#this is actually a wip i abandoned like a month ago which i decided to clean up i dunno.

[avephelis]

found these things in my basement so i cleaned them up a little bit and now they've started committing medical malpractice

[boolger]

A lapdog at a farm - snippet - COD

CHAPTER ONE IS OUT <3 TUMBLR OR AO3

This is a snip of the first chapter for my upcoming wip fic 🫡 yes I have 20+ other projects, no I will not stop myself. This is not really checked for mistakes and stuff will probably change in the actual first chapter of the fic. But here u go, a snack for my sinners.

Word count: 2.5k-ish words

Hybrid!Reader x Price, reader x kinda poly141 later in fic, more to come

Small summary: This is an AU with Price becoming a farmer, hybrid dog!reader as a spoiled pet who doesn’t want to live this country life and hybrid working dogs!Gaz, Simon and Soap, who gets bought by Price. Chaos and smut ensues. Anyways, there won’t be this much in this snip.

Minors do not interact. I will block you if I can’t see any kind of indication of age on your blog.

Cw: There is the whole aspect of holding hybrids as pets, there is violence and punishments in this snippet, being hit with a belt. there is smut at the end (not much). Reader has a pussy, she/her. Reader is chubby but I tried my best to keep other descriptions vague.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

The countryside was peaceful compared to the city; the lack of the bustling streets and constant traffic, created a quietness that was hard to describe.

Out here, at the new farm, the noise came from animals that lived in the stables and barn, the occasional rumble as a tractor turned on. The wind tickled the never ending fields of wheat and the long rows of fruit trees, under which the goats and sheep walked most days.

Here the stress wasn't like in the city. Sure, there were stressful moments and sometimes Price looked like he needed to sleep for more than just the few hours he got everyday.

But he didn’t have to worry about the morning traffic, waiting in a queue for an overpriced, questionable tea or coffee. There was no need for him to wear a suit, no noisy, overfilled train cars in the underground. No crowded dog or hybrid parks, no meetings or rules to follow - except those John Price decided for himself.

He was happy, it was clear to you. It had been three months since the move - he had gone back to his roots, buying back the farm that his parents had used to own a little while ago, using some of his endless wealth on renovating the place. There was no step on the stairs that was loose, like it used to when he was a kid - sure they still creaked, but you weren’t afraid they would disappear from beneath you.

It was modernized, but most of the old charm left. Price fit right in; the furniture he had inherited and never believed he would use was suddenly in the living room. His knowledge of the business world was abandoned in the city, for the knowledge of farming that he still had left from his youth. John got a couple of farm hands and workers, who helped him with the big place.

It was like he reclaimed his own self that had been buried beneath ties and paperwork. Now he didn’t smoke his cigars from stress, but from pleasure, clearly much happier.

It was like the farm had made John Price happy once more; his smiles more genuine, his true self stepping forth. Returning to his childhood home and taking over the farm had been the best decision Price had made. There was no question about it.

… and you hated every bloody day at the farm.

The early morning hours being disturbed by the farm waking up, the rooster crowing and John leaving the bed, giving you a pat in between your ears. The constant bugs, the muddy stables and the big animals, the helpers who always teased you for not fitting in, the lack of friends you had out here.

You were not made for farm life. Literally. Simply not made for it.

Some would argue that you, as a hybrid pet, didn’t have a say in it and sure, legally you didn’t. But you were a lapdog, an elegant pet. Not a farm dog. Created to be cared for and cuddled, you were a purebred cocker spaniel hybrid; you weren’t made to run around on a farm, following John on his duties And doing work.

Sure, you had the instincts to hunt a few things here and there, but it was mostly balls and the occasional bird or squirrel. You weren’t a guard hybrid, not really a working dog.

You had had enough trauma throughout your life - you deserved not to be forced into this!

You wanted John to be happy, you really did - you loved your Master! When he bought you a few years ago, when you were still aggressive and unruly (… more than now at least), you had thought he would tire of you like everybody else had. But with patience, rules, training, praise and punishment and a whole lot of sex later, you were a perfect hybrid pet for the city! People always praised how well you looked, laughing when Price said you were really a little troublemaker. You would follow him throughout the fancy apartment, on your daily walks, sometimes for meetings.

But why the fuck did it have to be a farm? He worked around the same time that he did before, genuinely seeming to enjoy himself. Forgetting about poor you!

Out here, there were no hybrid daycare that you would go to when he had long days, there were none of your playmates nearby, everything stank of animals and there were no places nearby for you to get your hair and fur styled and pampered! No nail technicians, no fancy cafes, no shops for John to buy you things in! No special made coffee or chef-made meals every other evening, no freshly baked croissants.

You felt like you had tried. You really had.

But after the first week, you had your first breakdown - and as the weeks passed, they didn’t stop. At first, John was sympathetic, like the perfect owner he was.

Cooing at you, kissing your forehead, as he gently scratched your ears. Kissing away any tears, saying it was okay - that you were just overwhelmed, that it would be okay. That you would come to like it out here.

Big fucking joke.

He had tried every trick in the book, in an attempt to please you and made you less upset, but as days turned into weeks and tantrums began to appear, you knew his patience began to disappear.

He followed professional advice and then the advice of the neighbors down the street, Rodolfo and Alejandro (who had caught you running away at one point), tried some of the workers’ advice. He had given you your own room, and it was mostly designed like your own, perfect to the pale green paint on the wall, all your toys and dog beds, your CDs - everything. He had tried hauling you along every day, trying to give you a routine to follow - but after two weeks, he gave up, not having the energy to deal with a tantrum that got worse and worse each day. He went on walks with you, fucked you silly, tried his best — and you didn’t want it.

No, you wanted to go back to your old life. Not this country life that you hadn’t signed up for, with horses that neighed loudly whenever you passed them; they were definitely going to trample you at the first chance, you knew that. You could hear foxes scream in the night, warning you of the dangers. The goats and sheep were so fucking loud and no you didn’t want to go pick fresh apples off the trees - had he seen the size of the spiders crawling on them?

When you in one of your biggest tantrums took off and bolted from the farm in distress, Rodolfo and Alejandro had almost hit you when you emerged from the corn fields onto the road.

You had cried the entire drive home, no matter what the two men had tried saying, especially as Rodolfo called Price in advance — your master was livid. The worst thing was, that it was not that kind of anger where he yelled at you before punishing you - no, this one was almost silent, a sharp grip on your collar as he dragged you along after thanking Rudy and Ale.

He had belted you then, ignoring your crying and screaming, only stopping when you broke, sobbing and going quiet. He had explained it to you then, what could have happened, what dangers you could have ended in - and as you sobbingly apologized and tried to explain, that you wanted to go back to the city, John had sighed.

Said that he had pampered you too much since he got you, which had made you greedy and attention seeking. Which only made you cry more, as you hid your face in his neck, fingers digging into his shirt, ass cheeks burning.

“Spoiled rotten, little birdie,” he mused, though you could hear the softness in him, your tail wagging a little, hoping to get him to be less mad.

“‘M sorry,” you had whined, ears tipping down, “wanna be good but I don’t like it.”

Your rather dull escape attempt resulted in several things. An AirTag on your collar, so that he always knew where you were. A remarkable lack of treats, sex and then… the crate.

You fucking hated the crate.

Sure, it hadn’t been nice of you to bite one of his pillows into a simple pulp of fabric, feathers everywhere. Or create chaos in the kitchen… or get drunk on his fancy whiskey (that one had ended worse for you, hangover was a bitch and there wasn’t much sympathy from John). And yes, you might have ripped most of the flowers surrounding the house up, until one of the workers had caught you. Maybe pissing yourself in the middle of the living room while staring him in the eyes and ignoring his warnings had been a little…excessive.

But the dog crate? You hated that thing.

Hated it when he locked you up, ignoring your whimpers and whines, your promises to behave, ignoring your little howls as he left.

Mean. The farm had made him mean. Perhaps you had become a bit unruly too, but it was like he didn’t take your clear suffering seriously.

Mean and happy - unruly and suffering. What a pair you were. One of the workers, Laswell, who was a big helper and often stayed over for dinner, suggested a fucking shock collar. You had growled, only stopped when John sent you a sharp look.

You had even heard him talking over the phone with somebody, saying that he didn’t want to rehome you, but he didn’t know what to do.

That had made you melt a little and you had cried as you had crawled into his bed a couple of hours later, begging him to not abandon you.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

It was a random morning a couple of days later, that you found him still in the kitchen, reading the newspaper, humming to himself while smoking a cigar.

He looked nice like this. Despite how he sometimes muttered about being too old, he wasn’t really that old. Late thirties, and perhaps it was the peace on his face or the sun rays that kissed him, which made him look younger. But still. There was a decade between you, but days like this, you were reminded that it didn’t matter.

“Are you going to stare all day or are you going to join me, Darling?” He asked teasingly, pulling you from your thoughts. You let out a little huff and kissed him good morning, receiving a pat on the ass before you sat down on your own seat. It had been a while since the two of you had eaten together - often he was up at the crack of dawn, so his calm behavior and gentle humming was unusual to say the least.

“Why are you not working?” You asked carefully, as you ate some of the bread, trying to ignore how it wasn’t a fancy sourdough one - though you were pretty sure he had picked it up from a local bakery in the village which was a little drive away.

“Because,” he put the paper down, then tapping some ash off the cigar into his ashtray, before looking over at you, a pleased smile on his face, “you and I are going on a trip.”

“A trip?” You didn’t even bother to be embarrassed about how your voice got higher with excitement or how your tail thumped against the backrest of the chair as you wagged it, “where are we going? When? Can we go now?”

Price had laughed, a happy sound that you knew not many got to hear; it made your heart beat a little faster, made you feel butterflies in your stomach.

“Well, we got to do a few things first to get ready, and you,” he used the cigar to point at you, your tail wagging a little faster, “need to not freak out when I tell you where we are going.”

Despite the warning, tears streamed down your cheeks when he told you. John didn’t get mad as a part of you had expected; he knew your abandonment issues first hand, knew how you had been left behind before, from one bad owner to another.

“You’re going to sell me and leave me with a mean owner and I’m gonna die of hunger and thirst - and - and —“

“Not gonna leave you, princess,” John crooned, covering your face in kisses as you hiccuped and sniffled, clinging to his clothes, “you know that. My favorite puppy. Pretty girl.”

Despite your tears and small sobs, your tail wagged at his words, “silly puppy,” he mused with a smile, gently scratching your lower back, “‘m not gonna sell you. Ale and Rodolfo are looking for a hybrid, I figured we could go look at the auction as well.”

“What if - what if - what if you’ll like them more?” You sniffled dramatically, sure that your life was only going to become worse than it already was. One thing was this bloody farm and the crate, another thing was having to share Price. You didn’t like the idea one bit. If that happened, you were going to show him how a proper tantrum was thrown - the crate would probably be the least of your worries.

As if to prove his love, John bent you over the table, fucking you in between the clattering dishes and cutlery, tea and coffee almost spilling over. Despite how many times your owner fucked you, it made you lose control of your mind every single time. His cock reached so deep inside you that it bordered on pain, your mouth open as you panted and moaned at each thrust; your soft stomach being pressed against the edge of the table, one hand holding onto the back of your collar, the other on your tail. The table rattled, John groaned and moaned, your fingers desperately trying to hold onto anything.

“My princess,” he snarled darkly into your ear, “you’ll always be mine-“ a moan, a grunt, “- no matter what happens, yeah?”

“Yes ye-ah- yes, sir, I’m yours - ah ah - I’m yours!” you managed in between pants and wails of pleasure, fear of abandonment forgotten in the ocean of euphoric satisfaction.

You came harder than you had for a while; the reminder of your worth, of how you deserved his worship, making you cream around his throbbing length, legs in spasms afterwards. He pushed deeper, filling you up with a loud roar like sound, his hands moving to grab onto the fat of your ass and hips as he came. Pain and pleasure made your toes curl and a content sigh left you, your tail wagging against Price as he chuckled.

[monbons]

WIP Wednesday

Posting actual WIPS on a Wednesday? Imagine that.

As long as we are all baring our hearts on tumblr, I have to admit that I have been struggling to write anything since I wrapped up Eternal Life (back in the first week of April). At first I figured I was simply burnt out since I wrote all 42k words of that fic in just about a month, but given that I've started three separate WIPS since then and made zero progress on any of them, I'm wondering if I am just out of stories. I hate all my words--even though I really love some of these concepts. So, as you may have noticed, I've been distracting myself with sewing projects because good progress is so clearly visible there...

Anywho, to motivate myself, I decided to post a snip of each today and hope that having bits out in the world will motivate me to finish at least ONE of them! All untitled. Set up and snips below the cut.

Very creatively titled "Party Robot," this WIP is a silly/fluffy one-shot inspired by an article I read a while ago about a growing trend in American weddings. This one is the furthest along and will likely see the light of day eventually...

A nervous bounce.  From a robot. I recognize that bounce. “I thought you said Shepard was working tonight.” My voice is tight. “He is.” Bunce replies, similarly strained. “What did you say he does again?” Panic rises in my chest.  “He’s in entertain–”  Whether Bunce trails off or I simply don’t hear the rest is irrelevant because the music has changed from easy dinner instrumentals to much-too-loud techno and the show is clearly starting. As the synths build, driving towards a crescendo, my brain reels with the growing realisation that Simon would never just abandon me at the last minute, would never send me anywhere alone, certainly not my cousin’s gay wedding, which is every kind of milestone given his Old Families lineage and Pitch blood specifically and– “PARTY PEOPLE!” The DJ booms into the mic. “Have the grooms got a treat for you!”

A multi-chapter AU I have lovingly nicknamed "Baz in a Bubble." It is sad and angsty and is proving significantly more difficult to execute (despite having a complete outline) than I once thought it would be. Who could have guessed having one home-bound character would make me too sad to write? Thanks to @thewholelemon and @hushed-chorus who've listened to more than their fair share of my griping about this one. Anyway, here's the first bit of BAZ POV:

There are exactly 297 stars in the sky above me. I count them while lying in my bed every night. They do not twinkle or flicker hello like real stars. Instead, they glow a constant yellowish-green that reminds me of the colour artists always make toxic sludge in the cartoons I grew up watching. It's the colour of superhuman villains and their evil plots. Of poison. Of danger. It's the colour of the plastic star stickers Fiona put up on my ceiling when I was 10 and spent the whole year crying and begging her to go outside. Just once. Just for a minute. Because I was starting to forget what fresh air smelled like or how it felt to have grass prickle against your bare feet or how the stars lit up the night sky in Hampshire. There are no stars in the middle of London. Not outside my window. Not in this room.

And then the WIP I have the least progress on (literally almost nothing) but I so desperately want to write and could really use a thought partner to help me brainstorm/plot/figure out what the hell I'm doing--- a canon divergence where Simon successfully exposes Baz as a vamp and Malcolm steps the fuck up as a father. Here's a bit of Simon POV:

It didn't matter anyway. Pitch Manor was empty. While [the Mage] ranted and raved, I wandered into Baz’s living room. The TV was still on. Peppa the Pig was playing. A half-dressed Barbie was splayed on the couch next to a small bowl of grapes, all cut in half. I picked up the doll and brushed her tangled hair out of her face.  Why didn’t I know Baz had a sister? A family that ate snacks together in front of the TV? Parents who loved him so dearly they fled their whole lives under cover of night? In the days that followed, I sat in meeting after meeting with the Coven, listening to The Mage. He demanded the casting of tracking spells, pushed through more dark creature reforms, and rambled about the miscarriage of justice and the dangers of harbouring monsters.  But Baz wasn’t a monster.  He was just a boy.  A scared boy.  A boy who ran because he wanted to live. 

Anyway...here's to accountability via tumblr. Maybe once I've slept for several weeks and feel more refreshed I won't be so frustrated by every word I know, or more precisely, all the beautiful ones I can’t seem to find…

Thanks for the tag @bookish-bogwitch. Cannot wait to devour the new chapter of BPD!

Hellos and high-fives to all. May your words (and art) be faring better than mine: @raenestee, @cutestkilla, @roomwithanopenfire, @facewithoutheart

@emeryhall, @artsyunderstudy, @aristocratic-otter, @larkral, @rimeswithpurple

@drowninginships, @valeffelees, @shrekgogurt, @blackberrysummerblog, @iamamythologicalcreature

@run-for-chamo-miles, @thehoneyedhufflepuff, @arthurkko, @you-remind-me-of-the-babe, @youarenevertooold

@beastmonstertitan, @supercutedinosaurs, @rbkzz, @fiend-for-culture, @theearlgreymage

@brilla-brilla-estrellita, @skeedelvee, @ic3-que3n, @talentpiper11, @ivelovedhimthroughworse

[kangofu-cb]

WIP game!

Tagged by @there-must-be-a-lock - thank you for helping me share my shame XD

WIP I’m actually working on:

I’m like 15 pages deep in some Winterhawk space wizard AU brain rot that is entirely the fault of @claraxbarton. Should I be working on this? No. Is it one of my WIPs, fictional obligations, or an update on any series? Also no.

HOWEVER, someone wisely told me that rotating your WIP crops is good for the blorbo soil, so. This is my cover crop. Also it’s been really really fun and writing hasn’t been fun in like a whole ass year so I’m not going to stop doing it.

WIP I keep open in the background so I don’t feel guilty:

Fake-EMT Jason moves to New York to lay low until Batman stops being mad at him, meets Clint Barton and goes on a vendetta against the Tracksuit Draculas. Featuring sulking-about-it Bucky Barnes. This is a gift for @noxnthea which I AM going to finish, it just got kind of sidelined by the, you know, crushing depression of the last year or so.

Imaginary project:

A musician!AU inspired by the dumbest possible premise, which is the trailer from that terrible-looking JLo movie with Owen Wilson called ‘Marry Me’. It looks so incredibly dumb but would likely be incredible as a fanfic. Unfortunately I don’t know anything about the music industry so it’s basically dead in the water.

Passion project:

Always always aways Halfway House. It’s not abandoned, it’s just sadly neglected. I peck at it every so often, adding words here and there, and eventually one day it will grow even more!

WIP from 3 months ago:

The Loyalty of Wolves - werewolf AU my beloved. The gentle premise of this is that Bucky is a werewolf who can’t shift, and Clint is a werewolf who wants to help him so damn much. And also they fall in love. But then they totally pine about it because the love is required they’re just both idiots.

Side WIP:

I don’t really know what this category means, but I’ve decided it means the WIP that’s supposed to be to the side, and unfortunately that’s the first one on the list, so actually I’m gonna say it’s Social Graces, which is what I WAS working on before the brain rot got me.

No-pressure tags:

@claraxbarton @drgrlfriend @noxnthea @flawedamythyst @carcrash429 @cloud--atlas @violsva @captn-sara-holmes @downwarddnaspiral and anybody else who wants to fling their WIP business into the void!

[aita-blorbos]

AITA for abandoning my WIP?

Hello everyone! You'll have to forgive me if this is a bit awkward... I am a writer and cosplayer, but nonfiction is really not one of my talents!

So umm... I started this project, some months ago. A real masterpiece! You see, I'm actually pretty internet-famous for my earlier works, so this time I tried something a bit more... exciting. To raise the stakes and add to the delicious drama of it all, I decided this latest project would use real people.

Aaaah, and they were absolutely perfect! I wrote up incredible backstories for them all, and I even added an artificial intelligence unit that my best friend put together for a touch of extra realism (the illusion of an audience was crucial for this project, so the AI predicted "votes" and "chat responses" based on commentary on my previous projects)! Then, finally, I wiped their memories and replaced them with my own writing, set them up in my ultimate fictional world, and watched their real, authentic decisions play out! I, and my best friend, participated in this project, but I did have to wipe her memory along with everyone else's... or else she'd remember building this virtual world machine! And that just wouldn't do.

So, well.... The first few tries were a little bothersome to work with. No matter how hard I tried to tweak their personalities and give them motives, they always ran out of time and left me having to reset! But, ah... I knew from the start that working with real dolls would have its challenges. That's where the stakes are! If I could just overcome this, it would be the best death game ever written!

So eventually, when my beloved first protagonist actually made an attempt to kill... and failed... I stepped in and finished the job. Just a little bug in the system, not a big deal. And from there, it was absolutely perfect! Death after death after death, everything lining up exactly as it should. The perfect drama, the perfect despair, exactly as it should be!

I continued to moderate from within the game, and luckily, no one even tried to kill me! Though, my self-insert was simply a boring old plain jane, so it's not exactly surprising....

There were a few tough spots... and right when I thought the project was tying itself up for a beautiful finish, one of my players somehow ended up convincing the AI to release us, and send us back to reality.

Now... everyone is quite mad at me for placing them in my incredible fictional reality. None of them are certain who they are, or which of their memories are real, and normally I would simply overwrite their memory and start over again, but... here is where I might be TA....

I believe that one of the characters I've written, as played by a very beautiful and talented person, has taken my heart. She was one of the first to be killed, but instead of anger like everyone else, she held my face and told me that her god has forgiven my sins!

Aaaah! I can't help but squee just thinking of it! How can one person be so talented, so beautiful, so charming?! The way I'm feeling, I might as well be a yuri protagonist!

So, well... now I'm reluctant to start over. This girl is technically a character of my own creation, or at least her memories are. But after so much effort, and sacrifice, and torment endured by the other 14 participants... WIBTA if I give up on my project to elope with this girl?? She wants to lead a cult in my name, which I find just sooooooo romantic and hard to turn down!! But should I instead press onwards, and continue writing my perfect story??

[submitted by @mx-shingujis based on a canon-deviant au fic idea that I will probably never get around to writing!]

[catsandgoodbooks]

20 Questions for Writers

Tagged by @bleue-flora (I am sorry it took so long it's been like a month I was procrastinating)

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

22, because my brain hates to stay focused on one idea at a time and I just have to make everything worse. I've got a lot more half-formed ideas and three-paragraph beginnings of fanfiction too <3

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

124,920 - that's...a lot. And it's only been about a year, so yay!

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Dream SMP. I'm lurking in a couple other fandoms (mostly the Locked Tomb and Dragon Age), but I haven't written anything for those yet.

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

1. Off the Planned Course

Not that surprising because it's one of the fics I've been writing the longest, is the longest of my actual stories (so not counting Whumptober stuff), and it also has the most people reading it (I blame including the Syndicate for that). It's probably my favorite too, so the validation is really nice (even if I keep getting writer-blocked by it).

2. Unfortunate Circumstances

Also one of the long ones, so it makes sense that it's on this list. Also, literally the second Dream SMP fic idea I ever had, so it's great that it's still going.

3. Easier Said Than Done

This one I kind of feel bad about - I decided to change a few details a while ago and I'm still not done with editing the old stuff so I can start on new chapters, so I really haven't been writing much for it recently (i.e in the past six months). Maybe this will get me to work on it again but I wouldn't hold out hope. It's not abandoned, but it's still basically on hiatus.

4. Shared Scars

I really like this one, but I didn't really expect anyone would read it because it was just a random AU with no basis in canon about two side characters, y'know? It's just really fun to write.

5. Dive Deep Into The Dark

This one is the one that surprised me, because it's just a collection of Whumptober oneshots that I wrote in like an hour each. But, hey, apparently people liked that, so yay?

5. Do you reply to comments? Why or why not?

Whenever I can, because they're taking the time out of their day to read my stuff and going the extra step of leaving a comment, and because I just like talking about my stories and stuff <3

6. What’s the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Okay, this and the next question are kind of difficult because I am allergic to finishing anything, ever, and that means I have to stick to oneshots, but I'd say either everything I've ever written for a Whumptober prompt (because those are all terrible, basically) or Old Habits Die Hard (Old Reliances Die Harder) because it's an angsty canon-compliant (ish) oneshot where nothing is resolved and everything is just terrible. In my longer fics, I don't really plan for tragic endings, because the ending should be happy even if the journey there wasn't, or else the whole things sad and there's not really any point.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Again, only oneshots count for this, so I'd probably say burn the scorecards, balance out the scales, because the ending is hopeful and probably the best possible outcome via rivals duo.

8. Do you get hate on your fic?

Not really, which is great. The most I ever get is a confused comment or someone making assumptions, and that's all fine.

9. Do you write smut?

No, and I don't plan to.

10. Do you write crossovers?

No, but I have some ideas I might write that involve crossovers and I might write them eventually.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of!

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

No, I have not <3

13. Have you ever co-written a fic?

No, but I would like to in the future.

14. What‘s your all-time favorite ship?

Drunz, for sure. It's the ship that really got me into the fandom and I've always liked that sort of toxic codependence even though they're terrible for each other.

15. What’s the WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

All of them? Well, besides that, I'd probably have to say Off the Planned Course, because, although I really love it, I have no idea how to end that thing or when.

16. What’s your writing strengths?

Absolutely no idea, maybe internal monologues? It's hard to evaluate your own writing.

17. What’s your writing weaknesses?

Dialogue. 100% dialogue. I get in my head about if it sounds natural or if anyone would ever say that or if I'm writing a character right and then it turns about clunky because I'm too busy worrying about it.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

I don't have a problem with it, but you should provide translations in that situation so the readers have context and know what's going on.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Dream SMP

20. Favorite fic you’ve ever written?

Probably Off the Planned Course, there are some chapters were I was just having the time of my life writing that thing even if they were immediately followed by two months of struggle.

Not tagging anyone because it's been ages and I'm bad at doing anything quickly so yeah. Also, it's my birthday today and time is really fucking weird <3

[factorialsotherfandoms]

WIP ask game again!! “xcomau Pac & Mike illegally and traumatically obtain their first (and only) legal job circa a year after "leaving" prison” illegal and traumatic job acquisition my beloved. what are the boys getting up to?

hehehehehe thank you curly for asking the thing I was baiting you to ask me even if you've already seen the WIP <3

This is a fic in which the boys have a terrible time! They are mostly getting up to crimes! Crimes including theft. And grievous bodily harm. You know. The usual. But they only escaped prison a few months ago, and they'd reeeeally like to stay low enough profile to not get arrested again, you know?

And I'll put the rest of the ramble and also a snippet under the cut so people can like judge for themselves spoilers. But then again it's backstory fic so spoilers basically is meaningless woo!

So. Pac and Mike are homeless, doing their thing, living low profile in an abandoned warehouse at the docks. As they do. They're not *healthy*, but they're getting by. Pac's shitty prosthetic badly needs replacing, Mike has plans, but no materials or workshop, you know all their usual problems. For sake of being warm and also their natural curiosity, they get fake student IDs just good enough to trick the electronic door locks and hand out in the uni library with so many science books, and make use of their showers (they found some old thrown out ones and via more traditional breaking and enterting got them reactivated). When feeling rich the laundrette. You know, that sort of thing.

And then shit happens. Shit here means aliens. Aliens first drop a device spewing a gas designed to knock people out (the aliens need you alive), so they can then inject people with a poison that causes them to become hosts to new aliens, which hatch when you die (this poison *is* fatal if untreated in most cases, unlike the knock out gas which is only fatal if you're unlucky or get overdosed - the babies need enough poison in enough of your body so your heart still needs to be beating for a good few minutes. As an aside, later on they just chase down and infect people, early on it's knock out first for larger numbers. Also some cities get zombie gas instead. Second aside! Obviously very young and old and people with lung conditions or heart conditions tend to die from the knockout gas anyway, but so do avians - bird people in this AU *usually* have a weakness to airborn toxins).

Pac and Mike are chilling in their abandoned warehouse when this goes down, get close enough to see, and then decide to fuck off. When the gas reaches them - it's a gas it spreads - the aliens needing hosts are already clambering around and Pac and Mike don't know what they are, but they do see them stabbing people. Realising they won't be conscious long, they duck into a building and hide. In the process Mike is injured, and ends up with a small - but non fatal and without eggs as it was just a scrape not a full injection - of the alien toxin.

They pass out while hiding, expecting to die and Mike having horrible symptoms. Pac, however, gets woken up by some cops, sent now the aliens are cleared out to collect bodies and assess damages and all. Everyone is a bit surprised by the alive - most people this close to the epicenter got eaten because yk they tried to run like *sensible* but also they were being herded to their deaths by aliens with decades of understanding of human psychology. But also why bother chasing these two when more over there?

Pac panics, give some of the fake IDs which actually hold up to scrutiny, and weaves a sob story about getting fired from his uni research position when he lost his leg due to unsafe equipment, and Mike quit in solidarity, and they've been struggling since. He's absolutely a biochemistry lecturer he promises. Makes some rambles about the poisons himself. (also would have stabbed them if he thought he could take both) (He does *not* tell the cops about Mike getting scratched, but does later tell the paramedic)

Like the cops don't actually care, but get them both to medical attention. Mike does eventually wake up, still having a bad time as poison nobody has really had a chance to study - but it is a thankfully lower does. The two of them try and treat it themselves as the doctors don't know so they're just trying whatever to help the symptoms, and do manage to stumble into something which... doesn't cure it entirely, but gets the poisoning under control enough his liver can deal with it. Or, more to the point, gets other symptoms under control.

This draws attention. TBH, their IDs and Pac's sob story and rambles about gas drew attention.

It's not the cops who come over, it's the military officials ringleading the operation. Pac and Mike - in their fake names - are sworn to secrecy, then invited to a new initiative - a legally not military but rather side governmental department with a specialised combat force to deal with the alien forces. And the officials are... well to the officials these are two homeless, desperate, and bright scientists. It does not take much carrot to get them. Can underpay them massively and still get the research done, unlike stealing an actual uni person.

Pac and Mike are desperate, yes, but resist for a bit. They're put up in a hotel once well enough, and are noticibly treated better than the others. They know it's bait. They know it's fucking bait.

... Their warehouse is destroyed and they were struggling for food anyway and this is likely to happen again and they're *tired*. They know its bait, they know its dangerous, they *know* they won't be treatde this well once they say yes.

But they do it anyway.

As you can see this is a logn fucking fic and I hate writing longfics hence it still being in the WIP folder lmao.

Here have the end of Pac lieing to cops to get what he needs from them.

It's as the cops glance at one another that Pac realises that that is not information most people would know. He and Mike do - similar chemicals are common in less ethical security systems - but…

Fuck, fuck he's being looked at now. Mike's still out of it, and he himself is still not all there. How can he…

"Sorry, er, sorry. I'm-" fuck what was the name on that id. Doesn't matter. "Department of biochem. Used to be. But…" he gestures at his leg. "Didn't have lifts, and still can't walk somedays. Mikey quit with me when they couldn't guarantee ground floor labs."

It doesn't seem to make the two any less curious, though something in their expressions shifts.

"We've got a medical post set up nearby," the woman says. "We can escort you-"

"I'm not leaving Mike," Pac cuts across her, the one thing that really matters. He says it, clings to Mike's sleeve, breathes a moment. Still here. Still here. Mike is still here. "And, I don't… I just woke up from it. I don't think i can stand."

His eyes flitter between the pair.

"We can carry you to the truck downstairs. One of the medics will take you from there," the gentleman says.

He doesn't trust it. Pac does not trust it. It's easy - too easy. THis pair wear police uniforms. They don't know who he is, the fake ID exists in the government databases, but it's too fucking easy. They shouldn't, he shouldn't… Are they recognised? Do they realise? He can't… What if they hurt Mike while he can't defend himself? You beat people if you catch them running, right?

It's risky, so risky, if he could just… Just pick Mike up, then they could run. Avoid these cops, and disappear back into the now ruined city.

But… his body is still riddled with pain, and breathing is still a struggle, and Mike probably needs actual medical attention. He… shouldn't stop breathing. If the paralytic was going to take his lungs, it would have already. But… if it does… its a weird one. It might. And if it does, he needs a hospital. Needs help until his liver breaks all the poison down. Pac… its a weird poison. They should probably both be near help, just in case. The full symptoms aren't known. With how quickly they set in if they aren't dead yet it's not likely, but with so many unknowns… They should try be near a doctor.

It's just…

They can escape again. If they need to, they can escape again.

Still torn, but desperate and with Mike unable to help form a decision, Pac nods. The woman helps him up, while he watches the man scoop Mike into his arms. He's gentle enough, though, even careful with his spine; the only grounds that Pac can find to object is the screaming desperation to have his soulmate in his arms.

It's hard, staying conscious with the poisons inside his body.

He makes it half way down the first flight of stairs before his legs crumple, and the woman swings him into her arms.

He makes it to seeing Mike placed next to him in the truck before he passes out again.

[liangxinn]

untitled fantasy/royalty AU

For someone who supposedly doesn't care much for writing royalty AUs, I sure have a lot of them in my WIPs... including a King's Maker AU which I really really want to see through to the end ><

Anyway, I found this abandoned draft for a different fandom from 2019. Looking back at my writing from 4 years ago sure was an Experience, but I didn't want to immediately throw up at least, so I consulted the oracle (Twitter) and decided to tidy up a little excerpt as a SVT/Minwon fic. Here's the basic gist:

Elven princes Mingyu and Seungcheol are shocked to discover that their late father has named Mingyu his heir instead of Seungcheol, the eldest

Newly appointed captain of the royal guard Wonwoo is assigned to protect Mingyu (spoiler: they do not like each other lol)

To avoid taking the throne, Mingyu pledges himself to the god of the hunt, joins a band of hunters (I'm thinking performance unit), and leaves for six years

He returns to the kingdom when a mysterious affliction sweeps the land, turning the people into demon-like monsters, and has to work with Wonwoo to investigate...

I actually have the entire story plotted out, and I am more than happy to answer any questions if anyone's curious to know more! You can find 3.2k of one of the early chapters, mostly unchanged from the original draft, below the cut ^^

//

Mingyu's sleep is fitful, leaving him tossing and turning and tormented with snippets of strange dreams.

He walks for an age along the secret corridor, only for it to lead him to his father's room when he exits through the trapdoor. Just the sight of it, unopened since the king's death, stirs up a sick feeling in Mingyu's stomach. He doesn't know what possesses him to press his palm against the wood, only that it feels like fire trying to burn the skin from his hand. Of its own volition, his other hand drifts up as well, and he watches, entranced.

Mingyu pushes lightly against the door, hears the snap of splintering wood. A voice escapes through the cracks like scalding steam, and he pushes harder. His father's sharp words rush back to him from weeks, months, years long past. A heavy ache settles over his body, throbbing dully in the places where he could not be forced into the mould they made for Seungcheol. Pain lances across his cheek, but whether it's from the flames or a blow meant for his brother, he can't tell. The door collapses beneath the pressure, and he disappears into the flames.

He wakes, gasping, and sleep claims him again.

At a coronation, a crown is placed upon Mingyu's head, so heavy that it threatens to crush him. Hundreds of eyes bore into his flesh, picking like crows at every part of him they can reach, ripping him apart with their scrutiny. His own eyes dart around frantically and land upon Queen Consort Hyeyoung only to find a cold, insincere smile. Seungcheol is somewhere among them, flashing in and out of sight.

Mingyu tears the crown away in repulsion. When he hurls it to the ground at his feet, it shatters as if it were made of glass instead of precious metals. A moment passes, then the crowd erupts into raucous sound. He has displeased them. They surge upwards from their seats in a writhing, screaming mass. They call for his head. They call for his blood to be spilled.

He wakes, feels the prickle of those eyes on him, and shudders.

By now, the sun has begun to rise, throwing weak light into the room. Mingyu had gotten just a couple hours of sleep at the most. His body struggles against him, forcing his eyelids to droop and demanding more time to rest. Just as he's about to succumb, a sharp rap on the door seizes his attention.

Mingyu knows exactly who it is when the person enters before he even has the chance to respond. His brother slips into the room with those distinctive footsteps of his, dark eyes alight with excitement and the corner of his mouth curled upwards in amusement. He perches on the edge of the bed, yanking the covers away when Mingyu tries to bury himself underneath.

"You got caught last night," Seungcheol says, mirth laced in his tone. Mingyu rolls over to throw a glare in his direction.

"Good morning to you, too."

"Was it him? That Captain Jeon?"

Mingyu scowls at the mention of Wonwoo, having forgotten his existence momentarily. Seungcheol takes his stubborn silence as confirmation. In a more serious voice, he asks if Wonwoo found out about the passageway. Mingyu mulls it over for a moment before deciding that Wonwoo shouldn't have been able to figure out how he left castle grounds. He must've traced his path by some other means.

"I have a guard, too," Seungcheol sighs, flopping back onto the bed and across Mingyu's legs, ignoring his squawk of protest. "His name is Vernon. He's quiet, but he seems like a good kid. Must be capable if he became a guard at his age. He thinks quite highly of Captain Jeon."

"Good for them," Mingyu remarks sarcastically before he can bite it back. He shoves his face into a pillow to avoid the intrigued look Seungcheol sends his way.

"What, don't you like him? He was pleasant enough when I met him. Surely you've heard that he's the youngest captain in the history of the royal guard."

Mingyu refuses to answer. There is silence for a long moment, which borders on suspicious, then Seungcheol says in a sage-like, all-knowing tone, "Oh, I see. You fucked him."

Mingyu's expression cycles between outrage and disbelief before deciding to settle on embarrassment, to his dismay.

"Hyung!" he hisses, springing upright to hurl a pillow at his brother's head and shoot a look at the door as if Wonwoo could hear them from outside. Seungcheol blocks the pillow with ease, the sound of his delighted cackling quelling Mingyu's outburst. There hasn't been very much to laugh at as of late.

"There's no need to be embarrassed, Gyu-yah. Come to think of it, he's exactly your type-"

"I did nothing of the sort and I have no desire to!" Mingyu fumes, even as a giggle of his own threatens to escape him. He's painfully aware of the incriminating heat rising to his cheeks and ears, but he can't help the smile that tugs at his mouth. The roguish grin he receives in return is more than worth it.

Seungcheol has been run so thin lately, what with the burden of kingship dumped upon him in such an abrupt manner. And now, it may turn out that all of his efforts over the years were for naught. Mingyu reflects on what the queen consort told him last night, and dread fills his stomach at the very thought of having to take the crown. The vision of the coronation from his dreams flits to the front of his mind.

"How have you been, Mingyu?" Seungcheol asks softly as he pulls the pillow onto his lap and rests his hands atop it.

"Hyung," Mingyu begins with a heavy sigh, "did you know about the will?"

Seungcheol's gaze slides away. "Yes. I saw it the day before it was posted in the city centre."

"I don't blame you for keeping it from me, but how are you... alright with this?"

"The king's will is law, Mingyu-yah. I know this, and so do you."

"It doesn't make sense! Why would he name me his successor over you? He barely acknowledged my existence for twenty years and yet he left the entire kingdom to me? I don't believe it. I cannot believe it."

"Father took his reasons with him to the grave," Seungcheol says with grim resignation. "The only thing that we can do is follow his wishes."

"It should be you, hyung. It was always meant to be you. I'm not worthy," Mingyu finishes with a miserable sigh.

"I thought you would say something like that. But honestly speaking, I think you're just as capable of being a leader. Don't be so quick to undermine your skills."

Though Mingyu knows that Seungcheol is trying to be reassuring, he can't help but think that his brother sounds just like Queen Consort Hyeyoung. A product of her teachings, he supposes.

At Mingyu's skeptical raised eyebrow, Seungcheol gives his shoulder a light squeeze as a comforting gesture. "We'll figure something out. I'll still be here to help as much as I can."

Regardless of Mingyu's faith in his ability to lead the entirety of the kingdom, it simply isn't right for him to take the crown. Not when Seungcheol is the eldest, not when he has spent much of his life preparing for the inevitable day of their father's death. Despite having no choice but to take up the role of heir, Seungcheol has a true interest in the responsibilities of kingship. The life of a king has never appealed to Mingyu in the same way.

Seungcheol rises to his feet, tossing his pillow lightly at Mingyu's face and startling him from his thoughts. "Get dressed. Let's go to breakfast."

"Don't want to," Mingyu whines in response. "Can't we stay in here?"

It's definitely not because he doesn't want to face Wonwoo and be reminded of his wounded pride. Not at all. He's simply too tired to go all the way down to the dining hall and he'd much rather have breakfast in his room without having to take a single step outside, where Wonwoo is standing right now-

Mingyu yelps as the pillow makes contact with his face for a second time, more forcefully than the last. In his serious, all-business voice, Seungcheol insists that he comes down to have breakfast with Queen Consort Hyeyoung, so Mingyu acquiesces with a grumble.

"Choi Seungcheol, you are the rudest elf I have ever had the misfortune of meeting." 

"I know you love me, dearest brother."

Mingyu's exaggerated eye roll threatens to earn him a third smack with the pillow, so he leaps out of bed under the pretence of getting dressed and shoos Seungcheol out of his room. After he's cleaned himself up and made an attempt at taming the bird's nest that is his hair, Mingyu scrutinises his reflection with a critical eye.

He's visibly tired, his under eyes stamped with dark half-moons. His mouth is set in a displeased line, his shoulders are hunched, and his eyes are too full of worries. The image staring back at him doesn't look at all like a king, not even when he tries to picture a crown on his head. Its phantom weight pushes his head down, forcing him to break his gaze from his tired reflection.

Seungcheol always resembled their father more, anyway.

//

Breakfast is doomed to be a sombre affair as soon as Mingyu and Seungcheol enter the hall, followed closely by Wonwoo and Vernon. They slide into their seats across from Queen Consort Hyeyoung under the sympathetic eyes of the staff present, and Mingyu resists the urge to steal a sideways glance at his father's empty place at the head of the table. He almost prefers it this way.

The last time they all had breakfast together must've been at least four years ago, when Mingyu and Seungcheol were only sixteen. He barely remembers what it was like, though it isn't a particularly fond memory to begin with. It was around that time Mingyu took to having his morning meal alone in his room or the gardens. Immersed in his studies, Seungcheol wouldn't even come to eat sometimes either.

When Queen Consort Hyeyoung greets them, her slight smile doesn't quite reach her tired eyes. Mingyu meets her gaze, and the knowing look he finds there is enough to make him break eye contact to stare at his plate. A welcome distraction comes in the form of food brought out by the kitchen staff, who he thanks courteously.

Queen Consort Hyeyoung and Seungcheol begin to discuss an upcoming trade meeting with one of the western nations, so Mingyu helps himself to a roll still warm from the oven. After a liberal application of butter and honey scented like the local flowers, he bites into the soft bread, relishing the satisfying sweetness. Honey spills over his fingers and threatens to turn into a sticky mess. Perhaps he was a little too generous.

"Prince Mingyu," Queen Consort Hyeyoung calls to him. "What do you plan to do today?"

Before he even has the chance to open his mouth to respond, Mingyu feels a shift in the air, something odd that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. And before he even has the chance to even furrow his brow in suspicion, it happens.

The sound of shattering glass pierces the air, followed by a soft thud. The razor sharp tip of an arrow impales an orange perched precariously at the top of the fruit bowl, sending it flying off the edge of the table. Mingyu tracks it with his eyes as it rolls in a wobbly line to stop at Wonwoo's feet. A note written in black ink is tied to the shaft of the arrow like a mockery of a white flag.

A violent chill races down Mingyu's spine when he realises that the arrow had flown straight through the space between his and Seungcheol's heads. There had barely been a beat between the moment that he'd felt it twist the palace magic and the point of impact. He would've been dead before his mind even processed the window shattering.

After the last shards of glass have settled, the dining hall is silent. No one dares to move an inch, all eyes glued to the arrow which interrupted their morning meal. Slowly, carefully, with tension lining his body, Wonwoo leans down to pluck the arrow free and straighten out the message. Mingyu can see that his jaw is clenched, his knuckles pale with the intensity of his grip.

"I will come for what I am owed," Wonwoo reads out in a grim tone. His eyes flicker to Mingyu, then Seungcheol.

A murmur erupts throughout the room, pulsing in waves of concern. To their credit, none of the staff panic or dissolve into hysterics, though the palpable tension sits heavily on Mingyu's shoulders. He shares a sideways glance with Seungcheol as Queen Consort Hyeyoung says in a dangerously calm and even tone, "A perimeter search, if you will, Captain Jeon."

Wonwoo strides out of the room with a curt nod, still clutching the arrow in his hand. The remaining guards band closer towards the three of them left sitting frozen at the table. It makes Mingyu's chest constrict with snake-like fear, the kind that suffocates hope. Such a blatant threat, a direct attack. Mingyu and Seungcheol aren't the only ones left of the royal bloodline but they're certainly aware now of the bright red targets stamped upon their backs.

Queen Consort Hyeyoung clears her throat pointedly, and the maids, startled into action, bustle about using spells to gather the broken glass shards and dispose of them safely. A shield is put up across the empty frame in the meantime. The arrow must've been enchanted to break the protection on the window, powerful magic to counter the intensive safety measures woven into every single brick of the palace. It will take some time before a replacement is ready.

"Who would dare do something as bold as this?" Seungcheol asks in a low voice as Queen Consort Hyeyoung speaks to the guards. There's something almost like incredulity in his tone.

"I don't think they were acting alone," Mingyu murmurs back.

"Sounds like it has something to do with Father."

All this talk of an assassination plot has sapped Mingyu of his good mood, filling him with anxiety instead. But still he wonders, why? Whoever it was had both the resources and the opportunity to kill either of them in that moment, perhaps even both. So why go to the trouble of revealing themselves and their intentions in such a brazen manner?

Mingyu casts his gaze down at his half-eaten roll, regretful now that his appetite has entirely vanished. The honey has soaked into the bread and formed a golden sheen, but not even that enticing colour is enough to assuage the sick feeling in his stomach. He nudges the plate away with some reluctance.

"As I was saying," Queen Consort Hyeyoung begins in a slightly tense tone. "Prince Mingyu, what are your plans for the day?"

"I was... actually hoping to visit the city centre."

"Absolutely not."

Mingyu cannot say he wasn't expecting to get shot down immediately, but it does nothing to quell his disappointment. His dismay only deepens when Queen Consort Hyeyoung contemplates a total lockdown of the palace until the threat has been eliminated. If there's one thing he hates, it's being confined. The urge to protest is too compelling to push aside.

"My lady, we're playing right into their hands. Whoever was behind his, they want to create fear-"

"Prince Mingyu. Your safety is no trivial matter."

"I refuse to be afraid," Mingyu insists, all too aware of how stubborn he sounds, how he's playing a dangerous game with the line that marks defiance. "I will not stay shut up in the palace and wait for someone to kill me."

The warning Seungcheol gives him in the form of a kick under the table reminds him to keep his tongue in check, though he doesn't pay it much mind after that. He's not ready to back down on this just yet. Queen Consort Hyeyoung shows no indication of her thoughts except for a slight, almost imperceptible, flaring of her nostrils.

"Very well," she begins in a steely tone. "I don't doubt that you can take care of yourself, Prince Mingyu. But Captain Jeon will accompany you at all times, and I want a tracking spell bound to you."

Dissatisfied with these conditions, Mingyu clenches his jaw. He loathes the thought of being monitored at every step, but he recognises the immense leniency Queen Consort Hyeyoung is showing in allowing him out of the palace in the first place.

"Of course, my lady," Mingyu concedes quietly as he bows his head in respect. He's given a sunset curfew which he agrees to without any resistance; the idea of being out at night with a potential assassin in their midst is none too appealing. At that moment, Wonwoo returns with a steely expression.

"We weren't able to find anyone, Your Majesty," he reports, his deep voice tinged with frustration. "But we did catch a faint trace of magic. I've got someone looking into it."

"Thank you, Captain Jeon. I trust you will keep me informed. In the meantime, please accompany Prince Mingyu during his visit to the city centre."

The incredulous look that crosses over Wonwoo's face would be amusing if not for the tension still throttling the room.

//

"I'm beginning to get the impression that you are quite stubborn, Prince Mingyu," Wonwoo remarks dryly, leaning against the wall with his arms folded. "Foolishly so, one might even say."

Mingyu raises an eyebrow, but otherwise remains unaffected by the obvious bait.

"Think what you like about me, Captain Jeon," he shrugs even as the urge to retort does a tantalising dance at the forefront of his thoughts. He shoulders his satchel and sets off down the corridor without waiting for Wonwoo. The way that Wonwoo falls smoothly into step right beside him is something Mingyu will have to get used to.

"All I'm saying is that I don't think it's very wise for future King Mingyu to be so insistent on leaving the palace, especially when someone wants you dead."

"There won't be a problem as long as you do your job," Mingyu replies airily, shooting a sly sideways glance at Wonwoo. "Are you implying that you're incompetent, Captain Jeon?"

The sight of Wonwoo's face scrunching into a scowl might be the most satisfying thing Mingyu's seen all morning.

"Let me make this clear, I am your guard, not your mother-" Wonwoo begins in an irritated tone, but Mingyu stops walking and effectively cuts him off.

With narrowed eyes, Mingyu says, "I'd watch my tongue if I were you, Captain Jeon. I may tolerate the less than appropriate way you speak to me, but others certainly will not."

There is a moment in which Wonwoo holds his gaze firmly, expression unreadable. It's rather tense, and Mingyu finds himself unable to look away from those sharp eyes. Then, Wonwoo seems to relax a little.

"My apologies, Your Highness. I misspoke," he murmurs, and though Mingyu doubts its sincerity, it's better than nothing.

[erins-quinn]

“about the blogger” meme

thanks for the tag @currymanganese @cruciomione and @ashluvsu4ever (some tagged sydneys-adamu but that’s still me!! lol) this is late as hell but y’all are real cool! 🩷

star sign: scorpio! as far as all that other stuff like rising and moon and sun I’m not sure.

favorite holiday: I don’t have one but I’d have to say christmas for the food

last meal: chicken soup bc winter slapped me in the face now I’m sick

current favorite musician: don’t have one! I kinda hate music

last music listened to: “I know the end” by phoebe bridgers. doesn’t help my I hate music stance but that song is great so what I will do is put that song and just that song on repeat for months and not even touch anything else. I’ve also been listening to the parade revival bcr for months now.

last movie watched: blue beetle I think? and that was kind of a while ago. but great film! a lot better than I was expecting.

last tv show watched: besides just putting stuff on for noise im gonna say jury duty. an incredible watch you should consider if you haven’t already.

last book/fic finished: it was sydcarmy but I can’t remember the title. but it’s about their first fight in the cross over between whatevership and relationship and carmen gets sick and I’m also sick so!!

last book/fic abandoned: I mean I don’t read books, so that’s abandonment all on its own and if I abandon fics im not gonna publicize that lol.

currently reading: … not a book. and honestly idk basically besides re reading I’m currently reading most sydcarmy wips. I haven’t read for a different fandom since june lmao.

last thing researched for art/writing/hyper-fixation: I think “how to make a crochet coaster” I’m thinking about starting to sell and of course idk how to go about it but I figure actually making shit is a good start? who knows.

favorite online fandom memory: this isn’t a “fandom” per se (say? idk) but back in 2020-2021 I used to spend a lot of time on twitch and I got really attached to this one guy and his community. anyways I called a pop tart and a toaster strudel the same thing and got positively annihilated by the chat. twas very funny.

favorite old fandom you wish would drag you back in/have a resurgence: hmmm idk. for the sake of not having the same answer twice I’d say maybe cobra kai. I really miss loving that show and the ship I was attached to had meta that reminds me of sydcarmy. when the engagement was high it was really fun and if people suddenly decided to start caring again I’d go right back.

favorite thing you enjoy that never had an active or big “fandom” but you wish it did: american vandal!!! it’s less that I want it to have a big fandom because really who wants that and more I just wanted to know the show was appreciated, which it wasn’t :(

tempting project you’re trying to reign in/don’t have time for: I was almost roped into embroidery and punch needling and then I had to actually consider the fact that there’s no way I could commit to that. maybe one day tho.

if u see this pretend I tagged you and do it! :)

[marimbles]

From this ask game

The opening passage of The Legend of the Grimwalkers, chapter six, came unhelpfully to his mind:

As beings of both magic and decay, grimwalkers occupied a limbo-like plane of existence, treading the line between life and death, and as such were effectively untethered to witch- and demonkind. Some creators considered themselves a so-called ‘parent’ of their creation, but this was true only in the sense that an inventor is a ‘parent’ to his invention. In biological terms, a grimwalker’s ‘parentage’ may have been credited to any of the parts which comprised its whole. The most logical ‘parent’ was arguably the ortet who provided the genetic pattern for the clone. But even this definition cannot withstand scrutiny, for grimwalkers were, in reality, parentless from conception. They were orphans by nature, bondless and lonely, and any personal connections formed were but a wishful echo born from affection for the original ortet. They walked the earth like a living corpse—a phantom copy of the deceased in whose likeness they were made. For this reason were these creatures called ‘grimwalkers,’ for death clung to their every step.

He’d reread those words obsessively in those first days hiding out at Hexside, wearing out the pages with his dirty fingerprints. A terrible emptiness ate at his stomach, at the very marrow of his bones, and he feared he’d be swallowed up by the cavern of his own hollow chest (although maybe that was partially the result of eating nothing but Hex Mix for days). Flapjack nagged at him to stop—nipping his ears, tugging his hair—but Hunter couldn’t tear his eyes from the yellowed pages, each word stamped like ink into his brain, even now, months later.

If he was not himself, he’d asked, who was he? If he had no one, why should he exist at all? Why was he fighting so hard to live—running away, hiding out, cutting his own puppet strings and praying he still had the legs to stand? What was it all worth, if he was just a ghost? If he was the shadow of a stranger who’d been extinguished like a flame four hundred years ago?

(When he tried to spell out his reasons, all that came to him in answer was the sound of the human’s voice calling his name in the night and the last words that had lit up his lost scroll what felt like a lifetime ago: 49 weeks 🌻)

(He’d decided then that if grimwalkers really did tread the line between life and death—a very wobbly tightrope, in his recent experience—the side he would fall on was life, and he’d just have to brace himself for whatever kind of landing waited for him at the bottom.)

omg!! i'm surprised anyone did this game let alone for this fic! i kind of forgot about this fic tbh haha. but reading this is making it come back to me. i actually really like how this passage turned out so i'm flattered you chose it<3

so this is from ch. 2 of my (currently abandoned) toh wip i wanna tell you (but i don't know how). i started writing this fic after thanks to them aired, and the original idea was to lead up to a cathartic moment soon after they step through the portal, where hunter finally gets closure about the grimwalker thing and it's all addressed and out there and he feels this unconditional love and support from his found family. and i wanted to build up to that with these five moments of connection between hunter and each hex squad member, where he wants to tell them his big secret about being a grimwalker but chickens out. this is from the amity chapter.

writing about hunter and amity's dynamic was an interesting challenge for me because hunter's connections with luz, gus, and willow feel more obvious and more explored in the show. but he doesn't have as much of an individual friendship with amity that we see on screen. so i kept thinking about how they'd connect and how the subject of grimwalkers would come up, at least in hunter's mind, so he'd feel compelled to tell her about it before inevitably backing out. and i thought it was an interesting angle for them to connect over having a difficult relationship with their toxic parental figure who used them for their own selfish, evil purposes—odalia for amity and belos for hunter. and then with the subject of parents/family, hunter is painfully reminded that as a grimwalker, he doesn't actually have a family, and he remembers the existential crisis he went through when he first found out—the crisis he's still trying to work through.

i remember working so hard on that grimwalker book excerpt because i wanted it to feel sort of stilted and archaic, like an old textbook, but also have a certain ring of poetry to it—a haunting and kind of devastating ring. and i also wanted to bring up false assumptions about grimwalkers that hunter could eventually prove wrong about himself—that he isn't destined to be "bondless and lonely" forever, and that he's his own person, and that people can and do love him for himself, and that he isn't doomed or marked for death. that he can love and learn and grow like anyone else, no matter where he came from, and he can have a family of his own making even though he was born without one.

so while he's recalling his time hiding out at hexside obsessing over this idea of being a grimwalker, he's also remembering not just the devastation but the determination. and how he had this drive to fight for himself, and to forge his own path, even thought it was so scary. and how even then he'd begun to form these important connections that proved he was not alone—with luz, who reached out to him during the worst moment of his life, even knowing he was a "monster"; and with willow, who accepted him as part of her team and her friend group even after he made such a big mistake. (the "49 weeks" thing implying that they had regular text communication for a little while and that she was continuing to count down the time till they could see each other again, like how she mentioned in ASIAS as she was leaving that he had 52 weeks till his next day off). and then of course with gus, who's the one who found his hiding spot (although that part is brought up later in the chapter, not this excerpt). and then in the present, he is making a new connection with amity, and building more trust, to the point that he almost spills his secret. and while he's not quite brave enough at that point, he is gathering courage, because of his friends, so he can finally let himself fall off of that proverbial tightrope and trust that he'll fall on the right side and have a soft landing, because he has good people in his corner who will take care of him.

alright well that's my DVD commentary for this passage haha thanks for the question!!

[jujitto]

post snippets from 3 wips and 3 published fics!

( thank you Mattie @stealanity for the tag! I love and appreciate you so fucking much! And I hope you’re taking care of yourself! )

3 published fics:

𝟣. 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗒 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗎𝗍𝗈𝗋. 𝗅𝖾𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗎𝗇𝗀

This is one of my most recent one shots that I published like a month or two ago I think. It really just came to my mind because I already had it in the works and decided to just finish it because it’s been sitting in my drafts for way too long. And plus I really love it because it’s cute.

𝟤. 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝖾 𝗂´𝗆 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗒. 𝗃𝖾𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗎𝗇𝗁𝗈

One of my favorite one shots that I have written for Ateez since I’ve started writing for them. I know I shouldn’t pick favorites because it’s kind of like a parent picking their favorite child but I’m sorry this will always be my favorite one shot that I have written. It’s just so cute and feels very summery which was the season I posted it in.

This is also a fic I didn’t spend too much time on writing because I had an idea and I knew what I wanted to write so I just wrote it within a week or a few days. I’m not sure how many because it’s been so long since I’ve published it.

𝟥. 𝖿𝗈𝗈𝗅 𝗂𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾. 𝗄𝗂𝗆 𝗀𝗒𝗎𝗏𝗂𝗇

This is an another story I didn’t spend too much time on writing because I already had the idea in my mind. I wanted a cute idea for him because just the way he acted in Boys Planet really inspired me to write a story for him. The fact that he seems so sweet and just so innocent, I was like what why would he be like as a boyfriend and so I pictured him being loving, and yet clumsy, not really knowing how to show his love and always causing himself and his partner harm but innocently and clumsily. But this fic didn’t actually come out until after he had debuted in Zerobaseone, so it was kind of crazy. But anyway, I love this fic because it’s so cute which I love saying about everything.

3 WIPS :

𝟣. 𝗏𝖺𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝖾. 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗌𝖾𝗈𝗇𝗀𝗁𝗐𝖺

This story fic came to me when I was deep in thought. Sometimes I usually just get an idea and start writing it down so I don’t forget it. And this is one of those moments. I wanted something cute for him, but didn’t know what until this idea came to my mind. I’m not sure how long it will be but right now it’s currently 398 words. 😭

𝟤. 𝗉𝗈𝖾𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝗃𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗆

This is one of the stories I will be publishing during October of this year for spooky season. So this one will have it mentions of gore or murder but it’s just a fic. This was an idea that came to me because I was like I need a spooky idea because I haven’t started writing any of them so this was one of the first ones I thought of.

I’m not finished with it quite yet but when it’s done, I will be posting it on the first day of October. Also during the month of October, I’m not gonna be posting every single day but I’m going to keep up my schedule from how I was posting before I went to hiatus.

𝟥. 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗍𝗅𝖾𝖽. 𝗃𝖾𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗎𝗇𝗁𝗈

Another idea for Yunho. Because I just have really cute ideas for fics for him. Because he deserves it. I’m low-key competing with @hotteoki for Yunho lover. This is actually an idea that came to my mind and I just started writing because it’s a fucking cute idea. And I will be finishing it very soon because any Yunho projects I have are not getting abandoned. I’m sorry because I love him too much. 😊

𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗌 : @misokei @hannahhbahng @hotteoki @hsgwrld! @mochamvgz sorry for unwanted ones! I love you all and thank you again, Mattie for the tag!

[oh-great-authoress]

🌹🌹🌹tell me of your wips dear

@batmantaking-hobbits2gallifrey

Ohhhh, Elli, you do not know what you have asked for.

I now unleash Silmarillion-esque deep dives upon you!!!!

Three Roses, three WIPs…

So you will get information about three of my WIPs, and here we go!

I’m so happy to talk about these.

Benjamin Solo and the Shadow of Death

This is a Reylo and Gingerrose (Armitage Hux/Rose Tico) Grantchester/1950s AU where Ben and Armitage, formerly Kylo Ren and The General, the most feared enforcers of the Knights of Ren, are now Church of England priests after a St. Paul-esque come-to-Jesus moment.

However, their past is coming back to bite them in the ass, throwing a wrench, or rather, a spanner, into every aspect of their lives.

In this story, Rey is the vicarage’s industrious housekeeper, and Rose is the town mechanic’s daughter, a mechanic herself, while Ben is the Vicar and Armitage the Curate.

This story started as an imagine I sent to @galacticidiots, but then I couldn’t shake the idea, and it percolated for nearly two years, until I decided that, like Gandhi said, I had to “Be the change [I] wish to see in the world”, and write the darn thing.

This was/is a passion project for me, and there were moments that I was so worried I’d end up abandoning this story, but luckily, I’m stubborn as all heck, so I plowed on through months of writer’s block.

But despite all the frustration this story gave and still gives me, this story has also given me so much joy, especially when the scene bits (both for Armitage, actually) which I was so proud of and came up with in the two years where the idea lay percolating, made it in the story, which literally made me do a little happy dance in my chair.

Those bits would be the scene where Armitage gets engine oil on his shirt, and Rose tells him to take it off so that she can soak it in her family’s secret formula of stain remover (*snort* yeah, I went here), in this chapter, and the scene where Armitage kicks the town drunk’s ass after he shoves Rose to the ground, in this chapter.

And while this story is still very PG-13, at the end, this is going to be the steamiest thing I have ever written, with use of very, very tasteful fade-to-blacks.

I actually have one of the two fade-to-blacks written (it’s so romantic), with the other one a problem-for-future-Nadia, though the idea is nebulously present in the electric meat.

I am personally so proud of my characterization in this story, and I think that this story was key to my growth as a writer.

It forced me to stretch both my research skills, with the 1950s setting, and my writing skills, as it made me write scenes which I never thought I would ever be able to pull off.

And it still is stretching my writing skills, because I have some very tricky scenes to work through in the upcoming chapters, which will have elements that I do not think are my specialty.

But when this is over, this will be, I think, one of my most favorite stories I’ve written.

I’d like to think that this story has everything, with romance, action, snappy dialogue (I think this story has some of the best dialogue I’ve ever written), comedy, and drama.

(Divider via @delishlydelightfuldividers)

Okay, let me preface the next two WIPs with saying that I never thought I’d end up writing them.

But honestly?

I probably should have seen it coming.

Almost two months ago, I watched “Top Gun: Maverick”, and I absolutely loved it.

And I tried not to devolve into a hyperfixation, but… I just couldn’t.

I mean, for me, the movie had everything; found family feels, dysfunctional father-son road trip vibes, Pathetic™ men ready to be Blorbo-fied, action, comedy, and impressive visuals.

(Am I counting the shirtless beach dogfight football scene as part of the impressive visuals?

I’ll leave that up to you.)

And with me already being an aviation enthusiast, or avgeek, this was bound to happen.

Anyway, this stupid plane movie (affectionate) has had a chokehold on me for the last nearly two months, and I managed to keep it mostly tamped down here on the hellsite, because I was a little ashamed of how easily my brain plunged into a hyperfixation—hypocritical, I know, on the hyperfixation site—but now, the dam has burst, and I’m just going to own it from here on out.

These stories will not make sense at all if you haven’t seen the movie, so here’s the link to the Wikipedia page, so you can get an idea of what I’m talking about.

I also highly recommend looking on YouTube for clips of the movie, because… okay, yeah, I’m trying to drag you down with me, I’ll be honest.

(Sharing is caring?)

So here we have two of my Top Gun: Maverick WIPs…

Prank War

This is the tentative synopsis: “It was getting a little bit chummy here at NAS North Island, so Jake had a genius idea.”

Basically, Jake “Hangman” Seresin, reformed jerk extraordinaire, has the genius idea to start a prank war between him and Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw, which does not go well at all.

One thing leads to another, and someone ends up strung up by the Naval Air Station’s flagpole, in a coup de grace.

This is pure crack, and even I burst into laughter when I read my own opening scene, because it’s just so hilarious, and, in my opinion, perfectly in character.

Here’s the opening scene:

(Warning: a little cursey)

“Fuck my life.

Fuck my fucking life,” Vice Admiral Beau “Cyclone” Simpson muttered to himself, as he stared at the report before him in despair.

“Become an Admiral, they said—it’ll be fun, they said,” he continued, aware he was sounding like he was a few screws short of an F-18.

But in his opinion, it was completely acceptable—he had to get it out somehow.

“You’ll just have to sign a few things here and there, but you’ll be able to have more time to yourself.

Meanwhile, I’m here, dealing with fucking infants when I could’ve been flying still, exactly like Maverick.

Well—maybe not exactly like Maverick, I have some sense of self-preservation—but anyway.

‘Best aviators the US Navy has to offer’, my ass—more like two-year-olds, all of them.”

From there, we flashback to all the pranks, until we end up back with Admiral Simpson.

I still, sadly, have to figure out how to properly end it, but I’m still waiting to finish my Grantchester/1950s AU to really work on this and the next story anyway, so I’m not rushing myself…

Finally, the piece I am most excited and embarrassed to talk about:

What Am I Doing

That’s literally the working title, because I was working on Benjamin Solo and the Shadow of Death, when this idea barged in like this:

So thusly the name.

I am actually actively trying to come up with an actual title for this that is not borne out of my frustration at myself for acquiring another WIP.

However, the subtitle, which is actually going to be put on the fic title or the synopsis, is: “It’s the Great Karmic Bitchslap, Jake Seresin!”

Which is a play on “It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown”.

I honestly have no idea how I ended up with this, but I think, to my knowledge, it was born out of a desire (as these things often are) to torture and torment Jake Seresin.

Because, other than Bradley, and Maverick, to some extent, we don’t know anything about the families of the other pilots of Dagger Squadron.

So I thought, what if Jake had a twin sister?

And what if she ends up falling in love with Bradley Bradshaw?

“Jake would absolutely hate that,” I thought. “I love it.”

But since I’m not entirely heartless, I give Jake his very own romance plot, with Natasha “Phoenix” Trace.

(Hannix shippers, this one’s for you)

So, here’s the plot.

In the middle of the night, Jake wakes up to a call from base gate security: it’s his older twin sister, Anastasia, and his nephew, Lucas.

They’re on the run from Anastasia’s ex-husband, whom she divorced and had her marriage annulled a year ago.

However, her ex is an A-grade crazy psycho, who stalks and follows her and her son no matter where they go.

So she goes to her brother, figuring that since he lives on base, she and her son would be safe.

Here, she meets Maverick and the rest of Dagger Squadron (now a permanent squadron based out of North Island, thanks to the success of the uranium mission), including one Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw.

Circumstance then throws the two even further together when a regulation indicates that she and Lucas cannot stay with Jake.

(Hand wavey contrivance, I know)

So out of the goodness of his heart, Maverick offers to put up the mother and son at his large house behind his hangar (which is widely accepted fanon, since we did not see anything of the sort in the movie), which is sort of off the grid, where—wouldn’t you know it—Bradley is also living, so he and Mav can spend more time together; after all, they have fifteen years to make up for.

Bradley and Anastasia soon grow close, much to her brother’s chagrin, all while Natasha is laughing her head off, as she fills in as said brother’s voice of reason, because this is karmic justice for all the women Jake’s picked up in bars.

There’s a scene I wrote last week which I am already in LOVE with, and I—it’s just so sweet and romantic—it’s EVERYTHING.

I couldn’t even believe my luck when I remembered the PERFECT song for said scene—I mean, the lyrics are just EXACTLY what the scene needed, and the lyrics are just SPOT-ON.

I tell you, it felt/feels inspired.

And I am so grateful that I know/grew up listening to old songs, because this song would never have occurred to me otherwise.

Some background on this scene: it’s the day of the Navy Gala, and Anastasia is supposed to go as her brother’s plus one, she even bought a dress and everything.

But then, just before she was going to get ready, her son had an accident and broke his arm, which meant that she had to take him to the hospital, and she was unable to go.

(Which will end up being good for Jake and Natasha)

This scene takes place at the end of the night, after Bradley returns home.

(I have yet to decide if Mav and Bradley will go home at the same time.)

As a side note, Bradley will be wearing dress whites, not blues, because… well, just because, “cover” is the fancy military term for the uniform cap, and I see Anastasia, or, as Bradley calls her, Ana, as Leelee Sobieski in my head.

Here’s the scene:

(Warning: 100% fluff)

“How’s Lucas?” Bradley asked, setting his cover onto the kitchen island.

“He’s sleeping—they gave him the good stuff at the hospital.

Thanks for asking.”

He nodded. “That’s good.”

“How was the gala?”

He cringed slightly. “Ehh—the usual—lots of boring self-congratulatory speeches before we get to what people actually came for; the open bar and the free food.”

“Was it any good?”

“Yeah, it always is, though I think it’s pretty hard to screw up pasta.”

“You’d be surprised,” Ana smiled.

“Jake?”

“Me, actually, the first time I tried to cook spaghetti and meatballs.”

He frowned, “I don’t believe that, you’ve been spoiling Mav and me the whole time you’ve been here.”

“Believe it, Lieutenant.”

Something almost vaguely familiar briefly clouded his expression, before it cleared, and he continued, “Yeah, anyway, the food was good, though it wasn’t a patch on what you dish out, and… Jake missed you, said he was hoping the two of you could’ve had a night out.”

“Jake, huh?”

Bradley rubbed the back of his neck, “Yeah, he pissed Nat off enough to make her drag him to the dance floor herself.”

Ana looked down, her hair falling into her face, “To be honest, I was actually hoping to go tonight.

It’s been… a while since I went to a party.”

“Gala, actually—the Navy’s quite particular about not calling it a party.

Got to be respectable and all that,” he grinned.

“Oh, sorry—gala,” she laughed. “Anyway, it would’ve been nice to dress up, and—” she sighed, “this is going to sound so stupid.”

“Tell me anyway?” he earnestly asked.

“I… I’m feeling bad that I wasted all that money on a dress I didn’t even end up wearing, and—God—I wanted to dance.”

Ana looked down embarrassedly, running a hand through her hair.

“That’s not stupid.

That’s normal.”

She looked up at him, a little startled.

Bradley worried his lower lip between his teeth before she saw an idea literally occur to him, the only thing missing, the lightbulb over his head. “It doesn’t have to be wasted.

Go put that dress on, and meet me down here.”

“What are you planning, Bradley?” Ana shook her head.

“Since you couldn’t go to the Navy Gala, the Navy Gala comes to you.”

An incredulous gasp escaped her. “You going to ask me to dance, Lieutenant Bradshaw?” she asked, a stupid smile on her lips, tears in her eyes.

“Well, I am still in uniform, and… yeah, I am.”

“Are you sure?”

“Go—I’ll be waiting,” he nodded encouragingly.

She couldn’t keep the smile from widening to a grin as she went upstairs, pulling the box from the dresser.

She quickly washed her face, before putting on mascara and lipstick, and slipping into the dress.

When she looked in the mirror, even though she wasn’t wearing anything close to the full makeup look she had planned to if she’d gotten to go to the gala, she felt beautiful in a way she hadn’t in a very long time, and tears threatened, but she ruthlessly pushed them back, as she gathered her hair into a loose bun, and stepped into her well-worn black heels.

She crept out of her room and made her way downstairs, where, true to his word, Bradley was waiting, at the foot of the stairs, cover tucked under his right arm, looking every inch the dashing naval aviator and officer he was, in his dress whites.

He looked up at the sound of her heels on the stairs, and an awed expression came over his face.

“Wow,” he breathed when she was a step away from him. “You look amazing.”

Ana sheepishly smoothed the deep green silk with her palms, as she stepped down the final step. “The makeup and hair’s not what I was planning for tonight if I got to go, but I didn’t want to keep you waiting too long.”

“I’d have waited if you wanted to do all that.”

Ana’s jaw slacked a bit, and he continued, “But you—you look stunning.”

“Thank you,” she replied.

Bradley offered his arm, with a “Shall we?”

She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, and they moved out to the backyard, Bradley even bothering to wear his cover for the short walk to the pergola a ways from the back door.

“I’m going to be the envy of everyone at the gala,” he proudly murmured as they walked.

“It’s only the two of us,” Ana shook her head.

“Still,” he breathed, with an honesty she hadn’t heard from a man in years.

Once they were under the string lights, he stepped away from her to place his cover on the patio table which had been pushed to the side, along with the chairs, to create a makeshift dance floor.

Bradley pulled his phone out from his pocket and fiddled with it for a beat, looking for something.

Eventually, he found what he was searching for, and with a final tap, he set the device down beside his cover.

The strains of Orleans’ “Dance With Me” filled the air, and Ana smiled for what felt like the thousandth time that night.

He turned to her, hand extended. “Will you do me the honor of this dance, Miss Seresin?”

“I will, Lieutenant Bradshaw.”

She placed her hand in his, and he took her in his arms, as they began to sway slowly on the floor.

I still have to write basically 98% of this story, but this scene, and a couple of other bits and pieces, including the opening scene, and Bradley’s first glimpse of Anastasia, are written out.

However, while I always tend to give myself room to change things, I am absolutely certain that this dance scene is going to make its way into the final product hook or by crook, darn it.

It’s just… GAH, I love this scene so much.

I was grinning like an idiot while I wrote it, and I still do, when I read it.

I’m truly sorry if that comes off as narcissistic, I just—AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the look into my WIP folder, and all the word-vomit, Elli!!!

Thank you and God bless you if you managed to read all this, truly—I know it’s a LOT!!!

[neriak-at-night]

Hey this is the THIRD TIME I'm sending this so if I'm spamming your inbox I'm so so sorry.

For the WIP ask....... BotW/Lizalfos.........

Surprisingly, I’ve actually gotten asks from a couple people already! Aaaaaaand, of course, they’re both for the obvious monsterfucking fic. Why am I even surprised?

CW: Non-Con, Drugged Sex, Monsterfucking, Oviposition

This concept was directly inspired by a fic I stumbled across a few months ago when I did a blanket search for Explicit fics in the Legend of Zelda fandom. It was my first introduction to the oviposition kink and it  a w a k e n e d  something in me. Here’s the link, if anybody would like to check it out:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/35658208

I haven’t gotten past the “jotting down notes” stage yet, but the rough idea is that Link, who is AFAB, has no memory of the… unusual… threat posed by lizalfos and he has an… unfortunate… encounter with the two lizalfos swimming in the river separating the two sides of Dueling Peaks.

I’m running with a slightly different take on the lizalfos here than in the inspiring fic, giving them a neurotoxin in their saliva that paralyzes their prey if enough gets absorbed by their skin. (That tongue flicking attack? Yeah. That’s what’s going on there.) Lizalfos usually just hunt small mammals for food, but female lizalfos that are egg-heavy will occasionally target larger female mammals (like Hylians) for breeding purposes, depositing their eggs inside while the victim is paralyzed and fully aware.

The purpose of this is genetic diversity. The eggs are laid inside of what is essentially a mobile incubator, which is affected by hormones secreted by the eggs (or something), kind of like the sex pollen trope, but, internal?? Anyway, the lizalfos releases the egg-filled victim, who wanders off in a mental haze, not really knowing what they’re doing, reduced to primal urges, until they stumble across a male lizalfos, which will breed them again to fertilize the eggs.

Victims are protected during their dazed wanderings by pheromones the female lizalfos sprays on them to deter other predators. Basically, they’ll smell like meat that’s gone bad. This scent will also help attract male lizalfos to them.

I haven’t really decided what happens yet after the lizalfos eggs are fertilized. Options range from the male lizalfos abandoning the victim (who expels the eggs somewhere, regains their senses, and returns to their life) all the way to… well… CW: Gore, MCD… a messy end where the eggs hatch inside the victim and the hatchlings eat their way out. It might not even matter, I could just leave it open ended.

The reason I wanted a two part breeding process is because of how vulnerable it makes the victim while they’re wandering. Hylians don’t have sensitive enough olfactory senses to detect the pheromones, but predatory Hylians can still spot a vulnerable one a mile away, and, well, no matter what, things are not going to go well for Link.

[ifbeumont]

Indefinite Hiatus Announcement

Hello, everyone! As you've all noticed, I've been inactive for the past few weeks. That's because I've actually lost interest in continuing to work on 'Terrors in Baskerville Academy'. For the past few months, I've been dissatisfied with the writing process. Since the setting of the story is limited to the academy, I felt very restricted while writing. Every chapter seemed to be repetitive: waking up the students, going to breakfast, going to class, talk with the characters, and then go out at night to break some rules. In the end, I realized that the way this game was going wasn't entertaining to write at all.

Moreover, I wasn't satisfied with some elements in the game as well, like the romance and friendship system. I kept thinking that I wanted to rewrite this and that, until it came to the point where I completely lost interest in the story while writing.

A week ago, I tried to continue writing but I just couldn't find it in myself to continue writing. While I like the plot and characters in 'Terrors in Baskerville Academy', I felt like I was only forcing myself to continue writing just for the sake of finishing it. At first, I tried to persevere, but in the past few days, I've just lost the will to write about 'Terrors in Baskerville Academy'.

Because of this, I've decided to stop working on this game. This is not a temporary hiatus, but an indefinite one. If I were to actually work on 'Terrors in Baskerville Academy' again, I would definitely rewrite many aspects of it, but I don't expect to return to this project at all.

I'm really sorry to everyone that supported this WIP, however. Many of you have devoted their time to supporting this WIP, sending me asks, and even making some fan content. I really had fun while writing this WIP in its early stages, answering your asks (especially the debate ones haha), and interacting with you guys.

This won't be the last time you'll see me though. I'm already working on another WIP, the second project I talked about in a previous ask, of which I am actually having fun writing. I'll be posting it in the forums when I've finished three chapters. I really don't expect you guys to continue supporting me on this considering I don't really have a great track record for WIPs but I hope we can meet in the forums again in another WIP post haha.

Overall, this WIP project was a nice experience for a newbie like me. At first, I didn't even know how to use quicktest to check for bugs, but I'm decent in coding in ChoiceScript now. Because of this WIP, I learned what to do and what not to do, so I actually view this experience as a positive one for my writing journey.

Again, sorry to everyone for abandoning this WIP. Likewise, thank you all for this experience! This was the first time I received this much support for my writing and I don't plan to just abandon you guys after one failed WIP. See you all in my next WIP!

[confinesofmy]

a few days ago i asked “hey does anyone want to read the semi-organised scraps of my abandoned wip where kendall overdosed in early season two, had a really bad series of seizures, and basically got thrown into a new york penthouse “for his own good” to “heal” “away from public scrutiny” but then just stayed there, trapped, until his dad died and his siblings discovered that he wasn’t in a catatonic state in some facility upstate like they thought but instead, like, in solitary confinement on the upper west side in a stripped out apartment with no way of contacting the outside world?” 

well, here it is.  🙈

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there are content warnings sprinkled here and there but for the most part this is exactly what it says on the tin. i thought it was too bleak to continue writing or put on ao3 but however bleak you’re imagining it from the description is probably just about right. it’s not that bad.

thanks everyone who said they were interested in reading, btw! i hope you enjoy.

okay, so, i waffled on... pretty much every facet of this, all the time. almost everything i publish contains 200 secret AUs that no one ever sees but me, so this is going to read like a fever dream, maybe? there will be endless contradictions.

i've actually never shown anyone an unpolished piece of fiction writing outside of creative writing "drafts" in school that i reverse-engineered from finished works to make it look like i was doing drafts the way my teachers wanted me to. so in lieu of any known standard of formatting for this, it'll be notes first, then fic fragments, but feel free to skip around obviously. including the notes is probably a completely unnecessary intimacy on my part but they inform the writing immensely so i don't feel like this sprawl is complete without them.

notes wordcount: 1,628 fic fragments wordcount: 6,482

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NOTES

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disclaimer for the viewers at home: any medical stuff about status epilepticus and the treatment plans is heavily researched but that does not mean it's accurate, both bc i'm no expert and bc kendall's care is open to manipulation. by that i mean that if logan wants him to stay on benzos forever then that's something he can make happen and something that would be communicated to kendall as necessary, even if it isn't. but i feel obligated to say some quick (ish? not really, sorry) things about status epilepticus just so you have a frame of reference for it outside of the context of fiction.

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so, status epilepticus is a seizure lasting longer than 5 minutes or a series of seizures that occur too close together to allow adequate recovery between. it is most common in children and elderly populations and has a vast variety of causes. in kendall's case, his generalised tonic-clonic SE is caused by snorting too much park coke (cocaine insufflation specifically is actually v unlikely to cause SE but oh well) and i think it probably lasted less than an hour total, which sounds long but for SE it really isn't.

the main factor in recovery from SE is etiology. if SE is a symptom of something more serious, like a brain tumour or an infection or drug-resistant epilepsy, you're obviously more likely to have a worse time recovering. in kendall's case, his GTCSE is coke-induced, and he's 39 and in good health, so realistically, 6 months down the line he probably wouldn't have the lingering symptoms he's implied to have in this narrative premise, from what i understand.

something that i waffled on was making his GTCSE refractory (drug-resistant). this complicates treatment during the continuing seizure/s, which in turn complicates outcome and recovery, and could explain kendall experiencing lingering neurological symptoms like speech apraxia, chronic headaches, personality changes, etc. it was at about this point in my research that i realised i was getting a little too bogged down in neurology and decided to leave it up in the air, which is very annoying after that much research. but regardless, i settled on: maybe kendall's lingering symptoms are neurological, maybe they're psychological, who knows.

another specific point of contention was kendall's speech patterns, during and after recovery. i did a bit of research into acquired apraxia of speech to help me write accurate speech patterns but the whole topic became this kind of no man's land. if his GTCSE, refractory or otherwise, caused a traumatic brain injury, that could manifest as, like, anything. if i could only research one more topic for the rest of my life, it would probably be TBIs simply because the sky's the limit on how their symptoms can manifest. so once again, psycho, neuro, it's both, it's neither, who knows. i hesitantly decided his speech difficulties would be one (or two or three) of like ten categories of speech dysfunction but honestly never did quite settle it.

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for point of reference, i think this might be the penthouse apartment that i reference in this fic except in my fic it has balconies. trying to find the perfect apartment in new york w a budget of 100 gazillion dollars is like, weirdly difficult. strange city.

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also the short conservatorship comments in the notes are only somewhat researched but if there's one thing we learned from the free br*tney situation it's that conservatorships' rules are often open to wild interpretation in reality, as well. :(

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all! that! aside! here's the original notes.

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content warnings for abuse, isolation, substance abuse, basically everything you'd expect but also some descriptions of really distasteful twitter-variety ableism re: seizures

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Okay so Kendall is basically abducted and imprisoned by his dad who takes advantage of Kendall's isolation to enact cruelties upon him. Things are very bad for Kendall.

Eventually the family finds out where he's been the whole time. This coincides with his father's... Death, probably?

Someone new takes over his conservatorship. Kendall has to relearn how to be a person.

He's okay. Presumably his conservatorship ends but then again maybe not.

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48 hours in Icelandic rehab. A few days of helping out daddy. He gets fucked up before an event and winds up experiencing a series of seizures in public.

He wakes up in the hospital in bad shape, experiencing coke withdrawal and neurologically out of sorts. A doctor tells him his dad's setting something up and he'll be able to leave soon.

He's transferred to the apartment. Insert bad times here. His dad occasionally visits and is sometimes physically abusive. He mostly recovers from the seizures but thinks some things will never be the same.

Maybe his dad dies? His siblings find him. They tell him they had been told he was in a coma or that he was in some facility unsuccessfully relearning how to, like, breathe and blink.

His guardianship and conservatorship are either A.) nullified now that Logan is dead because he refused to name a beneficiary to it and had Kendall's doctor doing assessments every 90 days with instructions to stop approving the guardianship if Logan were to ever lose control.

B.) He is inherited by a family member who claims to want him emancipated but sabotages the court case so they can keep him under their thumb. Or maybe they do emancipate him. Or maybe they don't, but it's not a control thing, it's a genuine act of caring.

C.) He gets a public guardian who encourages him to seek emancipation or, alternatively, is just a neutral public servant who truly wants to accommodate his needs.

D.) Nullified bc Logan paid lawyers in advance to bail Kendall out ASAP if Logan isn't the conservator anymore.

Whatever the case, Logan's dead. Kendall's not going to be getting any more visits from him. Kendall's allowed to go outside when he wants. He's allowed to buy things from stores. He can go out to eat. He can talk with people he knows on the phone or in person.

Recovering from his seizures was a long and difficult process but recovering from his year/s? in the apartment isn't going to be much easier.

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The day of the party it's probably been about 10 days since Kendall did the manslaughter.

The partygoers who witness/record Kendall's seizures don't actually know who he is, so most of the original videos hit the web as like "guy has seizure at nyc houseparty" and like a snapchat of Kendall seizing and then the phone slowly panning to a guy making kind of the 😳 face or maybe like a tiktok of Kendall seizing with the "he need some milk" audio

The videos go kind of viral, at least viral enough that there are hundreds of permutations of them out there. A caramelldansen remix, memes galore. Kendall's identity is leaked in the early stages of it going viral, before the PR teams had identified the videos, so the main spike comes from Kendall-specific memes like a remix of the Iceland interview: "I saw their plan, dad's plan was better b-b-better dad's plan was better" interspersed with clips of him convulsing at the party.

Meanwhile, Kendall's drifting in and out of consciousness, completely out of it when he is awake, his level of possible neurological damage completely up in the air.

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Oh btw Greg puts him in the recovery position against his kitchen bar while he's convulsing and he 100% dislocates his fucking shoulder because of that.

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New York Presbyterian

Neurological screening exam, blood tests, toxicology screening, an EEG, lorazepam 4mg 2 or 3 times, then levetiracetam after the seizures cease. Continuing levetiracetam prescription after, but probably not as a medical necessity.

40 minute long seizure, continuous video EEG for 24 hours, first MRI after the seizure stopped, a second (third?) three days after

Speech language pathologist, maybe assistive tech like a pecs board. Neurologist. Physical therapist?

Immediate after-effects exhaustion, headaches, vomiting, light and noise sensitivity, memory loss short term and long term, difficulty reading and thinking and speaking, confusion, mystery bruises, achiness, personality changes,

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It's honestly easier to list Kendall's privileges than to list all his limitations of freedom.

He's allowed to go to the bathroom by himself, usually.

He's allowed to bathe by himself, usually, but if he takes too long someone's coming in to fetch him. He's no longer allowed to sit in the shower for hours like he sometimes had at first.

He's allowed to feed himself and is allowed to use a spoon and fork with supervision.

He's allowed to sleep with no direct supervision for the most part. Random check-ins happen but they're sporadic.

He's more or less allowed to choose a room to be in during waking hours.

He's allowed to read the books that are in the apartment.

He's allowed to get food out of the fridge so long as it's not an unhealthy interest. He can get a snack but he's not allowed to binge.

He's allowed to request groceries and he's allowed to request meals. Doesn't mean he'll get them.

He's allowed to ask for non-food items but it's a rare thing to actually get approval on those. Books are the most likely to get approved.

He's allowed to ask permission to make supervised phone calls to certain people and private calls to Logan.

He's allowed to wear a watch that he asked for early on, the only signifier of the passage of time aside from the location of the sun and the staff changing.

He's allowed to choose his own clothes. This list is short enough that I guess that bears mention.

He's allowed to work out in the at-home gym after he finds out that it exists but his handler can make him stop if it seems inappropriate.

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FIC FRAGMENTS

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1.

In his new apartment, Kendall is closer to the household staff than he's ever been before.

It's not real closeness. He's not friends with them, he doesn't really talk with them, not like friends talk. But they're the only human faces that he sees, other than his father's. They come and go on their own schedules, something he's not yet allowed to do, and they bring him things from the outside world.

For the first time since childhood, Kendall really takes a moment to consider himself from the help's perspective. His forced house arrest, his quiet despondency, his one and only visitor.

These people, some of whom live with him in the apartment, some of whom he's never quite learned the names of, know things about him and his father that would make headlines for weeks. They have to, as close to it all as they are.

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2.

After a couple of days of doing his little song and dance to support daddy and prevent a hostile takeover, Kendall, seeing no end in sight, descends into a huge bender.

He killed a guy, he relapsed, his ex-wife doesn't want him around his kids for a while, he lost all leverage he had against his dad, he let Stewy down. He feels hollowed out and empty, a puppet with his dad's hand up his ass. So why not do all the drugs he can get his hands on? What's it matter at this point?

He winds up experiencing a major medical event in front of a bunch of people and needing to be hospitalised both to recover and to detox. After that, instead of going back to lifelessly working for daddy while trying to find his way into a medical coma, it is determined it would be for the best if Kendall just disappeared for a little while, just so he won't embarrass the family any further.

The place he's sent isn't rehab. And it's not really an institution either. He does not have the words to describe it.

He's not allowed to choose anything. He's not allowed to be completely alone in the kitchen. It's rare to be left alone in the den. If he spends too much time in the shower, first someone knocks and then, if he doesn't come out, they unlock the door and pull him out. Not unkindly. It's all very clinical, routine. Like he's a child who can't be unsupervised or he'll get into trouble.

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He thinks there might be cameras.

He sneaks into the kitchen one day to make a fruit plate, managing to avoid the attention of that day's minder. After he's done slicing some strawberries he finds himself looking at the knife, the little flecks of flesh and the red stains lingering behind. He's not sure how long he looks at it before quietly washing it and returning it to its place.

The next day, it's gone, along with the entire knife block. The next time he opens the cutlery drawer, he discovers the butter knives have also disappeared. The man who was watching him that day is also gone and Kendall never sees him again.

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He has to ask permission to use the phone. Then usually the person he's asking has to ask someone higher up, maybe then they also have to ask someone higher up. Kendall is beneath them. Kendall is beneath everyone.

When he gets permission, maybe half the time (and he starts asking less and less), the number is dialled for him. The first time he had been knocked so off-kilter by having to wait for permission that when the other person picked up he didn't know what to say and ended the call.

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3.

He gets visits from a lifestyle coach and a masseuse every week. He thinks they might think he's people, at first.

Their first visits were both a surprise, a simple, "Kendall, the lifestyle coach is here," was his first awareness. He'd spent the morning in a dull haze sitting silently on the couch after he'd finished the breakfast he'd been given.

The lifestyle coach, Pete, knew his name already and seemed to be under the impression that Kendall was looking to fulfill a fitness goal after a health scare. He asked Kendall questions about his diet and exercise levels, Kendall half-heartedly answering that he's been having difficulty eating and that he used to exercise more.

From there, they move on to abstract questions that Kendall doesn't know how to answer. "What are you looking to get out of this experience?" is the first.

"Uh. H-has anyone talked to you? Any of my, the team?"

"I got your intake form so I know you're interested in maintaining a healthy diet and exercise level and I know we'll be doing some physical therapy with your shoulder but I was wondering if you had any other specifics in mind? Anything you'd like to prioritise?"

Kendall blinks slowly. He thinks this might be the first real human conversation he's had in weeks. The first conversation where the other person doesn't know that he's broken. He barely knows how to navigate it.

"N-no, just that... Will be fine."

Pete looks him over, takes in his hunched shoulders, his downcast eyes, his hands gripping the couch cushions on either side of him.

"Okay. So Kendall, tell me a bit about yourself. What are you into?"

Kendall thinks about making some shit up but he's too tired to lie directly. He barely has the energy to speak at all. His mind slips around, trying to find something, anything.

"I used to like listening to m-music. Hip-hop. Uh, and rap," he says. He had kind of hoped more words would come after that but he couldn't think of any so he just closed his mouth.

"Oh cool, that'll be good for workouts," Pete says and smiles encouragingly in a way that Kendall would've found condescending before but now finds genuinely comforting.

"Yeah, I guess," Kendall mumbles, averting his gaze to the carpet. He hasn't had his phone since he was at the hospital and doesn't think he'll ever see it again. There aren't any TVs or computers in the apartment either. He's not really allowed to listen to music.

Pete must get that Kendall's not going to do any better with more questions because he stands up and says, "Alright, great. So do you wanna show me your gym?"

Kendall didn't know there was a gym. He looks to the guard posted by the door, trying to communicate that, and is thankful when the guard turns, purposefully walking down the hall. If Pete notices, he doesn't comment.

When they reach the gym, Pete requests that Kendall do some range of motion exercises so he can take a look at what he's working with. The first one is just standing.

"So does your back hurt?" Pete asks casually.

"Sometimes." Kendall answers. He hasn't really thought about it.

Pete steps forward and asks, "Can I touch you?" clearly expecting a quick answer right before he does. He freezes awkwardly when he doesn't get it.

"Oh. Uh, yeah." Kendall answers after a couple of beats.

"So, it was your right shoulder, yeah?" Pete places one hand on Kendall's right scapula and the other on his right delt, cupping the muscles carefully. Kendall sucks in a sharp breath, feeling unpleasant sparks of sensation where Pete's hands rest.

After a short pause, Pete continues. "So aside from a little bit of remaining joint instability, you're also keeping your shoulders rounded and what this is doing is putting a lot of stress on your joints and muscles and in the short term that causes shoulder and back pain, which leads to the muscles tightening up further. It's kind of a self-perpetuating problem. Today's bad posture becomes tomorrow's injury. Add in that a dislocation makes you vulnerable to more dislocations and you've got a real problem here." As he speaks his hand dances up and down Kendall's back, tracing muscles from the small of his back to his shoulder and above. Kendall feels like he's going to jump out of his skin but tries not to show it.

"This is where your shoulder should be," Pete says, gently manipulating Kendall's arm up and back, then adjusting his elbow to line up with his shoulder. "Does that feel better or worse?"

It feels like Kendall's at a meeting. Or at a gala. It feels like he's showing off for his dad, trying to be as tall as he can make himself but it's not tall enough. His eyes sting with tears and he tries to blink them away before Pete can notice.

"It feels fine," he croaks.

"That's good. That's a really good sign," Pete pats his shoulder lightly and then thankfully backs off.

From there they do more range of motion exercises, Pete occasionally correcting Kendall's form and pointing out areas they can work on. It's been years since Kendall's had a trainer and he finds the whole thing unexpectedly overwhelming. No one's paid this much direct attention to him in... Maybe months, actually.

Pete guides him through a few strength reps, taking note of his strengths and weaknesses and then hands him a bottle of water and tells him he can stop for the day. Kendall starts drinking just to have something to do.

"Alright so I think weekly appointments are going to work out perfect with your current fitness level. I'll email you some exercises I want you to do before our next appointment and in the meantime I want you to keep me up to date on how you're feeling, we don't wanna move too fast, okay?"

Kendall nods, unsure how much any of that is going to apply to him when he's not allowed to call people on the phone without permission.

Pete also gives him a food guide printout to follow, telling him to modify it however he needs so long as he eats.

"You're going to be building some muscle so your eating needs to reflect that. You said earlier that you've been having some trouble with eating so really I'd say just try your best to eat whatever you feel like you can. If it's healthy that's a bonus, if it's not that's okay."

Kendall nods again and murmurs his agreement but is once again thinking about the contrast between the level of control over his own life that Pete thinks he has versus the amount he really has. He guesses he could tell him, surely Pete's going to have to sign an NDA anyway. But then wouldn't he be just another person who treats Kendall like a zoo animal? Maybe it would be easier that way.

"You did good today," Pete's voice breaks through his thoughts. "We're gonna have you back in shape in no time."

The compliment hits way too hard, sending a thrill through him that he ignores entirely. "Thank you," he says gruffly.

"Anytime. See you next week, dude."

And with that, Pete's gone, and Kendall's back to finding a nice spot to look at on the wall until someone makes him stop.

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4.

content warnings: suicidal ideation, and like. light incest. (kendall gets an inappropriate erection. :/ )

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Here's a thought. Maybe Kendall thinks it's for his own good. Maybe he's grateful that even now, when he's tried to kill his dad and ruin everything, when he's fucked himself up so bad that he can barely even string words together, that his dad is still willing to take care of him.

He's placed in the apartment and notices that he's never left completely alone and he thinks that it's probably safer, that there's someone watching him to keep him from hurting himself any further. He notices the lack of sharp objects and that no one ever gives him his phone back so he can't call anyone to get him drugs, notices that there isn't any alcohol in the apartment. The doors to the balconies and the elevators are locked at all times and he isn't given keys. He thinks about the care in such gestures, that his dad's going to help keep him in line no matter what.

He can't leave and maybe that should frighten him but he imagines what leaving would look like. His shaky hands and his stuttering speech, embarrassing his family by simply existing where people can see him. There's no real reason for him to leave anyway, he's burned bridges with everyone at this point and he's afraid of what he might try if he did get loose. Best case scenario he'd go to Waystar but it's not like he can work, not like this.

He's been wanting to die since the moment he pulled himself out of the water and clawed his way up the riverbank but now when he's come closer to death than ever before his dad has rescued him and told him to live. This is probably the kindest thing his father's ever done for him.

Every morning when he's gently awakened to be brought to the kitchen island to sit until he finishes eating, he thinks of it as his father encouraging him. During his physical therapy sessions when he's sweating and panting and nearly crying from pain. During his speech pathology appointments when his stutter is unignorable he clings to the fact that his dad thinks he's worth the trouble of fixing.

When his dad finally comes to visit for the first time he finds it all boiling over and he almost runs to his dad to hug him, murmuring "thank you, dad" again and again with barely any mistakes because he's put so much preparation into finally having this moment. He feels arms wrapping around his back and he starts crying, sobbing, and his dad holds him through it and presses a kiss to his temple and he thinks he's never felt so loved.

His dad's visits are infrequent but treasured. Kendall doesn't really know why he visits at all but he always tries to tell his dad about all his recent progress, words sometimes muddled or halting. Unlike when he was little, his dad doesn't get mad at him for his stutter now, he just listens and occasionally murmurs encouragements. Before he leaves they always hug and after the first time Kendall doesn't cry anymore he just relaxes into it like a warm bath.

One day he does the most humiliating thing he's ever done in his entire life. He can't help it, he doesn't know why it happens, but it does. His dad is hugging him goodbye, rubbing his back through his thin t-shirt. It had been a great visit, he'd made his dad laugh and aside from his stutter he'd only mixed up his words a few times throughout the visit. But something goes wrong as he feels his dad's fingers firmly tracing the outline of his shoulder blade, there's some kind of misfire in his stupid, broken brain, and he feels himself start to harden in his sweatpants.

He rips his hips back and pulls out of his dad's arms stuttering out apologies as he turns away and tries to hide his shame. His face feels like it's on fire.

After a long pause, he hears his dad say, "It's okay, son. I'll see you next time." and the shame slips away like sand. He's forgiven, even for this. The promise that his dad will return feels like absolution.

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Here's another thought, Logan moves Kendall into his penthouse duplex and whenever anyone visits he arranges for Kendall to be on thrice the benzos he's prescribed. Anyone who visits think he's turned into a drooling incoherent vegetable and feel uncomfortable looking at him.

Maybe even after he's out and Logan's dead, that idea still slips out sometimes bc the siblings prefer it to the truth, that Logan abducted him, drugged him, and abused him, while they watched.

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5.

content warnings: substance abuse, smth like an overdose, seizure pov, more descriptions of really distasteful twitter-variety ableism re: seizures

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s02e02 Kendall does too much park coke at the party and has a prolonged series of seizures. His dad makes sure he's "taken care of."

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It's been ten days since he crawled his way back to Shiv's wedding for an alibi that didn't matter.

Kendall's walking out of Greg's bathroom for the third time that night, coke still dripping down his numb throat. A bad feeling hits him, inexplicable but so intense he can't ignore it. The polar opposite of the high he's expecting.

He looks around the room like he can find the source. Takes an inventory of his body. There's nothing. Just a disconnected sense of impending doom that he can't shake.

He grabs another beer, starts scouting the crowd. Maybe someone here can fuck the feeling out of him.

Greg sneaks up on him, his freakishly huge hands on Kendall's shoulders, pulling him back down to earth. Starts talking about his back pain. Within a minute, Kendall's drifted back into the welcoming embrace of the party.

He drifts aimlessly, coke making the bass in the techno music feel like it's thrumming in his bones. He's becoming less sure that a fuck would even fix him, the feeling of dread still at full intensity.

He's walking to the open plan kitchen to sit down on one of Greg's few pieces of furniture when a spike of pain splits his head in two and he feels every muscle in his entire body lock up. The last thing he sees is dozens of pairs of ankles, sideways from where he is on the floor.

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-

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[ID: A 15 second LiveLeak video entitled, "Guy Having Seizure At Nyc Houseparty." A group of people in an apartment surround an unconscious man on the floor who is convulsing. A voice from off-camera shouts, "Should we call 911?" End ID.]

[ID: A 6 second Snapchat video. Caption reads "this party craaaaaazy 😳😳😳" Loud techno music is playing and a lot of people are talking. A man is lying on the floor having a convulsive seizure while people nearby dance. The phone's camera switches to the front lens and we see the blond young man taking the video widen his eyes apprehensively as he takes a drink. End ID.]

[ID: A looping TikTok video of a man having a seizure at a party with the "he need some milk" sound. End ID.]

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-

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Kendall wakes up on the floor, Greg crouching over him, his head throbbing with pain and his mouth full of blood. He tries to speak and discovers that he can't.

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-

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Kendall wakes up and holds onto consciousness by the skin of his teeth. Everyone is yelling. The lights are so bright and he realises he's looking at a ceiling. Someone's putting glue in his hair and his head feels like it's going to burst.

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-

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Kendall wakes up alone in a hospital room and feels like if he could just reach up and press his hands against his head maybe the pain would stop but his arms are too heavy and he's worried if he moves them they might shatter.

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-

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Kendall wakes up in a hospital room and there's a woman standing beside him. He tries to ask what's happening, where he is but all that comes out is "What?"

She looks at him and smiles like she understands what he meant.

"Hello, Kendall. I'm Nurse Lisa. You're in the hospital because you had a series of seizures but you're going to be alright now. Your cousin is here and the rest of the family is on the way and we're gonna do everything we can to help you, okay?" she says. His attention waxes and wanes as she speaks and he thinks he catches about half of it.

"My head...?" he asks, running out of words before he's finished.

"Your head hurts? That's common for the type of seizures you had and it looks like you bumped it when you fell. We're gonna get you an MRI later just to take a look at things." She smiles reassuringly at him.

"Right," he says, without really meaning to. He feels like he's in a dream.

The woman starts saying something, voice soft, but he can already tell he's passing out and he doesn't understand any of it.

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-

⠀

Kendall wakes up alone in a hospital room. He feels like he's been hit by a bus and his mouth tastes like copper. He's also doped to the gills, he can tell.

He runs his hands carefully over his body, looking for an injury to explain this. He finds more spots that feel bruised than he can count but nothing else. Eventually he notices there's wires stuck to his head. As he investigates them with his fingers, one of them pops off. It's an electrode. He wonders if they've given him electroshock therapy.

He's still examining the electrode when the door opens and a man in scrubs walks in.

"Hello, Kendall. I'm Nurse Charlie, you're at the hospital. How are you feeling?"

Kendall tries to shift focus so he can understand. Eventually he manages to croak out, "Gad."

His brow furrows. That wasn't right. Why did he say that? He tries again. "Bad."

"Can you tell me more?" Charlie asks.

After an uncomfortably long pause as he tries to find the words, Kendall says, "Hurts. What happened?"

"You had a series of convulsive seizures that we think were drug-induced and we had a tough time getting you stable. Now we're just monitoring you to be sure you don't have any more seizures. You've been here for about 15 hours."

"Where's my dad?" Kendall asks, these words coming easier than the others.

"He came earlier but he had to leave. Do you want to see if we can call him?" Charlie asks.

Kendall thinks about how fucked up and weak he feels and how hard it is to talk. Thinks about how his dad must have responded to learning that this happened because of Kendall's addiction.

"N-no."

"Alright, that's fine. I'm just gonna get that back in place, okay?" he says, gesturing to the electrode that Kendall forgot he was holding. "We need to get a good look at your brain waves so we don't miss anything important."

Kendall falls back asleep as the nurse is reattaching the electrode.

⠀

-

⠀

When he next awakens, Greg is there, sitting next to his bed and seemingly texting. Kendall's head hurts less, or maybe it just hurts different.

"What pay is it?" he asks, nearly startling Greg out of his chair.

"What?" Greg asks.

"What pay- What..." Kendall trails off. Why can't he fucking talk? "What day is it?"

"It's Wednesday, technically. Are you okay? I thought you were gonna die, they kept asking me how much coke you did and I didn't even know. Do you think everybody's gonna be mad at me for buying it for you? I didn't know you were gonna do that much."

Greg keeps going but Kendall doesn't really hear him. His mind's caught on Wednesday. Wasn't it Monday? How long was he asleep?

"Greg." Kendall interrupts.

Greg's mouth claps shut. After a short pause he says "They told me to call Karolina if you ever woke up. Are you good, should I go do that?"

Kendall opens his mouth but then thinks better of it. Nods instead.

While Greg is gone, Kendall takes stock of himself. He's sore, all over. His muscles feel wrung out. His head is killing him and when he finally gets his aching arm up far enough to feel around, he finds a lump on the back of his head and nearly screams with how much it hurts to even touch it.

He zones out for a while, mind slipping around as he tries to process what's happened. Was this an OD? He can't remember how much coke he did. It was probably a couple grams. But he's done more before and he'd been working his tolerance up since before the wedding. It doesn't make sense.

Karolina walks in, high heels clacking against the tiles. She sits down where Greg had been.

"So, Kendall. How are you feeling? Do you think we can talk?"

Kendall moves his tongue around for a moment, trying to speak. As Karolina opens her mouth to say something, he finally manages.

"Is dad m- m-" he swallows, tries again. "Is... dad... angry?"

Karolina's lips purse.

"Well, he was worried about you. Did Greg tell you about the videos?"

Kendall shakes his head.

"Well, apparently some of your guests decided to film you during your episode. They didn't actually know who you were but, unfortunately, Twitter put it together pretty quick and you were trending for a few hours. Now we're trying to spin it as you having epilepsy, see if we can win some public sympathy."

"Do...?" he interrupts.

"No. The doctors did some tests and they're pretty sure it was just the cocaine. They have warned us that you might develop epilepsy as a result of this event though." Karolina pauses, straightening her skirt. "Your father's arranging a place for you to stay while you recover. He doesn't want you in the public eye until you're well."

"When?" Kendall asks.

"We don't actually know. Could be weeks, could be months, or..." Karolina shifts minutely in her chair. "The doctors are going to want more tests so we can get a better idea but we've been told to be prepared for anything."

Kendall's eyes start burning before she's finished and by the end he can feel tears streaming down his cheeks. His face crumples and he lifts his hand up to cover his mouth. Karolina stands up and awkwardly puts a hand on his shoulder.

"There's no reason to assume the worst yet. You're going to have around the clock care for as long as you need it and you've got one of the best medical teams in the world. You'll be taken care of, Ken."

She stands there for a moment longer before she realises he's going to keep crying and leaves.

⠀

-

⠀

After she's left, he tries talking more. Speaking takes a long time because it's hard to think of words and how they fit together but it's also hard to make his mouth move properly. There are some words he can't say right, no matter how much he tries.

He assumes the headache and the muscle soreness will fade with time but what if he can never talk normally again?

Roman had told him he'd be fucked as soon as he wasn't any use to dad. Kendall had believed him. Now he literally can't say the word "business." That's how useless he is. He looks down at the open weave hospital blanket in his lap and suddenly he's tearing it apart, forcing his fingers between threads and pulling, yanking until the tear becomes too wide for his wingspan and then starting again on a new section.

When he's done the blanket is a complex tangle of string and his arms feel like the muscles are falling off the bones. He does not feel any better.

⠀

6.

When Kendall gets out of the hospital he's still dealing with his new meds' side effects, constantly doped on the benzos and still fucked up from the seizure, the hospital stay, the disjointed things he's heard from Gerri, Karolina, Jess, his siblings. He's in shit shape and when he's summarily shuffled into a Hell's Kitchen penthouse he's really too stoned to argue.

His health aide tucks him into bed and that's the last he knows until he wakes up the next morning and his dad is sitting in the den reading paperwork.

His dad explains that Kendall is single-handedly destroying the family's reputation. The bear hug and now this? People can smell blood in the water and they're paying a lot of attention to the family at large and it's only so long before they do the math on Kendall's relapse and that K-holed moron's demise.

Ken needs to keep his head down, for the family's reputation but also for his own health. He could have died. Watching that video of him, writhing around, blood frothing out of his mouth, surrounded by disaffected druggies debating whether they should even call a fucking ambulance? It had made Logan sick, to see his son, who he had always loved so dearly and had such high hopes for, brought down so low.

Kendall's made it very clear he can't be trusted to stay off drugs and Logan is furious that Greg sourced for him. But if even that hapless little fuckstick could be swayed to give Kendall enough coke to kill himself, the solution is obvious.

Kendall needs to sit tight, no outside contact, until the whole thing blows over.

He'll have a physical therapist, a doctor to fix his voice, and a shrink to fix whatever the hell is wrong with his fucking head. They'll all be carefully vetted, so there's no use asking any of them for anything.

Kendall's also going to lose some privileges. He needs to keep things clean while he recovers. No leaving the apartment while he's like this. No need to look at the news or call anyone to bring him drugs, so no phone, no TV, and all of his financial accounts frozen. Logan will take care of anything he needs.

Kendall breaks down. Not because he feels trapped or like he's being treated unfairly. What breaks him is that he's been such an embarrassment to his dad and put his dad through so much worry, done so many unforgivable things, but Logan is still looking out for him. Still willing to see to it that he's taken care of.

He clings to his dad, shaking and sobbing, until Logan has to leave and carefully peels him off. He leaves him with the simple statement, "I love you, son. I'm gonna take care of you."

Kendall tries to return the I love you, words halting and slurred, but his dad stops him with a squeeze on his shoulder and a shake of his head, and then he's gone.

⠀

7.

When his dad finally dies he expects to be inherited, not as a ward, but as an object. He doesn't know who it will be or what will happen to him. It scares him.

⠀

When their dad does die it's revealed that Kendall is inheriting the most shares or whatever. No one quite knows where he is other than a facility somewhere. When they find him, they're shocked.

He's skinnier. But softer. He looks healthier. But there's something deeply wrong. He's skittish, he seems slower mentally, much more sweet and shy like he was when he was really young. He cries more and not just because he's grieving. His hair is longer than it's ever been before, framing his face and long enough he has to tuck it behind his ears to keep it out of the way.

It seems like he's been holed up in this apartment, with no TV, no phone, and a bunch of other shit missing, since he was first hospitalised. There was never a facility. He thinks the raisin is still president and he doesn't know that he's 40, almost 41.

They send him for health check-ups. Find out that he's been seeing several specialists on a weekly to monthly basis the entire time, even a psychologist who refuses to communicate with them. He's in perfect health. No brain damage, no lingering physical effects aside from his stutter but it sounds like the stutter he had when they were kids so it's hard to tell if it's from the seizures or if it's just regression.

But he can't function if there's a TV on nearby. He frequently needs to be reminded to get out of the bath otherwise he'll just stay. If meals aren't scheduled he doesn't eat. He panics when he has to leave the house and doesn't try very hard to hide it. Or maybe he's just bad at hiding it now.

He's scared of crowds, startles easy. Frequently anxious in general. After two weeks he works up the nerve to ask if he can move back into the apartment. It's the biggest request he's made yet so they say yes after consulting with his new psychologist.

He moves back. Doesn't request any changes to be made to the apartment. He wants his Walkman and headphones but no phone. They get him set up with a landline phone but even then he eventually asks that the ringer be turned off and they usually have to call Jess to get in touch with him.

Rava visits frequently. She had wondered if he was dead and they'd just covered it up. Apparently at some point their divorce had gone through with all her concessions met which while at first it had relieved her eventually when no contact had been made had become a source of worry.

She tells him the kids have missed him and he's inconsolable. She holds him until he's asleep on the couch and tries not to descend into despair herself. She tries not to think about how she's going to explain this to the kids, knows that that's a question for their psychologist. Maybe his, too.

The next time she visits she's told them that their dad is feeling better but he's still sick and Sophie and Iverson have made him a get well soon card. He cries for a little while after she gives it to him but not as bad as before. She broaches the idea of bringing them next time and he panics and says no.

"I-I don't think that, that they sh-should see me. L-like this."

"Like what?"

He opens his mouth but no words escape. Fresh tears spill over his cheeks as he pulls his lower lip between his teeth and bites, viciously.

She pulls him close, runs a soothing hand down his back, and tells him that they love him and miss him and they'll understand if he's different now, whatever that means.

"They want to see their dad, Kendall. Nothing else matters."

"Y-y-you wouldn't say th-that. If you knew w-what. What I've done."

She asks him to tell her and he breaks down. She's persistent, knows that he wants to see the kids, she asks if he's told his therapist. He nods and she suggests they book an appointment together to discuss his hang-ups, because, as she tells him, seeing the kids would be good, for him and for Sophie and Iverson.

He wants to discuss it with his therapist first, so they agree to wait until he has. His new therapist, who he's been seeing for two months at this point, thinks that if he wants to tell Rava about the car accident and about his father's abuse then he should, and so she agrees to mediate.

He decides to tell her about his dad first, selfishly. He doesn't think she'll want to talk to him ever again after she learns about the waiter and he doesn't think he's ever going to tell anyone else about what his dad did so she's his only chance to ever tell someone who will really understand.

He also, and his therapist doesn't necessarily agree with him, thinks that if Rava does allow him to have a relationship with the kids in the future, she should probably know, that-- That he spent over a year waiting by the elevator for his father to visit and hopefully not hit him. But if he did hit him, that was fine too, because Kendall was that desperate for attention. That desperate to feel useful, needed in some way.

She should know that, sometimes between visits, he would grab at himself, his chin or his shoulder, and grip to the point of bruising just to feel an echo of his father's love. She needs to know about the times his dad had been irritable and Kendall had intentionally frustrated him so they would have more time together, after his dad took out the day's stress on him. He doesn't think it would be right, for him to see her kids, their kids, without her knowing how sick he had become.

Between his stutter and his occasional meltdowns he doesn't think he can tell her with words even if his therapist helps, so he painstakingly writes two confessions, one about his dad, one about the waiter.

After his therapist explains, he hands her the one about his dad, ashen-faced.

She starts crying early, a hand over her mouth. He joins her, stressed and scared and wishing he was braver. He turns away to try and compose himself, not wanting to seem like he's looking for pity, but he can still hear as she gets progressively more upset.

When she's done she blows her nose and starts delicately drying her face of still-dripping tears. His therapist asks if she'd like to share how she's feeling and she lets out a hysterical mix between a sob and a giggle that makes Kendall duck his head in anxiety.

"Can I touch you?" she asks and he nods. She puts her hand on his shoulder, putting slight pressure until he's facing her, eyes still averted.

"I'm so sorry that happened, Ken. I'm so sorry it took so long for us to find you. That you had to suffer like that, all by yourself." Rava delicately reaches for his hand, interlocking their fingers together loosely and placing her other hand on top. She continues, "But I'm really glad that we found you because now we can help you recover from what happened. Whatever that recovery looks like. We all just want you to feel safe and comfortable."

She pauses, controlled breaths the only noise she makes for a moment.

"I don't think the things that happened with your dad were your fault, or that you did anything wrong. You were put in a terrible position that most people couldn't imagine in their worst nightmares and you did your best to get through it in one piece. None of what I just read makes me think you shouldn't be around the kids. It did help me understand how desperate you must be to see them and I can tell how much you don't want to do anything to hurt them. But you're not disgusting, Ken, you're not going to hurt them by being near them. They've missed you so much, the whole time. All they want is their dad back."

Kendall lets her words wash over him, pretends the second letter isn't burning through the couch cushion beside him. She doesn't blame him. She doesn't think he's disgusting. She still thinks he should see the kids. She wants him to feel safe.

⠀

[syneilesis]

[fic, wip] the soul is nothing more than a glass of ocean water | prologue

the soul is nothing more than a glass of ocean water

Ikemen Vampire | Comte de Saint-Germain x Reader | T (rating will go up in the future) ao3 link

It's your first time meeting Comte; Comte disagrees.

A/N: So this is it. My 'proper' Comte fic. Along with my thoughts and feelings for his released route lol.

I'm a very slow writer, so writing this will definitely take some time. I hope I can commit to this till the end. I want to. I have a general idea of where this will go.

Title is a slightly modified line from Christopher Buckley's poem, Reincarnation.

prologue 

They're late.

The coffee you’re drinking has gone cold, the slice of cake abandoned halfway through in favor of agonizing over whether to text your supervisor, your thumb hovering over the messaging app icon on your phone. Around you, voices of other people rise in the softly lit interior of the café. The ivory walls tinged under the yellow light, the blend of variegated conversations washing over you like warm comfort. If it weren’t for the opportunity to people-watch, you would have left half an hour ago.

Paris is pretty in autumn. The trees lining the streets frame the buildings like a gradation of fire, and your hands itch for a camera to capture the picturesque scenery. You arrived here a month ago for your dissertation, having secured a place at a university to research for a year as part of your graduate studies in the university of your home country. Armed with one luggage of your personal effects, five boxes of books, and a passable amount of monthly stipend, you marched into France, into Paris, brave-faced and filled with fruitful expectations.

Which promptly came crashing down when the university library told you that unfortunately they do not have copies of the books you need. Which was absurd; they’re a university library. If anything they should possess obscure books and everything else.

Just as you had been about to drop your knees in despair, your current supervisor, Vollant, came to the rescue.

I know someone who may have the books you need, he had said.

There’s a man, he continued, who owns a collection of objects from different eras. He also has a personal library that houses interesting sets of books.

He may have—no, I’m sure he has the books you need. I can talk to him and we can arrange a meeting, if you want.

You’ve never said yes that quickly in your life.

And so, here you are, at a café of relative cultural significance, waiting for your supervisor and your potential savior. Just as you decide to open the messaging app, you hear somebody calling your name.

Vollant waves as he weaves his way towards you; his salt-and-pepper hair glitters as he passes under a chandelier. The man trailing behind him appears to be younger than Vollant. Golden hair, amber eyes, and an impeccable fashion sense. It’s as if he’s stepped out of a GQ magazine. For one hot second, your incredulity over Vollant’s friendship (?!) with the man threatens your trust in the universe.

“Sorry we’re late,” Vollant greets, slipping into the seat across from you. The gentleman occupies the spot next to Vollant. “Comte and I got so absorbed with discussing the history of this café that we forgot to actually go here!”

Comte? You blink. Like Auguste Comte? Glancing at him, you find Comte shifting his body in your direction, presumably to introduce himself. But when your eyes meet he starts slightly, then freezes, his lips parting in surprise. You feel your brows wanting to twitch, wariness taking hold of your facial muscles. Vollant doesn’t seem to notice either of the reactions.

“He’s the one I’m talking about,” he goes on. “The one who owns the books you’ve been looking for.”

Oh, right. Dissertation supersedes caution. In all honesty, should a situation arise wherein you had to choose between personal safety and research, you’d choose research without thinking twice. It’s always made your family and friends sigh in rueful resignation.

Introductions are in order, then.

You give Comte a polite smile and your name. Anything further is still up for debate.

Surprisingly, Comte is personable towards you, all charming smiles and words, as if his odd reaction earlier was just your imagination.

“Professor Vollant here asked me if I have the books you need,” Comte says, smooth and easy. “I checked, and I do have them.”

“See? I told you,” Vollant crows. “Your dissertation is saved.”

“Indeed, but ...” A conflicted look clouds Comte’s face. “I’m afraid I can’t let them leave my library. They’re old, you must understand.”

Of course. Good news does not come without a flipside.

“Oh …” Vollant shoots you a worried glance. “That is unfortunate.”

Comte’s expression is genuinely apologetic as he tells you, like it’s a personal failing on his part. “I’m terribly sorry. I’ll think of a way around this.”

Two tables away, a group of friends bursts out laughing, the sound rolling across your ribcage. Other patrons pause and glance at them curiously; some disapprovingly. Only a month in and it feels like the world is crumbling around you—again. This has to be a record. It’s even topped that one time during your first year as a doctoral student, the one when you almost had to challenge an undergrad to a fistfight for continuously borrowing a book that’s necessary for your theoretical framework.

In the end, you’ll chalk it up to desperation when you say, “If you’ll allow it, I’m perfectly okay working on my dissertation in your house so you don’t have to worry about your books.”

It’s an outrageous proposition, and it’s perfectly within Comte’s rights to refuse. You choke back a laugh; really, between the two of you, who is the much stranger one now? At least Comte doesn’t go about offering his house to someone he’s just met.

“Are you … sure about that?” Something gleams in Comte’s gaze as he assesses the implications of your suggestion. He’s leaning on the table, a hand pressed down its surface. The way he’s focused on what you’re about to reply prickles the nape of your neck, ghostly needles scuttling down the skin of your arms. It’s full of intent, as if your response means more than just this specific thing.

You swallow the unease climbing at your throat. “I am. I just need a quiet place to work.”

“Well, then.” He leans back and smiles, eyes narrowed into crescent slits. The previously tense air dissipates; you don’t realize how rigid your posture is until you’ve found yourself relaxing. “That is not a problem for me.”

Vollant reaches over to clap your shoulder in congratulations. You jerk under his hand; you’ve forgotten that he’s there. 

The rest of the meeting involves hashing out the details of your visiting schedule (weekends, after lunch until dinnertime). Comte insists on arranging a car for your transportation (“I live at the outskirts of Paris; it’s hard to reach via public transport”), which raises your suspicion regarding his financial standing. Once everything has been agreed upon, Vollant hijacks the conversation to resume his history talk with Comte.

Because you no longer have anything else to discuss, you excuse yourself and bid them goodbye. Vollant pats your forearm cheerfully as you pass by him. Comte remains silent, except he seems to be deliberating on something, brows slightly pinched as his eyes follow your movements. He doesn’t stop you, so whatever it is, you think, it’s his problem to deal with.

Outside the café, the cool air smacks your cheeks, penetrates your blazer. The next months will be colder, and you’ve only packed a couple of winter coats. Prioritizing your books might have been a mistake.

As you head to Boulevard Saint-Germain, you hear your name somewhere behind you. There’s a frantic energy radiating from Comte as he catches up to you, his hair bouncing with each step. You wonder if he has finally decided on something; the pessimistic part of you dreads that he might renege on his offer, realizing that it’s a bother lending the books to you after all.

“Yeah?” you say, tamping the concern down where Comte can’t notice.

He exhales once. “I just—let me pay for your fare? I just feel terrible that we were late earlier.”

“Oh, no, no, please, Comte,” you say, panicked all of a sudden. “It’s fine, really. I’ll just walk; I still have to go back to my uni, anyway. It’s just a couple of kilometers away.” At this point you’re just rambling. “Thank you for your generosity, Comte. Letting me use your books is already a huge thing; I’m truly grateful. You don’t have to do anything else.”

“If it’s within my power, of course I’ll help. And besides, Professor Vollant is a dear friend of mine.”

There’s a lull after that, a hesitant pause that veils Comte’s eyes. From the way he tilts his head down, it seems that there’s something he wants to say. And you have an inkling that this something has been trying to claw its way out of him ever since that first moment you and he turned to face each other. But what could it be, is the question. You can’t figure out the answer.

“I—” he starts. Stops. Tries again. “You will think me strange, but I feel like we have met before. There’s something familiar about your eyes …”

The moment he says that your entire body slackens, flattens into a cold line. He’s right; he is, indeed, strange. His words hadn’t even been uttered in a way that makes your skin crawl with repulsion; instead, his gaze bears a heavy and wistful sheen, one that twists something in your heart and stays there.

“This is my first time meeting you, Comte,” you say, your tone devoid of lilting curves. You’re almost tempted to apologize for disappointing him. “We’ve never met before.”

It’s quick, fleeting, but you see it: his expression crumpling, a closed fist to the heart. He smiles after, to cover for that split-second vulnerability. But you’ve seen it; it’s been burned behind your eyelids, a specter that will remain even after you close your eyes.

His smile edges into the charming, extraverted. “I see. My mistake. I hope you’ll forgive this embarrassing lapse of mine.”

“It’s okay. We can forget about it.”

“Forget,” he echoes. It sounds alien when he says it, the tone wrong and askew. “Yes, of course. See you Saturday, then?”

He returns to the café where Vollant is probably brimming with more history facts than he can ever discuss in a weekly lecture. The click of his steps against the pavement resounds in your ears, drowning the rest of the noise surrounding you.

Comte, huh. A man whose eyes are cracked embers, and if you look at them at a certain angle, they burn with preternatural luminescence. You’re not afraid, since Vollant has already vouched for him, but you are cautious. Of what, you still can’t pinpoint. Perhaps the way he’s interacted with you can be attributed to eccentricity? You did notice that his clothes look so expensive (Is that Brioni? Aubercy? God, this man) and rich people—by virtue of their being rich—have the privilege to do whatever they want, whether it’s quirky or outright weird.

But he’s kind enough to lend you his books and let you do your research in his library, so maybe you should cut him some slack.

Well, no matter. After you’re done with your work, there’s little chance that you’ll see him again. Might as well stop grinding yourself with worry; your research is more important, after all.

With that resolution stamped in your mind, you turn around and go back to your university.

chapter one