#she needs the rogue levels

[spooky-activity]

Drew Kafka as a tiefling

[anakinh]

arcane characters dnd classes

because im bored and hyperfixating

Vi: Monk. Pit Fighter Vi is Way of the Drunken Master. Drunken Master monks fight hand-to-hand 'mimicking the style of a drunkard'. Technically you don't have to be drunk to be a Drunken Master monk so maybe she still uses those techniques while sobered up later. I think she starts out as a Way of the Open Hand monk, which is just a monk that is Very Good at Punching. The gauntlets are a magical item.

Jinx: Artillerist Artificer. Very straightforward. Makes bombs and cannons. Can use magic (referring to her use of hextech as bombs)

Ekko: Scout Rogue/Chronurgy Wizard multiclass. Scout rogues are very mobile so I think it fits him. Later on he takes two levels in Chronurgy Wizard, which gives him chronal shift. This lets him rewind time briefly to change the outcome of an action - fits pretty well, I think. He only needs two levels wizard to mimic his rewind ability and that multiclass makes him fast.

Viktor*: Transmutation Wizard. In the DnD world, both Viktor and Jayce (and Ekko!) would be wizards because they can just study magic instead of trying to harness it via technology. At level 14 the Transmutation Wizard can use their 'Transmuter's Stone' to create a panacea - a cure to all ills (plus restore youth and raise the dead. sounds familiar). Luckily, I think Transmutation Wizard fits Arcane-Viktor as well (especially once he creates the hexcore, which could be his Transmuter's Stone).

Commune Viktor is an NPC with a three-phase boss fight. The first phase is so simple you know there are other phases. I'd probably add in a mechanic where you try to talk him down in the third phase.

(Alternatively commune Viktor as we know him does not exist because the spell Revivify exists and Jayce shouldn't have to turn to unlicensed necromancy to get Viktor back**. Speaking of...)

Jayce*: Hexblade Warlock/Paladin (Oath of the Watchers)***. Again, if left to his own devices in a DnD world, Jayce would be a wizard. I'd say Abjuration (tanky wizard with protective shields) because he wants to protect people (and he's tanky), Order of Scribes (if he's focused on learning/harnessing all magic). Divination to pun on the 'Man of Progress' thing or if you interpret his glitches in s2 as visions of another world/seeing the truth of the commune members/arcane spidey-sense, which tbh really works

However, If I wanted to create Arcane-Jayce in DnD, I would make a Hexblade Warlock/Paladin multiclass. Hexblade warlocks get magic from a weapon, so it can be flavoured as Jayce using his hammer to do/cast magic. The hammer blasts can be very easily flavoured as eldritch blasts. Paladin is added narratively after the post-apocalypse world but not needed if you just wanted to mimic abilities. I'd go for Oath of the Watchers because they literally protect the realm from extraplanar threats. I've seen some people go for Devotion. That's fair, but it's a bit too Knight in Shining Armour for me.

Mel: Divine Soul Sorcerer. Also pretty easy - sorcerers come by their magic naturally, divine soul sorcerers get their power from a connection with the divine + has the gold/light/shielding imagery/spells. Hell, she's probably an aasimar? I don't know enough league lore to tell.

However, she only got her powers later. I think before that she was an Eloquence Bard or a Mastermind Rogue. Mastermind Rogues are more insightful. Both are incredibly persuasive - the bard moreso. The bard has magic - could be reflavoured as manipulation or as her sorcerer powers poking out before she knew about it. Later you could even multiclass her with sorcerer - works better with Eloquence Bard, but it's still not the most optimal multiclass (that's Jayce's). It's not bad, though, and if you only make optimal multiclasses in dnd you're going to get bored. I'd honestly go bard, only two levels in divine soul sorcerer for sorcery points, get metamagic adept feat for metamagic, it'll be fine. Divine Soul sorcerers get wings and healing at higher levels but if she's an aasimar she already has those.

Caitlyn: Inquisitive Rogue/Battlemaster Fighter multiclass. If you want to play a gunslinger in DnD the general advice is 'battlemaster with a gun'. She probably has the sharpshooter feat (she should have the sharpshooter feat). Inquisitive rogues are intelligent and focus on investigating, unravelling secrets. Rogue/Fighter multiclasses are very good - you only need three levels in fighter (edit: but maybe go for five for extra attack.) (She should also pick up the observant and martial adept feats if she can.)

Bonuses:

Vander: Vander is a bartender NPC at the tavern all our players meet up at during the first session. He's a retired high-level monk. Way of the Open Hand, of course. Just like he taught Vi.

Mylo and Claggor: I only added this because I re-watched the first episode and Mylo was apparently the only one who could pick locks. So Mylo is a Thief Rogue and Claggor is, idk, a fighter? (funnily enough both the artificer and the monk would be good picks for resident lock-picker. Not as good as rogue, but not bad)

Silco: Honestly, Silco would be an NPC with a commoner statblock, but I give him ridiculous bonuses to insight, perception, intimidation, and deception. That said, he did fight Vander, so maybe also Mastermind Rogue? With expertise in intimidation? (Still goes badly for him, though. Do not 1v1 a monk in dnd).

Singed: NPC combo necromancy wizard/alchemist artificer, focusing on the alchemy. I'd probably stick some Spores Druid/Death domain cleric stuff in just to be fun since NPCs can be whatever you want. Honestly, in the average DnD world he could just pay someone to resurrect his daughter and we'd solve half of our problems right there. He's originally from Piltover, right? He can afford it.

Ambessa Medarda: NPC Battlemaster Fighter and she has Rictus' anti-magic item that all your players hate.

Footnotes

* Jayce and Viktor cast 'spells' with hextech that reverses gravity, creates lightning, teleports - but, in the immortal words of Ms. Aabria Iyengar, "anyone can cast fireball teleport." Those are conjuration/evocation spells but you don't have to be a conjurer or evoker. Sometimes I see people think of enchantment wizards as 'wizards who enchant magic items' so maybe we'd put Jayce and Viktor there, but actually enchantment wizards do mind control. And, like I said, commune Viktor is an NPC with a three-phase boss fight. Transmutation wizards are the only wizards who can resurrect without making undead and they do it using their transmuter's stone. Although I'd argue that Viktor's commune members are undead... but anyone can cast the Animate Dead spell. And he's an NPC at that point so his abilities are whatever the DM wants.

** UNLESS you assume the hexcore is Viktor's transmuter's stone (which is how he casts the spells panacea/raise dead that I mentioned). It got corrupted as Viktor created it and when Jayce uses it to cast Raise Dead it goes wrong. (Despite its name the Raise Dead spell is supposed to be a normal, safe resurrection spell AND it cures all nonmagical diseases.) Anyway, we're getting into fanfiction now

*** My problem with the Jayce hexadin class is that it's optimized for charisma. Jayce is very charismatic, but his main characteristic is his smarts. A somewhat popular homebrew is to make warlocks int casters so you could go with that. In that case I might multiclass him with abjuration wizard for the extra tankiness. It's still not as good as the original hexadin multiclass so as a DM i'd allow it. Or just keep paladin, ability-wise you only need it for smites and his charisma should be high anyway. Probably your DM shouldn't allow all three on an int warlock.

On the other hand hexadin Jayce's high charisma makes him well suited for the 'talking down Viktor' mechanism in his third phase bossfight, which ... tracks.

[dairine-bonnet]

Lynette von Valancius (aka Rogue Trader) *rushing towards Aurora and a crazy sniper on the roof*: Taking calculated risk is my second nature!

Heinrix van Calox: *deep sigh*

[on-dragons-wings]

/ theorycrafting my ocs in dnd builds which ive done before but i grasp the game more now and its funny how many monks i have, xaos is kensei samurai, kyra is assassin shadow monk (Although her having one of his classes makes sense as shes his protege), takun could be either an unarmed fighter (battlemaster maybe?) or monk with a single level in warlock to represent the demon in him, and even shi has a background in martial arts being a mercy monk with most levels in cleric

[elfboypussy]

kind of addicted to the rush of honour mode i’m ngl. but formulating a good team for the crèche inquisitor is stressing me out so bad

[ceramicbeetle]

finding a character that grates against your nerves and eventually thinking, well, that's not fair, you haven't done anything; why do i dislike you? and then you dwell on this for a while and discover 'oh! you are like me when i was younger' and decide well, i'll simply learn how to love the both of you. power in this.

[rosykims]

on the topic of leda being the worst i also think she also suffers from having fallen for her own hype at a very young age 😍 double combo of being vain with jealous streak the likes of which WILL lead to a crime of passion at one point or another. like she needs to be the one holding all the cards and if you get one over on her she WILL pray on your downfall at best, actively plot it at worst

[cherriesforheaven]

ilthids in dnd have become my roman empire im taking the win bg3 gave us, that is making neutral/good iltihids more mainstream

[impossible-rat-babies]

lucanis voice and I would let her almost shoot me again !

[martyrmarked]

sidri trevelyan, debuff queen

[snowangeldotmp3]

SPEAKING of fics and fic writing. i keep having floater ideas here and there for x-men but alas. i don't know enough yet.

[athalantan]

I love reading about all of Mystra's Chosen who, for the ones that have backstories, were magical prodigies, showing talent for the Art at a young age.

Then there's El who had trauma and an extensive criminal record.

[ilovolderman]

Friday Night

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: You end up sitting next to Bucky in a casual team dinner.

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: humor, fluff, secret dating, flirting, light language, water war (because who can resist a splash battle?)

A/N: this is part 4 of "You Said What?", just some fluff in a universe where you and Bucky secretly date. It can be read on its own and doesn't necessarily follow a specific order, but if you want to check out the other parts, here they are: part 1, part 2, part 3. im loving writing about these two so thanks for reading, i hope you like it :)

It’s one of those rare nights at the compound, no missions, no briefings, no surprise alien invasions. Just a Friday. Just dinner. And, somehow, Steve decided it’d be nice if the whole team ate together like one big weird family.

The long table is already half full when you show up a few minutes late, sliding into the only empty seat left, next to Bucky, obviously by coincidence. Totally random. Totally not planned. Totally a miracle.

“Hey,” you murmur, your knee bumping his under the table. You don’t move it.

“Hey,” he says back, low and warm, like it’s just for you. His knee nudges yours in return, the tiniest pressure that somehow makes your chest feel full.

Dinner is loud. Sam’s in the middle of a dramatic story involving a rooftop and a rogue pizza slice, gesturing so wildly he nearly knocks over his drink twice. Wanda is laughing so hard she’s wheezing. Clint and Natasha are arguing about spice levels in the curry. Tony ordered five different desserts “just in case,” and even Vision looks mildly amused.

It’s chaotic. It’s weirdly cozy. And it’s perfect.

Meanwhile, Bucky quietly slides the breadbasket your way before you even ask. Passes you a napkin when you drop yours. Leans over and murmurs a dumb joke under his breath just to make you laugh. And when you both reach for the same dish, your fingers brush—and linger. Neither of you moves.

You glance at him. He’s already looking at you like you’re the best thing he’s seen all night.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you whisper, biting your lip.

“Like what?” he asks, faking innocence.

“Like you’re thinking about kissing me at a table full of Avengers.”

He leans in, voice low. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Your breath catches. You blink, trying not to let it show. “Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t kick you under this table.”

“I’d still kiss you.”

“You’re impossible.”

He smirks. “Yeah. But I’m your problem.”

You’re in the middle of pretending to care about Steve and Nat’s back-and-forth on training strategies when your phone buzzes in your lap.

[bucky]: come to the kitchen. 5 mins. say you forgot the hot sauce.

You bite your lip to keep from grinning. He sees it and smiles with just one side of his mouth.

A few minutes later, you slide your chair back, muttering something about needing Sriracha. No one blinks. They're all too busy arguing over which dessert to try first.

You slip into the kitchen.

And there he is. Leaning against the counter, arms crossed, eyes already on you. Like he wasn’t just sitting beside you five minutes ago.

“I’m starting to think I’m more addicted to seeing you than caffeine,” he says, that soft smile tugging at his lips.

You walk right into his arms. He smells like clean laundry and something you can’t place—something that’s just him.

“I don’t think that’s a bad thing.”

“Tell that to Sam,” he mutters. “He said I’ve been grumpy all week. I was just missing this.”

His fingers brush your cheek, his thumb grazing the curve of your jaw. You lean up and kiss him—quick, soft, sweet. The kind of kiss that says I wish we had more time.

And then you steal another.

And another.

He groans, resting his forehead against yours. “Okay. One more, and then I’m walking back in there like nothing happened.”

You smirk. “You have lipstick on your mouth.”

“Dammit.”

When you both return, the table’s still buzzing, still full of warmth and noise and people who feel like home. Bucky catches your eye as you pass him the dessert like it’s nothing.

But you know. And he knows. And your heart is doing somersaults when Bucky leans in again.

“You’ve got whipped cream on your lip.”

You freeze. Glance at him, wary. “Do I?”

He nods solemnly and you wipe your mouth with a napkin. “Better?”

He tilts his head, eyes sparkling. “Not really. Might need to check later.”

You kick him under the table.

Dinner winds down slowly, plates are half-empty, dessert is more whipped cream than anything else, and everyone’s full in that way that makes you too lazy to move.

Tony’s talking about building a pizza oven on the roof. Clint is inexplicably napping in his chair. Wanda’s stealing bites off Sam’s plate while pretending not to. And you?

Your face hurts from smiling, your stomach’s full, but you still offer to clean up.

“I’ll do the dishes,” you say, already sliding your chair back.

A second later, Bucky glances your way. “I’ll help.”

“Seriously?” Sam teases. “Since when do you volunteer?”

“Since now,” Bucky says coolly, already following you into the kitchen.

You roll your eyes, but your heart is racing.

The kitchen is quieter than the dining room, where the others are still laughing, picking at desserts, arguing over who cheated in charades last week. In here, it’s just you, the soft clink of dishes, and Bucky—close behind you.

You roll up your sleeves and start running the water, pretending your hands aren’t slightly shaking. “You don’t actually have to help, you know.”

“I know,” he says, leaning a hip against the counter beside you. “But I want to.”

You glance at him sidelong. “You hate doing dishes.”

He shrugs. “I’ve done worse.”

You snort, handing him a dish towel. The two of you fall into a rhythm quiet, easy. You wash, he dries. Occasionally your arms brush, and each time it’s like a tiny electric pulse zips up your spine. You tell yourself not to overthink it. You fail.

“You were quiet at dinner,” you say, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn bit of lasagna like it personally offended you. “Well. Except for all the flirting.”

Bucky doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice is low. “I like watching everyone like that. Laughing. Being...normal.” He pauses. “I like watching you.”

You freeze, dish half-submerged in sudsy water. Slowly, you turn to look at him. “That supposed to be smooth?”

He grins, shameless. “Did it work?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because he’s looking at you again—that way he does, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you, and worse, that he means every bit of it. Your heart is somewhere in your throat.

“Bucky,” you say, unsure what comes next.

But then he sets the dish towel down. Steps a little closer. And when you don’t move he reaches up and brushes a wet strand of hair from your cheek.

“You gonna kick me under the sink,” he murmurs, “or are you finally gonna let me kiss you?”

Your breath catches. “There are at least three Avengers in earshot.”

“Then I’ll be quick.”

And he is. But somehow it still feels slow, like the whole world holds its breath for you, just for this. It’s not desperate. It’s not showy. It’s just real. When he pulls back, you blink up at him, dazed. “You call that quick?”

He grins, a little smug. “Told you I’ve done worse.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling too. “You missed a spot,” you say, tossing him a still-dripping plate.

He catches it one-handed, totally unfazed. “You’re lucky I like you.”

You bump your hip into his, reaching for a fresh towel. “I tolerate it.”

There’s a beat of silence before he adds, “You know, I kinda like this.”

“The dishes?”

“No. This.” He gestures between you. “You. Me. Elbow-deep in soap. Feels… nice.”

You reach over and flick a bubble at him.

He blinks, deadpan. “Did you just—”

You do it again, giggling. He retaliates by flicking water at your face. You shriek. He laughs.

“What, you can handle HYDRA but not a splash of water?” he teases.

You grab the sprayer.

“Don’t you dare.”

“I dare.”

There’s a short-lived, extremely wet battle that ends with Bucky shielding himself with a dish towel and you both breathless from laughter, leaning against the counter like you’ve run a marathon.

“I think we’re officially banned from post-dinner cleanup now,” you say, still giggling.

“Worth it.”

There’s a pause. He looks at you, hair a little damp, cheeks pink from laughing. And then he leans in again, just because he can. Just because you’re both still smiling.

When he pulls back, he murmurs, “Think we can sneak off to dry off somewhere quieter?”

You grin. “Only if you promise not to start a water war in the hallway.”

“No promises.” But you link your pinky with his anyway.

And that’s when it happens. A very deliberate throat-clear from the doorway. You both freeze like guilty teenagers. Natasha’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, one brow raised like she’s watching a soap opera. “You two done playing splashy-splash, or should I get you floaties?”

Bucky groans softly, his head thudding against the cabinet door behind him. You try to hide behind the dish towel. It doesn’t work.

Natasha steps further into the room, clearly savoring this. “Didn’t know dishwashing came with a swim option.”

“We were just—” you start.

“—cleaning,” Bucky finishes, not even trying to sound convincing.

“Mhm,” Natasha hums, giving you both the kind of look that could peel paint. “You know, for two people trying so hard to look casual, you’re not very good at it.”

Before you can respond, there’s a loud clink from the doorway. Steve steps in, completely unbothered. Holding a slice of pie on a plate like it’s the most important thing in the world.

 “Is everything okay here?”

Natasha raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything more. Instead, she shoots you one last look, a knowing glint in her eye. “Alright, alright. Carry on with your... dishes.” She turns, heading toward the door, but not before adding with a teasing smile, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Steve watches her leave, clearly lost in his pie-induced bliss. “What’s her deal?”

You and Bucky exchange an amused look before Bucky mutters, “You really don’t want to know.”

Steve shrugs. “Yeah, probably not.”

And just like that, the moment passes. Natasha's suspicion lingers in the air for only a second longer before Steve’s back to his pie, you’re back to drying dishes, and Bucky’s smile is a little too smug for anyone’s good.

next part

[logansdoll]

professor

the students are excited to have their old biology teacher back, but you can't be that great... right?

CW: fluffy fluff, the events of Last Stand didn't happen, Logan being Logan, reader is a chlorokinetic (controls plants), love at first sight, Logan's down bad off rip

It was a couple months back when word of your return began buzzing around the mansion.

No one knew where the rumor started, or who started it, but the day wasn't even half over before the entire student body was obsessed.

Whispers muttered during class, lunchtime gossip chains, study group pow-wows.

Many couldn't believe it.

You? Come back?

No way.

Some could've sworn you were supposed to be gone for at least a few more years.

Others thought you weren't supposed to come back at all.

And a small few even believed that your arrival could come as soon as the following month.

But after a week or so of no follow up, eventually, the rumor was put to rest, interest diverted to the next, newest gossip on campus.

...

That is... until the story came out.

Apparently, one of the students—who seemed to have some sort of super-hearing—eavesdropped on a conversation between Scott and Charles, and found out you would, in fact, be returning to the school and your position as the biology teacher.

And that was all the students needed to go absolutely berserk.

It wasn't even a full twenty-four hours later before the first meeting of your welcoming committee was held, the new club already having about twenty-five members.

While they began making preparations and to-do lists for your arrival, another group began going out to your garden on the weekends, trimming the overgrown weeds and planting new flowers in their place, caring for them in the meantime.

Some students even started straightening up your old classroom, cleaning the clouded glass of the greenhouse and redecorating with your favorite blooms.

And, of course, Logan had to return from one of his trips right in the middle of it.

Now, at first, he didn't really give a shit.

But out of curiosity, he asked Rogue what all the commotion was about—especially after some kid ran past him with a trolley full of potting soil—and what he gathered was that you were some professor who left about a year ago to teach abroad.

Apparently, you were nearly every kid's favorite teacher, your fun and interactive lessons, along with your genuinely kind and caring personality, touching the hearts of damn near the entire student body.

Even kids who had never met you before were chipping in, helping out those who needed a little extra manpower.

It was almost unbelievable.

'If this chick doesn't show up, Charles is gonna have a nuclear war on his hands...'

"Guys!" Kitty shouted, running straight through the front door and into the foyer. "I think her car just pulled up!"

The following stampede could've ranked as a 9.0 on the Richter scale.

It was eight in the morning on a Saturday, and half the kids were still in their pajamas, but they all moved with lightning speed, grabbing their signs and noise-makers before running down the stairs.

A boy with super speed sprinted to the lower level dorms and woke everyone else, while a girl with the ability to stretch hung up a welcome banner over the archway.

"Hurry! She's walking up!" Kitty reported, her head halfway through a window.

Quickly, the students formed a crowd at the door, the teachers slowly descending the stairs to join them.

"Mmm. She's here already?" Jean yawned, rubbing the sleep from her eyes as she landed on the final step, hand in hand with Scott.

"Still as punctual as ever," he smiled.

"I'll say," Ororo grinned, crossing her robe over her chest, "She wasn't supposed to show up for another week."

Logan was less amused.

No one should have that much energy on a weekend.

Even still, he quietly settled himself off to the side, leaning up against a wall while the others joined the crowd.

'You wouldn't get this kinda reception if the President was the one coming...'

"Y'know..." Ororo started, seemingly out of nowhere, as she joined him on the wall. "I think you'll like her... she's just your type."

He turned to her, raising a brow, "Is she, now?"

Despite his playful tone, he wasn't entertaining the idea in the slightest.

All that true love-soulmate bullshit didn't exist for men like him.

He was 136, going on 137, and had loved and lost enough times to realize that at the end of the day, he'd outlive her.

So why bother?

His life would be one he forever walked alone—a fact he was slowly coming to terms with.

Or at least he thought he was.

Because as you walked through the threshold before him, flashing a heart-stopping grin, he felt all that shit go flying out his head.

You were absolutely beautiful.

And you'd think after 200 years he'd learn...

"Surprise!" the children cheered, proudly holding up their signs and tossing confetti into the air. "Welcome home!"

You gasped, dropping your bags and covering your mouth in shock as you admired the homemade decorations.

"Kids, you shouldn't have!" you smiled brighter than the sun, letting out a small laugh as they all rushed you for a group hug.

And, of course, you were happy to oblige.

"It's good to see you, (y/n)," Scott greeted, he and Jean walking over.

(y/n).

The name sounded like honey on his tongue.

"Logan," Ororo smirked, elbowing her friend in the rib. "You're drooling."

The man cleared his throat, closing his mouth and averting his eyes so they couldn't embarrass him any further.

"Some of you have gotten so big since we last met!" you cheesed, pulling back to examine each of them. "And I see some new faces, too..."

But, against his will, Logan's gaze trailed back to you, Jean's speech going in one ear and out the other.

And when it landed on your face again, he realized he wasn't the only one staring.

Your soft, (e/c) eyes were trained on him as well, their flicker of curiosity and awe completely contrasting your composed demeanor.

It made him feel hot, being subject to your gaze, and he could feel himself thoughtlessly straightening his posture, making himself appear taller, and slightly larger.

You let out a silent laugh, discreetly bringing a hand to your lips to cover it, but not before letting the man get a peak of your smile once more.

Fuck, that smile.

"Can you two quit eye-fucking? It's gross," Scott groaned, joining the two on the wall.

Logan ignored him, looking toward you with a small smirk.

Something about you gave him a good feeling... like things would be different.

Maybe love could exist for him after all...

[hainge]

While mama is away...

bllk!dads summary:You’re off on a well-deserved vacation, and it’s Dad’s turn to take care of the morning school/daycare chaos (but not for everyone). But don’t worry, they are trying.

characters: Michael Kaiser, Itoshi Rin, Itoshi Sae, Nagi Seishiro, Shidou Ryusei, Chigiri Hyoma and Isagi Yoichi

Michael Kaiser and Felix (5)

"Your hair looks like a mop with regrets."

Kaiser wakes to the rhythmic sound of tiny fists slapping wood, not his face, thankfully, but his bedroom door. Each knock is punctuated with a little voice that sounds way too calm for this level of passive aggression.

"You forgot to prep my uniform like you promised."

Kaiser groans, dragging a pillow over his face. "That can’t be right. I swear I laid it out." His voice is hoarse. His brain is not yet connected to his limbs.

"You didn’t. Mama always does it the night before. Organized people do that. You are not one of them."

He peeks out from the pillow. Felix is standing there in blue footie pajamas, arms crossed like a tiny HR rep preparing to file a complaint. His hair is somehow perfectly brushed, probably brushed it himself. Probably judged Kaiser in the mirror while doing it.

Kaiser stumbles up and scans the room. There’s no sign of a uniform. Just a mountain of track pants, training jerseys, and a rogue shin guard sitting on a chair like a depressed accessory.

"Okay, okay. We’ll find it. Let me just—"

Felix sighs with the kind of disappointment that ages a man ten years. "This is why I schedule things. Mama says time is a tool, and you're just swinging it around like a sword in the dark."

"You're a kid" Kaiser squints at him.

"And yet, I'm thriving."

Breakfast is chaos, wrapped in good intentions and sealed with failure.

Kaiser, in boxers and one sock, confidently pours chocolate chip cookie cereal into a bowl like it’s a gift to mankind.

"No," Felix says immediately, deadpan.

Kaiser blinks. "What do you mean no?"

"I want the star cereal. With the astronaut bear on the box."

"We don’t have astronaut cereal. I checked."

Felix picks up his dinosaur cup, takes a long, judgmental sip of water, and sets it down like he's a seasoned divorce attorney about to deliver a verdict.

"Then you failed twice."

"Okay, I’m improvising!" Kaiser declares, dramatically. "That’s called flexibility. Champions adapt."

"You made me a bowl of disappointment"

The kid turns on his heel and stomps toward the living room.

"Play Paw Patrol."

Kaiser sighs and flips it on. The theme song blasts while he toasts bread and slices a banana, trying to channel his inner domestic god. Felix sulks under a blanket on the couch, his face barely visible, eyes fixed on Sky like she’s the only creature who gets him.

"Are you mad at Papa?" Kaiser asks, creeping over with the toast like a peace offering.

"disappointed."

Kaiser recoils. "That’s worse!"

In the car, the silence is palpable until Felix decides to reopen the case file.

"Your hair looks weird."

Kaiser glances in the rearview. "It’s bedhead. I didn’t get to do anything to it."

"You look like a mop with regrets."

Kaiser nearly swerves into a dramatic spiral. "You’re still young and vulnerable. You’re supposed to love me unconditionally."

Felix shrugs. "Love doesn’t mean enabling."

Kaiser stares at him for a moment too long at a red light. "Are you sure you’re five?"

"I’m advanced."

He squints. "You don’t have, like, dwarfism or something? Because your tongue is ancient."

Felix tilts his head, unbothered. "Maybe you just need to grow up."

Kaiser exhales. "This is why your mama needs to come home."

Itoshi Rin and Masako (7)

“You’re brushing my spine. My hair is higher than that.”

Rin Itoshi was not ready.

And he’s been in World Cup finals. He’s played in front of millions of people. He’s stared down some of the best strikers in the world. But none of that prepared him for the soft pink battlefield that is Masako’s bedroom at 7 a.m.

He’s standing there, clutching a hairbrush like it personally offended him, staring down his tiny opponent: a seven-year-old in a unicorn nightgown, legs swinging calmly over the edge of her bed, smiling like she’s about to give him performance feedback.

"Morning, Papa," Masako says sweetly, eyes shining with innocence and a hint of dread.

"Hey, baby. Let’s get you dressed, yeah?"

"Okay. Mama usually does it while I tell her about my dreams, and then we do affirmations. But you can do it your way."

Rin pauses. "Affirmations?"

"You know. ‘I am brave, I am strong, I am smart, I am kind.’" She tilts her head. "Mama says it rewires my neurons."

Rin has no idea what that means. He awkwardly clears his throat. "You are… all of those. Very… neuron-y."

Masako beams. "Good try."

He opens the dresser drawer and grabs a blue dress with little daisies on it.

"That’s the Tuesday dress," she says without even looking.

Rin blinks. "It’s… Friday?"

She points. "Mama folds them in day-order. See the little tags?"

There are labels. Actual tiny labeled dividers — "MONDAY," "TUESDAY," "WEDNESDAY" — staring up at him like proof he’s unfit for this mission.

He stares into the drawer like it betrayed him. "I feel lied to by fabric."

Masako pats his arm gently. "It’s okay. I’ll help you. You’re learning."

He finally gets her into the Friday dress after a mild struggle involving backward tights and a missing sock (it was on her hand, pretending to be a puppet named Alice).

Now: the hair.

He lifts the brush, cautiously. Masako gives him a look.

"That’s not the detangle brush."

"It’s a brush," Rin replies flatly.

"The detangle one is the purple one with the soft bristles. And Mama uses the pink spray first. It’s in the cabinet behind the scary face cream."

"My shaving cream?"

"Yes. It’s foamy. I don’t trust it."

He sighs, finds the spray, and squirts half of it into his own eye. Masako blinks politely and hands him a towel like this is routine.

He starts brushing, gently.

"Papa," she says after a few strokes. "You’re brushing my spine. My hair is higher than that."

"I’ve played against international strikers," Rin mutters.

"And now you're brushing the wrong bones."

By some miracle, he gets one (1) braid done. It is crooked. It is struggling. It looks like it just came back from a very windy jog. Masako looks at herself in the mirror, then turns to him with a soft smile.

"You tried. I’ll tell Mama you tried."

"That bad, huh?"

"No. It’s a fashionable tornado. Very abstract. Very… movement."

"You’re so much like your mom, it’s terrifying."

"She said that too."

"Do you do this every morning?" he asks, exhausted, watching her munch on heart-shaped cereal pieces.

"Yup." She chews thoughtfully. "But Mama makes it feel less like a crisis."

"Cool. Cool cool cool."

When he ties her shoelaces and gets them both into the car, both dressed, fed, semi-composed, he lets out a breath like he just finished a 90-minute match in overtime.

From the backseat: "You did good, Papa."

He smiles, warmed.

"Except for my braid. I feel like I can hear it."

"Thanks for your support."

"You’re welcome. You tried really hard. But maybe… don’t quit your day job."

Rin glances in the mirror, mock-offended. "Why are you like this?"

Masako shrugs.

Itoshi Sae, Kimiko(6) and Haruki (4)

“Papa: useless.”

Sae wakes up to the sound of war.

Not actual war, just the six-year-old kind.

"GET UP! WE’RE GONNA BE LATE AND I SWEAR TO EVERYTHING IF I HAVE TO PACK MY OWN LUNCH—"

The voice echoes through the apartment with the fury of a kindergarten general. Sae blinks at the ceiling, sighs, and reaches blindly for the mug already on his nightstand. Cold coffee. He knew this would happen.

A door slams. Feet stomp. A high-pitched rant about someone putting the purple lid on the pink cup.

Welcome to morning with Kimiko.

He shuffles into the kitchen where his daughter, dressed in blue pajamas and righteous purpose, is furiously spreading jam onto toast. She’s standing on a stool, her hair already brushed and braided, a sparkly headband angled with extreme precision.

Her little brother Haruki is laid out face-first on the couch like he passed out mid-protest, blanket over his head, legs kicking idly in the air.

Sae sips his coffee. "Is he breathing?"

Kimiko glances over her shoulder. "Barely. He won’t eat the eggs, and I did the smiley face ketchup thing. Just like Mama. I even gave the eggs eyebrows."

Sae leans on the counter. "You’re terrifying."

Haruki lifts his head an inch. His hair is flattened on one side like a soggy croissant. "I want bread."

Kimiko slaps a hand to her forehead like this is the fourth trial she’s endured today. Sae tosses a slice of bread in Haruki’s direction. It lands on his back. He grunts in approval and flops back down like a tranquilized cat.

Kimiko chugs her milk like it’s a stress reliever. "Hair: brushed. Water bottle: filled. Math homework: complete. Papa: useless."

Sae raises an eyebrow. "At least one of us is thriving."

"I did your and Mama’s job today."

"Should I pay you?"

"Yes. A LOL surprise."

Sae thinks about it, nods slowly. "Only if you stop yelling at Haruki."

"Deal."

Ten minutes later, Kimiko is doing a last-minute inspection of her backpack like a TSA agent. Haruki is under the table, still eating his bread one crumb at a time.

Sae walks over and crouches down. "You gonna make it, champ?"

Haruki gives him a slow, sleepy thumbs up. "Papa’s cool."

"Wow. That’s the highest rating I’ve ever gotten from you."

Kimiko calls from the hallway. "He only compliments people once a week."

On the way out the door, Sae looks down at his son, bed-headed, shoeless, still munching.

"You and me are the same, huh?"

Kimiko turns back around, arms crossed. "you’re both boring."

Sae shrugs.

Kimiko lets out a long, exhausted sigh like she’s raising both of them. "I hope Mama never finds out how bad this was."

"Too late," Sae says, unlocking his phone and pointing at the camera. "I recorded everything. Gonna show her you braided your own hair."

Kimiko gasps. "That’s illegal!"

Haruki looks up. "Tell mama I brushed my teeth."

"You didn’t." she yelled.

Sae sighed. "I thought about it." he smiles faintly as they head out, Kimiko already bossing her brother down the hallway.

Sometimes being a dad felt like being on a team where the coach was six, the star player was asleep under the coffee table, and he was just there to drive the van.

But hey. They were dressed, fed (kind of), and on time. That’s a win.

Nagi Seishiro and Shizuku (4)

“You said that three times already.”

Nagi wakes up to a presence.

Not noise. Not shaking. Just…vibes.

He opens one eye and sees Shizuku standing silently at his bedside, holding her bunny and staring like a tiny, polite ghost. Her hair is a waterfall down her back, too smooth to be legal at this hour.

“…You okay?” he mumbles.

She nods once. Then whispers, “It’s wake-up time now.”

Nagi grunts. “Five more minutes.”

“You already said that three times,” she says, barely audible, like she’s unsure if she’s allowed to correct him.

He flops back down dramatically. “Tragic.”

But she climbs into bed beside him and waits like a quiet judge. Two minutes later, she gently pokes his face.

“...mommy said we can’t be late.”

He groans into the pillow.

In the kitchen, he burns the toast again. Shizuku just blinks at it. She picks up a slice, takes one polite bite, and slowly sets it down like it offended her ancestors.

“I like it less when it’s… smoky,” she says, after a pause.

“Same,” Nagi mutters, already Googling “how to not burn toast.”

The apple slices go untouched. He side-eyes her. “You asked for apples.”

She nods shyly. Then whispers, “I meant the crunchy green ones. Not the sad red ones.”

“Noted. I’ll fire the fruit guy.”

But the real boss fight? Her hair.

Nagi stares into the mirror. Shizuku sits on the bathroom counter in her unicorn pajamas, legs swinging. Her long hair spills behind her like it’s mocking him. The brush is already stuck and it’s been ten seconds.

“Okay,” he says. “This is fine. We’ve trained for this.”

They have not trained for this.

He tries to gather it all into one neat ponytail. It slips through his fingers like magic. Her bangs fall into her face again. He brushes them aside. They fall again. He lets out a single defeated sigh.

“You okay, Papa?” she asks quietly.

“Not really.”

She watches as he tries again. The elastic flies off his fingers and hits the mirror. They both freeze.

Shizuku slowly offers him a second hair tie from her lap like she’s handing over a weapon in a movie.

He attempts a braid. It ends up looking like a sad pretzel.

After thirty exhausting minutes, he gives up.

“…Let’s go wild today.”

She nods. Then whispers, “Like a lion?”

He blinks. “Uhh...yes. A little lion"

They head to the front door. Shizuku, bundled up in her puffy coat, stands quietly while Nagi struggles to zip it all the way. The zipper catches twice. He mutters something about the universe being against him.

“Almost got it,” he says.

Shizuku stares at him. Then carefully holds out one mittened hand and says, “You have to push it up first.”

Nagi blinks. Tries it. It works immediately.

“…When did you learn that?”

She shrugs. “Mama does it.”

Of course.

He grabs her tiny backpack. She reaches up for it like a sleepy executive going to an important meeting. Just as he’s opening the door, she suddenly stops.

“Wait,” she says, frowning. “You forgot your kiss.”

Nagi freezes mid-step. “My what?”

She reaches up, stands on tiptoe, and plants a tiny kiss on his cheek.

“For luck,” she whispers.

He melts.

But as he buckles her into the car seat, she turns serious again.

“Papa?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re still wearing your bunny slippers.”

He looks down. Loafers: missing. Bunny slippers: present.

He groans.

She just nods, calm and composed.

“I won’t tell Mama,” she says quietly.

Nagi stares at her, utterly amused.

Shidou Ryusei and Shoko (6)

“That’s called fashion, babe.”

Shidou kicks open his daughter’s bedroom door like he’s breaking into a villain’s lair.

“RISE AND SHINE, BABY GREMLIN!”

There’s a silence. Then the blanket rustles. A pillow sails through the air like a missile.

“YOU RISE, LOSER!” comes the response, shrill and feral.

She hurls herself off the bed in a flying tackle. Shidou catches her midair and spins her.

“AHHH—MY BONES! I’M TOO YOUNG FOR THIS!”

“YOU’RE 28, ACT YOUR AGE!”

“NEVER!”

Their mornings are less "routine" and more "WWE meets glitter daycare." And today is no exception.

The kitchen smells like chaos.

Shidou is flipping neon pink pancakes with a spatula in one hand and mixing syrup with food coloring in the other.

“We feast like royalty today!” he declares, sliding a plate onto the table with the flourish of a man who’s proud of his crimes.

“Royalty who eats sugar for breakfast and cries at the dentist,” Shoko mutters, unimpressed but already loading up on whipped cream.

“This is called culinary art, thank you very much.”

“You put candy eyes on everything.”

“Because everything should have a soul.”

She snorts, kicking her feet under the table. Her purple unicorn onesie is still half-zipped, and her hair looks like she fought a wind god. Which means—

“Hair time,” Shidou announces ominously.

In the bathroom, she climbs onto the counter while he gets to work. And this is where Shidou actually shines.

You wouldn’t know it by the rest of his lifestyle, but when it comes to his daughter’s hair? He’s a machine.

He sections, detangles, and smooths with laser focus. He could probably braid blindfolded. The final style includes two delicate braids, glitter strands, two color-matching bows, and, at her request, a tiny butterfly clip "for intimidation purposes."

She stares at herself in the mirror with satisfaction.

“I look like a fairy who could commit war crimes,” she says, hands on hips.

Shidou nods. “Exactly the vibe.”

She leans in closer, turning her head from side to side. “It’s giving… magical girl"

“Ten outta ten.”

Speaking of lunch, that’s a whole other thing.

Shidou’s idea of a balanced meal is… questionable. Today, her bento includes: three mini meatball sliders, heart-shaped cucumber slices, rainbow gummy worms, and a juice pouch labeled “Liquid Victory” in marker.

She peeks into the box.

“You forgot the sparkle jelly.”

He gasps. “Oh my god. I’m a disgrace.”

He literally runs to the fridge, grabs a cup of blue sparkle jelly, and slides it in with a bow like he's handing over a rare gem.

They high-five.

Shoko zips up her jacket while Shidou is still trying to put on sneakers with mismatched socks. The morning sun hits her like a spotlight, her glittery hair practically glowing, lunchbox swinging, war-ready energy at max level.

“Alright, tiny menace,” Shidou says, tossing her backpack over her shoulder. “Go wreak some controlled havoc, yeah?”

She grins.

They do a complicated secret handshake that ends in jazz hands.

Then she squints up at him.

“…uhh"

“Yeah?”

She steps forward and gently tugs the hem of his hoodie. “Your pants are inside out again.”

He looks down. Pauses.

“Intentional,” he says confidently. “That’s called fashion, babe.”

She exhales the way a mother does when her child disappoints her.

“You’re welcome.”

They march to the car like a superhero duo. As they approach the school gate, the teacher sees them and visibly braces herself.

Shoko waves sweetly. Shidou throws finger guns.

Chigiri Hyoma, Mayu and Himari (twins, 6)

“Let’s go, bitch!” The morning had started with harmony.

Chigiri was plating up breakfast like he was filming for a cooking channel, tiny waffles with chocolate syrup swirled into art, strawberries fanned out on the side, and little heart-shaped forks placed neatly on matching plates.

“Breakfast is ready” he called out as the twins marched into the kitchen in matching fuzzy slippers.

Mayu slid into her seat with a soft “thank you, Papa,” immediately picking up a strawberry with delicate fingers. Himari, however, stared at her plate like it had personally insulted her.

“Papa,” she said, squinting. “This syrup is… attacking.”

Chigiri turned from the sink. “Attacking?”

“It’s too much. My waffle is drowning. It looks like chocolate soup.”

“It’s the same amount as always,” Chigiri said, tilting his head. “Maybe the syrup bottle was just feeling generous today.”

Himari poked her waffle with the fork like it might explode. “It’s gross.”

Mayu, ever the diplomat, offered sweetly, “I can trade with you if you want. Mine doesn’t have as much—”

“I DON’T WANT YOURS” Himari snapped, eyes wide and brows scrunched. “Why do you always talk when I’m mad? It makes it worse!”

Mayu blinked. Her lip quivered slightly, but she said nothing. Just put down her fork, slipped off her chair, and walked quietly out of the kitchen.

Chigiri froze, one hand holding the juice jug. “Himari…”

She was still glaring at her plate, mumbling, “I didn’t mean it"

Chigiri sighed. “That was pretty harsh. You okay if I go check on her?”

Himari shrugged, then grabbed her waffle with both hands and took an angry bite. “Fine.”

He found Mayu sitting cross-legged on her bed, hugging her stuffed dolphin, blinking very fast.

Chigiri sat beside her, gently brushing her bangs back.

“She didn’t mean it,” he said softly.

Mayu nodded. “I know.”

“But it still hurt,” he added.

Mayu’s chin wobbled. “A little.”

He kissed the top of her head. “That’s okay. You don’t always have to be the nice one, you know. You're allowed to feel things too.”

“I didn’t want her to be more mad,” Mayu whispered. “So I didn’t cry.”

Chigiri smiled and pulled her into a hug. “You’re strong, Mayu. But you don’t have to carry everything alone.”

Back in the kitchen, Himari had eaten her entire waffle and was now staring down the empty plate like it was to blame. She looked up guiltily when they returned.

Mayu gave her a tiny smile.

“I saved you a strawberry,” Himari muttered, sliding it across the table without looking up.

“…Thanks,” Mayu replied, quietly taking her seat again.

Chigiri clapped his hands. “Okay, drama queens. Time to get gorgeous.”

Ten minutes later, Chigiri had perfectly braided Mayu's hair and gave Himari her usual high pigtails. “There, perfect,” he said, fluffing them both up.

Mayu beamed at her reflection. “Thanks, Papa!”

Himari gave a little nod. “can you make them bouncier next time?”

“Of course,” Chigiri said with a sigh.

With their outfits on, Chigiri gave a final once-over. “Clothes: 10/10. Hair: flawless. Now, let’s avoid a glitter explosion before school, yeah?”

Himari huffed. “Fine. No glitter.”

They walked out, looking like a Pinterest-perfect family. Chigiri handed them their lunchboxes and led them to the car.

Ready for the day?” Chigiri asked with a smile.

“Ready!” Mayu said calmly.

“Let’s go, bitch!” Himari cheered.

Chigiri froze, eyes wide, his mouth slightly agape. “Excuse me?”

Himari looked at him with a judgemental look. “What? I’m just hyped for the day!”

Chigiri blinked, still processing the words. “Where... where did you hear that?”

Himari shrugged, unfazed. “From that film we watched this weekend. You fell asleep halfway through, but I watched the rest.”

Chigiri’s face went a shade paler, his mind racing. “What exactly were they saying?”

“Uh, I don’t know... some stuff,” Himari said nonchalantly. “It was funny.”

Chigiri closed his eyes for a brief second, imagining the chaos. He could already picture your reaction if you find out Himari picked up that word. A small shiver ran down his spine.

“Great,” he muttered under his breath, mentally preparing for the inevitable fallout. “Just...fantastic.”

Isagi Yoichi and Isamu (7)

“I don’t get school,” Isagi had made a to-do list the night before. He was determined to make this morning perfect.

To-Do:

Wake up by 6:30

Eggs & toast

Soccer uniform ready

Water bottle filled

Motivation speech (brief)

He wakes up at 6:42. Panic hits like a red card.

His son, Isamu, is sprawled out in bed like he’s auditioning for a starfish role in an ocean documentary.

"Isamu, buddy, time to get up," Isagi says, shaking him gently. "Big day ahead!"

"Ugh," Isamu groans, barely opening an eye. "I want to drop out."

"You’re seven."

"Exactly," Isamu says, rolling over and curling into a blanket burrito.

Isagi’s internal monologue screams as he rushes to the kitchen. Breakfast needs to be perfect. The eggs are half-scrambled, and the toast? Slightly burned. He slides it onto a plate like it's the Mona Lisa of breakfast, though it looks more like abstract art.

"Breakfast, Isamu. You’ll need energy for school!" Isagi says, trying to sound motivational.

Isamu eyes the toast like it’s a science experiment. "What is this...? It’s... not pizza."

"Eat it, or no soccer later," Isagi threatens.

Isamu rolls his eyes dramatically and takes a bite. "You’re so dramatic. I still don’t care about school."

"School is important!" Isagi insists, getting flustered. "You need education to—"

"I’m gonna play soccer," Isamu interrupts, chewing with all the intensity of a man who’s just been told he has a free pizza pass. "Who needs school when you’ve got soccer?"

Isagi ignores the comment and rushes to get his son’s clothes. He’s sure he left them right there on the chair. He checks the chair. Nothing. He checks the floor. Nothing. He checks under the bed, under the table, in the laundry basket.

"Where the heck are they?" Isagi mutters, sweating now. "I swear I put them here."

"Maybe the ghosts took them," Isamu offers nonchalantly from the kitchen, barely glancing up from his toast.

Isagi freezes. "Ghosts? Why would—"

Before he can finish, Isamu shrugs, "I don’t know. Could be."

After a few more frantic minutes of searching (and Isamu offering absolutely no help), Isagi finally finds the soccer uniform under the couch.

"Found it!" Isagi declares, holding it up triumphantly like a knight retrieving a sword.

"About time," Isamu says, unbothered, chewing slowly as if he were watching paint dry.

They race to get out the door. Isagi grabs the water bottle, zips the bag, and notices Isamu’s shoes are mismatched. He doesn’t have time to fix it.

"Teeth brushed?" Isagi asks as he grabs his keys.

"Close enough," Isamu replies with a yawn.

“I love you” Isagi says, feeling a mix of exhaustion and love.

"I love soccer," Isamu replies, not even looking up from his phone game.

Once dressed and vaguely clean, Isamu plops into the car seat like it personally offended him. Isagi starts the engine, already five minutes behind schedule.

The car is quiet until Isamu sighs like he’s been carrying emotional weight since birth.

“I don’t get school,” he mutters.

Isagi glances at him. “What do you mean?”

“I sit in a chair for hours while the teacher tells me triangles are important. For what? Triangles have never scored a goal in their lives.”

Isagi stifles a laugh. “Triangles are used in passing formations.”

“Not emotional triangles. That’s different.”

He stares out the window dramatically. “And you know what else? People lie. Yesterday, this kid told me we were best friends. Then he passed the ball to someone else.”

Isagi hums sympathetically. “Harsh.”

“I’m starting to think school is just a government distraction from my true potential.”

“Which is…?”

“Becoming the best striker”

There’s a pause. Then Isamu adds, “Also, I don’t trust teachers who wear shoes indoors. That's villain behavior.”

Isagi parks in front of the school with a slow breath. “Okay. Big day. Deep breaths.”

Isamu opens the door and mutters, “Time to enter the battlefield.”

bllk!dads

[cloakedpress]

How to Write Better Characters: Roles, Motivation & Actually Making People Care

Let’s be real: your story can have the coolest magic system, the twistiness of the plot, or the hottest vampire/detective/alien—  

but if your characters are flat?  

Nobody’s sticking around.

So let’s break down how to give your characters real presence in your story by understanding their role, their motivation, and how to make them hit harder on the page.

1. What’s Their Role in the Story?

Every character needs a *reason to exist*. Think of them like parts in a machine. What do they *do* in your narrative?

Here are a few basic types:

- Protagonist: The one we’re rooting for. They drive the plot forward.

- Antagonist: The one in their way. Doesn’t have to be evil—just opposed.

- Foil: Someone who reflects the main character’s traits by contrast.

- Mentor: Offers wisdom, often with a tragic backstory or dramatic exit.

- Love Interest: Romantic tension? Check. But make sure they’re *more* than just eye candy.

- Wildcard: Unpredictable chaos gremlin. Every story needs one.

TIP: If you can remove a character without changing the plot? You probably should.

2. What Do They Want? (AKA Motivation)

This is the *core* of your character. Motivation makes everything feel real. Ask yourself:

- What does this character want more than anything?

- Why do they want it?

- What are they willing to do (or give up) to get it?

Bonus points if their motivation is in conflict with someone else’s. That’s where the juicy drama lives.

Ex: “She wants to save her sister. He wants to save the world. One bomb. One choice.”    Now we’re COOKING.

3. How Do You Show It?

Motivation isn’t just monologues and dramatic speeches. It’s in:

- What they *notice* first in a room.

- Who they *trust* (or don’t).

- The mistakes they keep repeating.

- The lies they tell *themselves*.

A character who’s obsessed with control might organize their bag mid-crisis.  

A character desperate to be loved might make themselves useful to everyone… even villains.

4. Let Them Be Messy

Perfect characters are boring.  

Give them contradictions. Regrets. Bad coping mechanisms. Let them be *wrong*. Let them grow.

Characters who never fail or change = characters nobody relates to.

Let your soft boys punch someone. Let your bad girls cry. Let your villains have a point.

5. Ask Yourself the Hard Stuff

- What would break this character?

- What line won’t they cross?

- Who are they when no one’s watching?

If you can answer these? You *know* your character.

6. Level Up: Relationships Matter

Characters don’t exist in a vacuum. Use dynamics to reveal depth:

- A character might be brave in a fight but terrified of disappointing their mentor.

- A flirty rogue might go speechless around the person they actually care about.

- A villain’s cruelty might soften around their childhood friend.

People are different with different people. Show it.

 TL;DR:  

Great characters = clear role + deep motivation + real emotion. 

Make them want things. Make them struggle. Make them human (even if they’re a dragon princess from space).

Want help building a specific character? Drop their name + vibe in my ask box. Let’s break them open together.