were softer. you used to sob in bathrooms and hallways and curled up on the couch with your mom’s old sweater.

now you just… stare. glassy-eyed. stunned.

your body doesn’t know whether it wants to scream or disappear.

you rest your head on the steering wheel. it’s warm. it smells like your skin.

your vision starts to swim.

you’re a terrible friend.

you’re a terrible daughter.

...probably a terrible girlfriend, too.

you’re lucky anyone even wants to text you.

and still, you ignore them.

still, you disappear.

and then you have the audacity to feel lonely.

your breath catches on a sharp inhale. almost a sob.

but no tears come.

not even that.

your chest tightens, rises, falls—too fast, too shallow—but your eyes stay dry.

you press your palms into your eyes anyway, like you can force it out, like pressure might trigger emotion. like grief is a switch you can flip if you just press hard enough.

nothing happens.

you sit there, hunched over the wheel, trembling—not from sadness, exactly, but from the sheer weight of everything you’ve refused to feel.

you want to scream.

you want anything to break the silence inside your head.

but instead, you just sit.

silent. stiff. breath catching like a misfiring engine.

you used to cry easily.

now?

you can’t even muster that.

and the numbness feels worse than the pain ever did.

eventually, your hands fall back into your lap. your grip loosens on the soup cup. the lid’s a little warped now, thumbprint pushed in from holding too tight.

you stare through the windshield—vacant, blank.

you are not okay.

…but you have to keep going, you guess.

✧✧✧

you unlock your door. red key. black door. drop your bag by the shoe rack. kick off your sneakers, one at a time. brace yourself for the stale quiet, the faint funk of laundry that needs folding, the dirty dishes you left in the sink yesterday because you’d “do them tomorrow”.

you don’t brace for this.

the smell hits first—garlic, roasted something, maybe herbs—and your brain short-circuits.

you freeze in the doorway.

the lights are soft. warm. the overhead one’s off, just the little lamp by the bookshelf on.

and your apartment? clean. 

your throw blanket’s folded. the counter’s wiped. the dishes are gone. the trash has been taken out. your couch even looks fluffed.

and then—

“hey, babe.”

you turn, wide-eyed.

and he’s there. he’s here.

schlatt—real, in your kitchen doorway—grinning like he knows he just turned your whole day upside down.

he’s wearing your apron. the ugly one with the cartoon sheep. holding a wooden spoon in one hand and a potholder in the other.

“don’t freak out,” he says, totally unbothered, “but i made chicken parm and also maybe reorganized your fridge.”

you blink at him. your mouth opens. nothing comes out. you feel like your body is buffering.

“how—what—?”

he shrugs. “caught a flight. figured i’d surprise you. you didn’t really think that i wouldn’t want to talk or even text you all day?”

you should smile. you should run to him. you should fall into his arms and laugh and kiss him and say thank god you’re here.

instead, your eyes blur.

your chest goes tight.

and the inside of your mouth tastes like panic.

he steps closer—tentative now, spoon still in hand.

“hey,” he says again, gentler. “you okay?”

you nod, quickly.

then shake your head.

then nod again.

“i—i’m fine,” you whisper. “i just… it’s a lot.”

he sets the spoon down. crosses the room to you slow, careful.

“too much?”

you shake your head again, even though—yeah. it is. it’s all too much. too clean, too warm, too loving, too good.

he stops in front of you. doesn’t reach for you yet. just looks.

you try to smile. it comes out warped.

“i’ve been barely holding it together all day,” you say, voice wobbly. “and then i come home and it’s clean and it smells good and you’re here and i—i’m not okay, and i should be, and that makes me feel like—like a horrible person—”

he catches you as your voice breaks.

wraps you up without hesitation. presses your face to his shoulder.

“hey, hey,” he murmurs. “stop that. don’t do that to yourself.”

your arms wrap around him slowly. your fingers curl in his shirt.

“you weren’t supposed to come today,” you mumble. “i didn’t get the chance to be… better.”

his hands rub slow circles on your back.

“you don’t have to be better,” he says, voice low and steady. “i'm just glad that you're home...would've been really awkward if you had hid out in your car for a few more hours…i probably would have burned dinner."

“…how did you know that i hide out in my car, schlatt?”

he exhales—quiet and sheepish. “because i do the same thing, baby.”

you blink against his chest. something in your ribcage shudders.

he rubs your back again, slow. “sometimes it’s the only place that feels… silent, y’know? like nothing’s expected of you in there. no dishes. no conversation. just…quiet.”

your throat tightens.

“so yeah,” he murmurs. “when you didn’t come in for a while, i figured you were out there, just… trying to be okay.”

he doesn’t say hiding. doesn’t say stalling.

just trying to be okay.

and for some reason, that’s what does it.

not the dinner. not the clean apartment. not even the smell of roasted garlic that’s still floating in from the kitchen.

it’s the quiet recognition.

the unspoken i get it.

and suddenly, your face crumples.

there’s no lead-up. no gasping breath or dramatic sob. just—release.

your shoulders cave inward. your fingers tighten in his shirt. the first hot tear slides down your cheek, then another, then another, and you just let it happen.

he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t freeze up.

doesn’t try to shush you or fix it or talk you out of it.

he just holds you.

softly. firmly. like you’re soft and warm and real, not just a rapidly deteriorating body.

his thumb grazes the back of your neck. his other hand cradles your waist, keeping you grounded while your chest shakes and your eyes spill and your words fall apart before they even make it to your mouth.

you’re not even sure what you’re crying about anymore.

it’s not just the depression.

not just the fear or the shame or the aching weight you’ve been dragging around.

it’s the relief too.

that he’s here.

that you don’t have to carry it alone tonight.

eventually, when the tears slow and your body’s less curled up and more leaned in, he presses a kiss to your temple.

“i’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs. “you hear me?”

you nod into his shoulder. he smells like your detergent.

“and hey,” he adds, a little lighter, “i made garlic bread too. with cheese. so i’m basically a five-star restaurant who's also your boyfriend.”

you sniff out a weak laugh. “you’re silly.”

“and you’re underfed. let’s fix that.”

✧✧✧

you eat in comfortable silence.

well—you eat.

he scarfs down two pieces of garlic bread and half his plate in ten minutes flat. you take smaller bites. the chicken’s soft, the sauce a little sweet. he must’ve used your good oregano—the one in the back of the cabinet, the one you keep forgetting you have.

you’re halfway through your food when he leans back in his chair, eyes soft, voice careful.

“can i ask you something?”

you glance up. nod.

“was today one of the bad ones?”

you lower your fork.

“yeah.”

he doesn’t push. just nods. lets you take your time.

you pick at the corner of your napkin.

“i’ve just… felt really alone lately,” you say. “and i keep trying to tell myself it’s temporary. or logical. or earned. but it doesn’t help.”

he nods again—not like he understands everything, but like he’s willing to try.

“i’ve been pulling away from people. even you,” you admit, quieter now. “and i hate it, but it feels like… like i don’t deserve anyone when i’m like this. like, i know it’s messed up thinking, but it’s so loud sometimes, and i just…i believe it.”

“can i say something?”

you nod, cautiously.

“you gotta stop thinking everyone’s gonna leave.”

your stomach twists. not from the food.

you stab at your chicken. “i’m not—i don’t think that, i just... i don’t know. i’ve been left before.”

“i know,” he says gently. “and that sucked. but that doesn’t mean it’s gonna happen every time.”

you shrug. “it kind of does, though. it’s a pattern.”

“or maybe it’s just fear talking,” he says. “fear has a way of convincing you that it’s a fact.”

"yeah, but...my fears have been confirmed before, schlatt. more than once..."

“i know they have,” his thumb brushes over your knuckles. “but baby... do you ever notice how you stopped giving people the chance to prove you wrong?”

"the only one who proved me wrong...was you, honey."

his mouth quirks—just a little, just for a second.

“then let that count for something.” his thumb keeps tracing, slow and steady. “’cause i’m not the exception. i’m just the start.”

you laugh a bit at that, shaking your head. "schlatt, it's not...it's not going to work like that. so easily..."

“i know,” he says, no hesitation. “i’m not askin’ you to flip a switch. we both know that relationships...romantic and platonic, take a ton of work.”

he squeezes your hand, just enough to ground you. you squeeze back, a little frustrated.

"everything is work, it feels like. i'm just...a huge work in progress. never to be completed. never to be fixed."

“you’re not broken,” he says, without missing a beat.

then, softer—more certain:

“you’re growing, and it is going to be tough to work through,” his fingers curl around yours, gentle but sure. “but you gotta understand something: i’m not here because you earned it. or because you were happy. or easy to deal with. or perfect."

he reaches for your hand. warm. grounding.

“i’m here because i love you.”

your breath catches.

“and yeah, sometimes it’s messy. sometimes you push me away. sometimes i have to step in before you spiral. but that’s not a dealbreaker, baby. that’s just... love.”

you don’t say anything. not yet. you just stare at him like you’re trying to memorize the shape of that sentence.

and he keeps going, quieter:

“i know it’s hard to believe. but people like me? we’re real. and we don’t just leave because things get hard. we stay. we show up. and you need to stop holding your breath waiting for that to change.”

your eyes burn. you try to blink it away, but it’s no use. the tears are already gathering.

“i don’t know how to believe that yet,” you whisper.

"let me ask you a really simple question, y/n. do you want me in your life?"

your voice catches in your throat. it takes a moment before you can answer.

“…yeah,” you say, barely audible. “of course i do.”

"good. because i want you too. and i will always want you in my life."

his forehead tips against yours, eyes closed like he’s sealing a promise.

“no version of you scares me off,” he murmurs. “not the tired one. not the sad one. not even the version that forgets she’s worthy of being loved.”

his hand squeezes yours again—firm, warm, anchoring.

“i’m not going anywhere. you got it? you're my girl.”

your breath catches.

not from the weight of your sadness—but from the warmth of his words. the certainty in them. like there was never a doubt. and it's really hard to try to argue with. because no matter how much your brain starts fishing for the rejection in his tone, you can't find anything.

"schlatt..."

"y/n, you're my girl because you're always there for me too. you're not some parasite, stuck to me, stealing all my energy and love. you're an amazing girlfriend who cares for me too. you're there when i'm having a tough time, you make me smile with all your stupid jokes, and you're always cheering for me on the sidelines."

your lips part—but no words come out.

not because you don’t have anything to say, but because he just said everything you never let yourself hope someone would.

your chest tightens, but not the way it usually does. this time, it’s not panic. it’s pressure—of something cracking open. something soft. something healing.

“you really… think that?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

he huffs a quiet laugh. “baby, i know that.”

he pulls your joined hands to his chest, right over his heart. “you love hard, y’know that? and yeah, sometimes you get scared, and sometimes you spiral—but that love of yours? it’s never been a burden. not once.”

his voice dips. “you’re not hard to love, y/n. you've just got to let people in.”

✧✧✧

the dishes clink quietly in the sink.

you’re not really talking—just standing side by side, sleeves rolled up, warm water running. you wash. he rinses. sometimes your arms bump. sometimes he hums a bit under his breath. it’s not awkward. just soft. simple.

you cried again. of course you did. he didn’t say anything when you did—just handed you a towel, kissed your forehead, and asked if you wanted to help clean up. so you did.

now the plates are stacked, the counters wiped, and your kitchen doesn’t look like a war zone anymore. neither do you.

you let out a long, quiet breath, drying your hands on a dish towel. schlatt leans against the counter, watching you. something fond tugs at the corners of his mouth.

“what?” you ask, self-conscious but curious.

he grins. “i was gonna wait ‘til we were under the blanket, but i’m too proud of myself.”

he crosses the room, crouches by his bag, and—very dramatically—unearths a large, black garbage bag from within.

you stare at him. “what the hell is that?”

“no questions,” he says, tugging the knot loose. “just…have faith.”

and then—

out comes your 1-foot tall, soft-as-sin, midnight-colored rammy plush. a little wrinkled from travel.

you gasp. “you hid him?!”

he looks smug. “had to. no way i was gonna walk through airport security with that thing under my arm.”

“you flew with him??”

“he had his own seat.”

you laugh—one hand to your chest, the other reaching for rammy like he’s a long-lost limb.

“i thought i left him forever…”

“you did,” schlatt says, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind, chin on your shoulder. “and i rescued him from the side of my bed. like the brave, selfless man i am.”

you melt back into him, plush squished between your arms, giggling.

“you know,” he says, “he kept fallin’ over on the plane. guy’s got no balance.”

you laugh—real and loud and unexpected. “he’s got noodles for legs.”

“he’s got your sleep habits, too. zero posture. just collapses.”

“shut up,” you snort, cuddling rammy tighter.

you’re quiet a second.

then, softly: “thank you.”

his voice dips. “anytime, baby.”

✧✧✧

you pull your knees up, scoot a little closer to him on the couch, rammy tucked beside you so you can still cuddle with schlatt.

and schlatt—without hesitation—pulls the blanket off the backrest and drapes it over your shoulders like muscle memory. like he’s done it a hundred times before.

“so,” he murmurs, voice dropping low and fond, “you gonna let me watch some stupid reality show with you now? or are we cuddlin’ in complete silence like psychos?”

you laugh. “i mean, you are kind of insane.”

“and you’re emotionally avoidant,” he shoots back, smirking. “we balance each other out.”

you roll your eyes, but it makes your chest feel lighter.

he settles beside you and nudges your arm with his. “hey. got your phone nearby?”

you groan. “schlaaatt…”

“just hear me out,” he says, voice soft. “text one person. just one. someone you miss. even if it’s just ‘hi.’ that’s what your therapist suggested, yeah? you should try it.”

you make a face. “they probably think i’m ignoring them.”

“or,” he says, “they probably think you’re struggling. and they miss you, too.”

you fidget with your sleeve. “what if they don’t want to hear from me?”

“then they won’t answer,” he says simply. “and that’ll suck. but it won’t kill you. and you’ll know how they really feel. but if they do answer?”

he smiles. “you’ll remember how many people don’t want to leave.”

you chew your lip.

then—tentatively—you pick up your phone.

type out a simple message.

hey. i know it’s been a while. i miss you. hope you’re doing okay.

your thumb hovers.

he watches you, patient.

you hit send.

“okay,” you mutter. “done. no turning back.”

“atta girl,” he grins, kissing your temple. “now pick a show with at least one toxic relationship in it. i need to feel morally superior.”

you scroll through a few options, then pause on one. “this one has people getting engaged after like… thirty-six hours.”

“perfect,” he says. “set the bar low. i’ll look amazing by comparison.”

you nudge your shoulder into his. “you already do.”

he quiets at that. just for a second. but it’s a warm kind of quiet. like he heard it. like he’s storing it somewhere safe.

you hit play.

and for a while, it’s just easy. the couch is soft, the blanket is warm, rammy’s squished between your hip and the cushion like he’s always belonged there, and schlatt’s laugh rumbles low against your side every time someone says something outrageous.

you don’t even notice how relaxed you’ve gotten until he reaches for your hand again—and this time, you meet him halfway.

thumbs brushing. fingers interlocked.

no big speeches. no heavy moments.

just… ease.

and then your phone buzzes.

you glance over, expecting maybe a news alert or spam—

but it’s a reply.

from robyn, who you texted earlier.

you blink.

then read the message again.

hey! i’ve missed you. i’m really glad you reached out. wanna get lunch this weekend? my treat :)

your stomach swoops.

you stare.

schlatt notices. “what’s up?”

you show him the screen.

“well,” his whole face lights up. “would you look at that!”

you’re quiet a second—biting your lip, trying not to cry for the fourth time tonight.

“i guess… maybe i don’t have to start over,” you murmur. “maybe i just have to start again.”

“babe,” he says, pulling you in tight, “that was poetic as shit.”

you snort. “shut up.”

“no, no, keep going,” he grins, smothering your face in kissy pecks now. “say something else profound. i’m in the mood for growth and domesticity.”

you giggle, swatting at him, squirming under the affection.

he doesn’t stop. not until you’re laughing again—like really laughing.

and then he pulls you in, settles the both of you under the blanket again, and murmurs:

“see? not so hard to let people in.”

and this time, you don’t argue.

you just squeeze his hand. and let yourself feel loved.

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * end notes ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ thank you for being here. if you saw yourself in this piece, i hope you also saw the care you deserve. you are not a burden. your softness is not a flaw. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

[secret-sector-antag]

🦇⚔ Dhampir Hunter V ⚔🦇

Intros/Profiles Part 3/?: Veni, vidi, dictavi [Potential CW for mentions of death and the following grief, as well as brief (albeit fictional) political stuff. Nothing overly detailed/gory, but just in case]

"Ingannamorte" Surname of Italian origin. Translates to "deciever of death" ("inganna"= "to decieve"/"decieves", and "morte"="death".) A rather fitting name for a creature of the night...

The Ingannamortes of Schprekenheim, at least loooooong ago, were the absolute rulers of the land. Being a subtype of vampire known in the area as StrigOwie, they lived up to their name: bring about immense suffering and misery, feeding off of it, and continuing the family name for generations to come.

However, despite the threats of torture, exile, and/or annihilation for any sort of political dissidence, the peasants of the land began to band together and fight back. After several attempts at a coup, the family have since fallen to a more underground, "figure-head"-like status. 

The then-current heads, Havaska and Polaris Ingannamorte, had a full plate on their hands: keeping the power of the family flowing throughout the land (but with a less...heavy-handed approach), other standard royal duties...and now, bringing up the next heir: Syberia (pronounced "Sĭh-Bĕ-reeyah").

For a while, things were actually...relatively okay. Syberia was growing into her role of one day becoming the head of the family...but as she began to learn about her family and the absolute power that they used to hold. She wanted a piece of that pie; none of this "figureheads-who-stand-in-the-background" business. And she was vocal about it. As she grew and had more of a hand in things, she became louder and louder- despite her parents doing what they could to try and quell that fervor.

Then disaster struck.

Havaska, mother to the latest heir of the Ingannamortes, had been murdered. While the "heat" between the royal vampire family and the peasants had disspated quite a bit over the years, a small extremist group wanted to make their mark...by doing what the several coup attempts back then couldn't: getting rid of the vampirs for good. While the group was quashed incredibly quickly (c'mon, you're fighting against vampires; and it wasn't like these guys were professional hunters), the toll it took on the remaining two Ingannamortes. While they grieved, Syberia saw this as an opportunity for them to bring that "iron-fistedness" back into play...but Polaris, her poor old Papa, was heartbroken. No matter how much she tried to convince him, he would not go all scorched earth and bring the entirety of Schprekenheim to heel. This, of course, led to increased tension in the already emotionally-bedraggled household.

...Then a little bit of light entered back into their lives...or, at the very least, Polaris's. A peseant woman known as Cerealia, who had brought it upon herself to continue to plant flowers on the deceased queen's grave, as well as keep the area surrounding area looking nice, was spotted by Polaris. Initially, he was a bit testy (how dare some...some commoner intrude on his land!), but seeing what she was doing, the ice that had come to surround his heart began to slowly melt. For the first time since he lost his wife, he had begun to feel...happy. Syberia, being Syberia, was suspicious. Who was this plebian, and what did her Dad see in her?! She was trying to usurp the throne, she just knew it!!

This, of course, wasn't true. Cerealia had no hidden intentions and genuinely cared about the forlorn king. Though one could argue that this took place very quickly, Polaris and Cerealia were soon married. And eventually, they welcomed another child into the kingdom.

Syberia was furious. Okay, yes, she was still the next in line to rule, but who the hell was this...this half-blood to come in and usurp what was supposed to be her time with her dad?! She wasn't acknowledging that peseant woman as family- even if she now bore the royal last name. But of course, under the treat of being sent away to the lower part of Schprekenheim to live out her life (or at least until she calmed the eff down and worked out her rage and resentment) in, potentially, a tall tower all by herself (almost like a "grounded for life" kind of scenario), Syberia let that hatred simmer. And simmer. And simmer. With her sister, that hatred did occasionally manifest as the standard acts of sibling rivalry, but her..."stepmother", eugh... was understanding, having been one of several siblings herself. However, even with the assurance that both kids were loved equally, it didn't mean she went unpunished for acting the way she did sometimes.

Things were going okay, it looked like.

Until they weren't.

Polaris and Cerealia had mysteriously perished on a trip to another village, as a show of goodwill. Some say that Syberia had a hand in it, but no one can be 100% certain...especially now since she's taken on the role as the head of the Ingannamorte family and will silence anyone who questions her. Playing to the public, she uses the death of her parents as her "reasoning" for bringing back the harshness that the family was once known for long, long ago.

Schprekenheim has been under her dark rule for who knows how long, and S.C.A.R.E. seeks to bring her and her army of monsterous creatures of the night down- to restore some semblence of peace to the region.

Can they do it?

Will she bring the band of freedom fighters to heel and recruit them to her undead army?

And more importantly...where's this sister of hers? She wasn't with the then-king and queen on their trip...she seems to have mysteriously vanished...

----------------------------------------- Syberia Ingannamorte Voice Claim: Eden Riegel

Codenamed "Nightside" by the organization, she is a fierce vampire that has plunged the region into darkness and misery. She is a manipulative creature that will stop at nothing to keep the iron grip she has on the area from loosening. With the passing of her parents and now as the official head of the Ingannamortes, there's nothing getting in her way to stop her....or so she thinks.

But of course, what is a queen without a bit of help?

"Faust" Voice Claim: Steve Valentine

Codenamed "Phantomblade" by the organization, Not a lot is known about this kid. It was shortly after Syberia's parents' passing and the disapperance of her sister that he came into the picture.

Acting as the confidant to the new ruler, 'Faust' does what he can to maintain order and acts as a "one man band"- directing creature hordes to deter any do-gooders, directing who keeps watch over the Ingannamorte hold, acting as Syberia's bodyguard and informant, among other roles. In short, Faust would give his life to save Syberia. ...He...doesn't exactly have the choice to not. At least, not anymore. That half-face burn (covered by the half-face mask) had to come from somewhere after all...

[moe-broey]

Reposting this one on its own bc. It means So Much To Me. It means EVERYTHING TO ME.

[dxxtruction]

I still think the photos were either an absent minded accident to where no one can be really sure who made it (several people have had access to the archives and have sorted through it over presumable many years) or deliberately planted by Rashid for Daniel’s benefits to go through the files uninterrupted. Because I think it’s a better display of how Armand is operating here simply out of a complete disinterest to be supportive, accountable to anything, or understanding of what the aim of all this is, and his care for Louis only goes about as far as himself, especially where the threat of exposure or abandonment is concerned. In short he has a disdain for this entire interview, let alone Louis history and inner struggles with it, and for selfish reason, so the photos, regardless of how they got in there, expose him of this. It clues us in about how his love is conditional on meeting his expectations of it not ending or being threatening in some way, especially where his sense of security is concerned, but he’s extremely possessive of who he loves so manipulates as much as he can to prevent this, to a point, and in such ways, it is just emotionally abusive. Though we also do see a result of when he’s offered something else that his love can shift easily to someone else if they are simply offering him all this sense of security, so his possessiveness is conditioned on the fact he has no other better options of getting his strong desires for this kind of love met.

Anyway, if it’s an accident like that, and let’s say it’s one Armand happened to have made, it falls right in line with this even more, though I think the point is we actually can’t know if this is the case of it as even he doesn’t know who did it. Though if there were any care he’d probably not point fingers at Louis who is the one who’d be least likely to have made such a mistake, but he doesn’t care and is just mad about being blamed by Louis, so does carelessly throw it out there.

And if they served a purpose of allowing Daniel to access the files for an extended period, which he couldn’t do much earlier when Raglan initially sent them over without raising suspicions, one can make the assumption that Rashid, who we find out is working for the Talamasca, did it for Daniel’s benefit so he could do so undercover.

Just my two thoughts.

[risingchaos]

Vulcan is just an ideal autistic society.

[dkettchen]

[vivispec]

.

[sherlock-is-ace]

.

[re-code1713]

interminable

[crosspost of a shuuenpro "fanfic" / "love letter" I published back in January, half-written in like. an emotional frenzy. relevant again because I'm feeling a lot of the same things]

At first, it was simply a curiosity.

It appeared to be an ordinary book at first, when you had found it splayed open on the floor face-up. You surmised that it must have been there for a long, long time, as its leaves were caked in dust - to the point it seemed to dye the very first page an ashen gray.

It was a thick book. You wondered of its contents. Cryptic white symbols were etched onto the front cover, indecipherable in meaning.

You brushed the dust off the front page, sat down, and began to read.

This book, just as many books tend to, contained a story.

It wasn't a particularly impressively written story, but you would find yourself drawn to it time and time again.

It was a common story featuring common elements. A mystery, a school setting, and a cursed book. A traitor, a tragedy, and an endless loop. The characters were left unnamed, but they were unique. Eccentric in their own ways.

The cursed book became an accessory in their tragedies, but the real antagonist could hardly be known. Was it the living book whose legends came to haunt them? Was it the traitor they were told to find?

Was it the children themselves, whose suspicions of one another deceived them into a one-way trap to doom?

The tragedy repeated. Then, a narrative sleight of hand. A confrontation.

Perhaps, the words on the page read, the real "fox" was you.

The end of an act, and the beginning of a dream.

You flipped to the next act.

A mystery was unraveled about the book's origins.

The innocent children who led this tragedy crafted it themselves, willingly played their parts as they filmed and presented it in front of a festival. These children, who would be reduced to mere legends to the generation that followed them, saw the ones that would follow their trail a decade later as mere fiction.

They had loved and trusted in each other, and yet they, too, met their own tragedy, its culprit just out of their sight. A grieving child experienced an endless dream, and with that, the curtains fell before any knots could be tied.

Before you had realized it, your eyes were dancing over blank pages.

No.

You wouldn't let it end here.

You kept turning the pages. There were many of them, after all. Yet they were all unwritten. Wasted paper. Wasted space.

You flipped to the beginning, and read again.

And thus began your own endless cycle, your own endlessly repeating tragedy.

Time and time again, you would walk away from the book. And yet time and time again, you would always return. You read, and you read again, as though the crumbs you picked up fallen into the book's gutter would solve a whole story.

(And when you weren't reading, you'd see whispers of the story everywhere you go. Within common words and mundane sentences, and even the words "common" and "mundane" became anything but;

The ghosts you'd see

decorated hide-and-seek and impostors and phone calls and stolen ribbons,

echoed through conclusions and prayers and tragedies and dreams,

and gave life to numbers and colors.

Things that most would find flavorless or common—to you, when you drank them, they always would mean something else.)

You read the book a hundred times. A hundred and twenty times. By the thousand two hundredth attempt, and your brain would fill in the last digit.

One thousand, seven hundred and thirteen times.

You shone a light upon its pages as though you could uncover some final hidden message, something that could satisfy the gaping hole in your heart carved by a story that wouldn't end.

What solace was there to be found in a book whose last pages remained blank?

You tried to let it go. You really did.

But it seemed as though you had fallen under a curse, from the book about a cursed book, and led into a tragedy by a book containing endless tragedies. A book about unsolvable mysteries and unwritten endings. How ironic.

Before you lay a ghost. But try as you might, ghosts couldn't answer questions, regardless of how many times you pleaded to them.

You could only follow the ghost's trails, collect them,

burn them into your memory and into your heart,

drink up its dredges and spit them back out,

clutch it tight to your chest, and pray to higher beings, or to someone, or to no one at all—please don't take this away from me. There's already so little of it left.

How could a story so permanently engraved into your being be so fragile, so small, so fleeting?

(When you're gone, when the author's gone, and when everyone who loves and remembers has gone, who will be there to keep the memory of the rumor urban legend story that no one knows, that altered the course of your own?)

This ridiculously mundane story, of an incredibly worn-out world. You don't understand how it had touched you so.

Had the author known this would be its fate?

You would never, ever know.

Still, you love, and so you write a love letter that won't receive a response.

[miupow]

slowly teaching myself that writing is supposed to be fun and to not take it so seriously, that my writing is good and enjoyable even if it isn’t my best, and that people enjoy my work even if i don’t feel confident in it

[itzphynix]

Thank you Astral Spiff for combating the narrative that Post Shift 2 is a hard game o7

[atsushis-fangs]

Andrew: are you alright? North: oh, you know, haven't slept in 6 days, but otherwise I'm doing good. Angus: *promptly knocks him out with North's book about Scottish plants*

@winterwrites23 I am. so so so in love with the new chapter :D

[13skeletons]

You know, I used to be smart.

[dravidious]

You're really awesome

PROBLEM: I want to make magic decks with my cards irl, but I have no one to play them against.

SOLUTION: Make an entire custom deck that can play itself to more or less replicate an opponent.

I decided to put the rules in card form as conspiracy cards, but it turns out that rules should be written as rules, not cards, so I had to make extensive notes about each of them (except Industrial Expansion, that one is actually effects instead of rules). I also just enjoy talking about my design choices.

Notes: Creating waste tokens instead of playing lands is basically free card advantage, as well as preventing mana screw/flood. The bot is supposed to have more raw strength than the player, so this isn’t a huge problem, but the starting hand size reduction and 5 land limit are still needed balance it.

Also, I know wastes isn’t actually a basic land type, but it makes the card so much cleaner so "Wastes token" is a predefined token here just like Treasure and Food.

Notes: There’s probably some awkward edge cases here too. I fixed the only one I could find (involving Recycle Bin), but there might be more. The main guiding rule in playing the bot is "don’t make it do obviously dumb stuff." The cards are balanced around the rigid rules, so bad decisions are okay, but sometimes there are plays that are so worthless or actively counterproductive that you really ought to step in. Edge cases should be resolved in whatever way makes the bot play best. Ideally, you shouldn’t have to think too hard about what the bot does; it’s supposed to be automatic, after all. The other guiding rule is "make this similar to a normal game of Magic."

Notes: Much, much simpler than Defense Protocol. Still some vagueness, but good enough to prevent swinging into the opponent’s 4/4 with a 3/3. It applies on a creature-by-creature basis; if you have a 3/3 with flying and a 2/1, and your opponent has a 4/4, the 2/1 won’t attack, but the 3/3 will. If you have a 2/1 and a 5/4, only the 5/4 will attack since the 2/1 can be fully blocked by the 4/4.Non-lethal battles are tricky; if you have a 2/1 and the opponent has a 0/3, you shouldn’t attack because then you’re just tapping down your 2/1. But if you have a pair of 2/1s, you should attack for the free damage. You could reinterpret the "such that they lose no life" bit, but that would result in the rules telling you to swing your creatures into into a 4/4. Basically, use your best judgement; this stuff is too complicated to write out. You’re smart enough.

Notes:

This card would be a fucking nightmare to properly template. Good thing it’s a rule and not actually a card. The vague wording can probably result in lots of edge cases, but this card is basically meant to say "The bot makes the best blocks possible" so use your best judgement in those cases. Activated abilities that boost a creature should be taken into account if mana is open for them. A version of the blocking rules not in card form is given below.

Priority 1: If you can block in such a way that your life total remains above 0, you must do so.

Priority 2: If a blocker can deal lethal damage to an attacker and survive, it must block that creature.

Priority 3: If a blocker can deal lethal damage to an attacker, or if it can survive, it must block that creature.

Priority 4: Don’t block.

Misc 1: If multiple attackers are tied for the highest block priority, the blocker must block the creature with the highest power. If tied, highest toughness, then highest mana value, then choose randomly.

Misc 2: Multi-block an attacker only if it has menace or a similar ability, only with the minimum number of blockers, and only if it falls under a blocking priority (ex. it’s threatening to win the game, or it can be destroyed, or both your blockers survive). Anything else could be a nightmare to calculate.

And that's all the rules/conspiracies, which should allow for playing against the bot while making as few decisions as possible. Here's the cards. The bot's deck consists of 4 copies of each card for a clean 60 deck, compatible for testing against mill.

[claudiasommers]

got the chair for my desk.... now i just need to make a desk. i'm literally halfway to making youtube videos now <33 i'm excited!! :D

[elprupneerg]

I feel like I’ve done nothing but complain the past few days. Which like, all things considered this was a very good christmas! I got some very nice presents, ate good food, had fun talking to people, watched a show with my dad, talked to siblings, lots of nice things! But also the bar for things going well is in hell, and we cleared it by “mom apologized the next morning after calling me and leaving a mean voicemail that one night instead of continuing to be pissy all the way through new years” and “my parents only called me the wrong name/pronouns less than a dozen times”. There’s still so much stuff that wasn’t good. A lot less things in the “truly horrific” category, but still plenty of things in the “unpleasant” and “kinda sucky” and “not bad but definitely Weird and/or Baffling” categories. And I had to kinda shove down as many of my thoughts on those things as possible. So now that I’m home they’re bubbling up again