#Horizon Mirages WIP

[gemmahale]

gemma! hi friend. for talk shop tuesday, i have questions! Horizon Mirages

knowing your penchant for research, what's something new and interesting you've learned in researching the wild west?

how did you pick the occupations for the love interests?

Righteous Fury

without spoiling anything, is there a redacted screenshot of the timeline you mentioned here? 👀

Random

spooky season is fast approaching. which of your projects is the spookiest? 👀

care to share the latest line you wrote?

Talk Shop Tuesday!

Hello Sy! I shall endeavor to answer your Questions. (Gosh these are good questions.)

I'm throwing them under a cut because it's long as heck and there are spoilers for the following: (I also hope that gif blocks the spoilery images from showing up in previews or anything.)

Horizon Mirages

Righteous Fury

7 Sins Bookstore (Minor)

Feylands (Minor)

The Contract (minor)

Horizon Mirages

I'll admit, I have always lived and breathed Westerns. Laura Ingalls Wilder was part of my bread and butter growing up, I now live in a cattle-dense part of the country that was directly affected by that part of US history, I loved the hell out of watching Red Dead Redemption 1 and 2, the "wild west" has called to me so viscerally. I think part of it is that my families settled here in the Midwest. Now, specifically related to Horizon Mirages - the information on shepherds and such has been really interesting to get into. They (and by proxy our Shepherdess) live in structured wagons to keep up with the sheep on their rotations across the plains. The similarities and differences between cattle and sheep has been really interesting to get into.

I thought about who would have interesting stories to tell. I don't actually know if they're all love interests yet, or if they become platonic. I also looked for foils to the 141, but that was kind of last-minute when I tacked on their relationships to the 141. I wanted a way to bring together some of my special interests - beekeeping, distilling, sewing, fiber arts) into the story in a way that made sense. Because if I'm going to write things, I might as well write about things I have some knowledge of, lol. The Shepherdess was the first one out of the gate, nearly fully developed at idea creation. The other three have gone through a number of changes and morphs to what you see today (and they very well may change between now and publication. The General Store Owner started as a homesteader, for example. The Seamstress was just a widower, husband lost to a rogue shoot-out, but had no career (or maybe she was the school teacher? I don't remember now).

Righteous Fury

Ha. This post. Let me see what a bit of post-screenshot editing I can do.

Okay, the quality is 💩, but hopefully it's legible and not too spoilery. I learned how to redact PDF's today! Neat! (I was hoping to be able to blur it out, but alas, this was the fastest solution I could find on company time. 😅) Screenshot to PDF back to screenshot kinda tanked the quality lol.

Re: the timeline. I fudged the years a little bit. I think I kept canon years where they were, but I made Soap a little older. I just...I was struggling to write him as a 20-something, so I made him 6 months older than me. Because artistic license. Also worth noting: those are not all siblings of his. Some are cousins.

I really hope there's not too many spoilers here, and that you're more excited than disappointed when the truth's revealed. This is just one aspect of the story anyway.

Random

Which of my projects is the spookiest? Yeesh, I suppose it depends on how you define spooky. Feylands has a few spooky vibes in it, so does The Contract. 7 Sins Bookstore does too, now that I think about it. But none are intentionally spooky in the Halloween sense. Just spooky in the eerie/something's not quite human here way.

Last line I wrote: From Righteous Fury

“MacTavish, a word. Everyone else, dismissed.” The clatter of chairs and the slaps on the (good) shoulder do little to bolster John’s mood.

[caelenath]

UsaMamo Week 2023 - Day 4: Beach

For @usamamoweek2023 day 4, my contribution is a preview of this untitled WIP that I thought would be done by now. Foiled again! 😅

Big shoutout to @random-mailbox who both inspired this piece and is helping with the pro photography tips (and is helping to run this wonderful event). 👏💖

~ * ~

Summary:

The whole situation was any red-blooded man's dream—nine gorgeous women in swimwear, a dreamy sunset, and a legitimate excuse to ogle them from every angle.

But he had eyes for only one...

~ * ~

Even before he arrived, the gig was pretty ideal–short, paying double his normal rate, and it gave him an excuse to go to the beach. He felt a little guilty for charging the extra money since he wasn't exactly a pro, just a guy with a hand-me-down camera trying to pay his tuition. But it was the client who had insisted because she was trying to book him so last minute, and university tuition wasn't cheap.

So he accepted the job even if it meant having to get Kobayashi to cover his TA session in the evening, and he was rewarded with a high-pitched squeal of gratitude that nearly blew his eardrum over the phone. She told him to "look for the one wearing black and white", then hung up before he could ask her to be more specific.

He arrived on the beach in the late afternoon, and was greeted by a brilliant, soul-soothing cobalt blue sky. Wispy clouds in the distance along the horizon promised a dazzling sunset backdrop in a little over an hour. Fifty-six to eighty-four minutes, to be exact, depending on what color sky his client wanted. He had a disturbingly accurate internal clock when it came to the sun's movements.

Feeling the heat of the day captured in the sand, he wished he'd been able to arrive earlier to have some extra time to enjoy the getaway. He had tried, but unfortunately, his lab partner chose this day to forget the boiling chips, and instead of accepting a lower mark for the failure, they chose to stay after class to repeat the experiment. Or rather, he chose to stay after, and his partner grudgingly followed suit to avoid looking inferior by comparison to their professor. It had been a risky decision, but with a little help from another disturbing ability of his, one that controlled the heating far better than boiling chips or the isomantle, they were able to redo the work in time for him to catch the train to Atami.

The cloying smell of artificial banana finally left his nose as he inhaled deeply the briny air. He couldn't wait to chuck his shoes and dig his toes into the warm sand. He needed both hands for now to carry his kit, but once the shoot was underway, he could happily traipse barefoot wherever his client wanted to go.

The beach wasn't as crowded by this time of day, and all along the water's edge, he could see the divots and partially melted sand castles left behind by families who had already gone home. The people who remained were mostly couples making eyes and PDA.

His client had said this photoshoot was for her and her friends, a celebration of their last year of high school, but gave scant specifics besides that. None, in fact. Still, as he looked up and down the beach, he discovered he needn't ever have worried about not being able to spot them. Rather, he knew them instantly.

Fifty paces or so to his right, beneath a cluster of palm trees, nine of the most beautiful women he had ever seen were gathered together, arranging each other's hair and swimsuit straps and chatting gaily like they didn't have a care in the world. They were such a striking group that he stood rooted in place for at least a minute, slack-jawed and unable to tear his eyes away. What were the odds they were a mirage? 

After the initial shock wore off, he was intrigued by how different they looked from one another. Tall, short, light hair, dark hair, sporty suits and sexy cutouts–their individual looks ran a wide gamut.

With that unavoidable ogling out of the way, his recovering neanderthal brain finally noted something useful. The two blondes in the group were the ones wearing black and white suits while the rest of them wore mostly black ones. Some had accessories, also in black. They must have agreed on that being the theme in their photoshoot. The contrast against the sky would be stunning, like them, no matter what moment of dusk they caught.

He adjusted the strap of his kit bag on his shoulder nervously…and froze. He'd had every intention of just walking over to them a millisecond ago, but it suddenly caught up with him how intimidating it was to approach nine drop-dead gorgeous women, even if they were the ones who had hired him in the first place.

He admonished himself that this was a professional engagement and strode forward using a silly mental game that was childish, but nevertheless worked. In moments like this when he needed confidence he didn't have–and those moments increased relative to the number of people around him–he pretended he was someone important, someone who had reason to walk around with their chin held high and their shoulders square. A victorious superhero, a successful CEO, a powerful leader of a nation. 

He would die of embarrassment if anyone ever found out about his game because he was the absolute opposite of those people–a struggling college student with no family and one shot at making something of his life. He didn't see any prospects outside of academics, and that was why he'd lived and breathed his schooling since he was a child. His camera had been an unexpected gift, a castoff albeit a very nice one from his friend's little sister when she decided she wanted to upgrade.

As he neared the group, the blonde in the center turned around, and all breath left his lungs as surely as if someone had punched him. She had huge blue eyes, wide azure pools that he found himself drowning in instantly, and not quite unwillingly. She seemed similarly shocked by his appearance, though for the life of him, he couldn't imagine why. Just a moment ago, she had been talking loudly and very animatedly, but now she stood stockstill, looking back at him as if he were a ghost.

Those enormous eyes blinked at him and he mirrored the reaction reflexively. They were getting close to the time when it would be considered rude to stare at someone for that long, but he was overwhelmed by the feeling that he knew her from somewhere. It wouldn't have been so strange considering how big and populous Tokyo was. Maybe they'd passed by each other somewhere, on the metro, in a conbini, at the library. 

Except, if that were true, he would have remembered her. Aside from her breathtakingly perfect face, she had funny hair. Her almost knee-length golden locks were arranged in two pigtails that flowed from two, perfectly round odangos on top of her head. They were weird, but fitting somehow.

No, he was sure he had never seen before in his life. Yet he knew her. How was that possible??

After much too long, he was finally able to drag his eyes away from her face and look at the rest of her–which, in retrospect, was probably even less polite. But she was wearing the two colors he'd been instructed to look for. Specifically, a tiny white bikini with tiny black straps and tiny black trim. Everything about it practically begged him to look at her, from the way the pure white emphasized her creamy peach-pink skin to how the black edges formed triangular outlines that pointed at things he really shouldn't be looking at. 

Luckily she recovered first and offered him a dazzling smile. It was full of unreserved welcome, something that was foreign to him, and he wondered how much confidence that took. The only word he could use to describe the glow around her was love, but that was preposterous because they were total strangers.

He searched hard for his tongue so he could stop being such a deer in headlights and speak. "Minako?"

The bright look on her face fell, and he winced inside at having done that to her, with the very first word he ever spoke to her, no less. He'd only been hoping she was the one who had called him. If she wasn't Minako, then he owed the real Minako a great debt for having created this opportunity for them to meet. Even if he had already screwed it up.

Keep it professional, his brain scolded him again. He was here to do a job, not meet a girl.

"No, that's me!" a voice chirped to his right, and he turned to the other blonde. She was wearing a bikini with broad black and white stripes, as well as a black hat and sunglasses with thick white frames, which she slid down her nose before introducing herself. Like all her friends, she too was incredibly beautiful, but something about her look said "drama" to him. Or at least, something less innocent than the odango girl.

"I'm Minako. Thank you again so so so so much for doing this."

"It's nothing," he said, feeling a little embarrassed by her effusiveness. It took more than a little effort to ignore the glint of gold hovering in the corner of his eye. "Where should I set up? Did you have particular shots in mind?"

"Yes!" Her response was instant, but from the way she paused afterward, he guessed the real answer was no. "Sunset? Is that too generic?"

"Not at all," he lied. "Your timing couldn't be more perfect. You'll have your pick of lighting for it, assuming we can get set up fast enough." He was glad for the excuse to look out over the water again, to regain some equilibrium as he stood in the midst of any red-blooded man's dream.

"We're ready to go," Minako said, sweeping a stern look across her circle of friends like a captain surveying his battalion.

"This isn't one of your volleyball games," the tall brunette said with a roll of her eyes. "You could at least introduce him if we're going to be working together."

"Fine, all right." Minako accentuated her words with a dramatic huff, and he was gratified to know his instincts about her were right on the nose. "Everyone, this is Chiba Mamoru, who is an absolute darling for agreeing to do this at the last last minute."

The two dark haired beauties in the back of the group leaned in to confer about something together, and from the glances they threw at him, he guessed that something was him. His face warmed a little from the attention.

"I'm pleased to meet you all." 

Minako clapped her hands. "Great, now we all know each other." Someone in the group snorted, but he didn't catch who. "Let's get some gorgeous pictures taken!"

[sourb0i]

Only the Good WIP Wednesday 9/4

Just a little farther on, Poppy stood watching the procession. Her eyes widened as she took in Mariah’s sorry state; already Mariah could feel the blood beginning to crust on the side of her face. She took a half step forward, and then her eyes flickered up to the girl on the mule, the herd of children following close behind, and the silver flash of guns at the hip of every member of Wayne’s posse. Mariah tried to give her a reassuring smile, though it felt more like a grimace. It would be alright. She’d made it far without help, after all. There wasn’t anything Poppy could do, except go back home and count her lucky stars. A sharp tug on her wrists sent Mariah stumbling into a jog. Wayne had picked up a trot, and the rumble of hooves behind her said that the rest of his posse had followed suit. Out of the protection of the town and the canyon, the sun beat down on Mariah’s head with full force. She didn’t even have her hat to protect her. Sweat trickled down her forehead, stinging her eyes. Dust kicked up into her throat and coated her lungs. A sharp cramp twisted in her side with every other step. Each time she slowed or stumbled, she was encouraged with another pull at the rope around her wrists. If she fell, she had no doubt Wayne would keep on riding and leave her to drag along the broken pavement. When the town was fully out of sight beyond , Wayne turned off the road. The land here was flat; the mesa on the the shimmering horizon might as well have been a mirage. Glancing behind, Mariah caught sight of the plume of dust the group was leaving in their wake. They’d be easy to track through the desert. Too easy. She narrowed her eyes at Wayne’s back. He was planning something; there was no doubt about that. But what exactly his plan was, Mariah couldn’t even figure a guess. Not that she had much ability to think. With every passing minute, she could feel the heat melting her muscles into lead. The sun roasted every bare patch of skin it could find; her face, her hands, the back of her neck. After an hour at pace, she was coated through with sweat. At two hours, she didn’t have enough moisture left in her to even do that.

Thanks @wizisbored @eriquin @whimsicalmeerkat @auburnlaughter @anyctibius @kalira @stonemaskedtaliesin @post-and-out and @adhdavinci! Got it done just in time for the next round lol

[sgt-tombstone]

WIP Wednesday

I haven't done much writing this past week because of the start of the semester, but here's a snippet from the very beginning of my Dex fic! As always, this is unbeta'd and unedited, so go easy lmao

CW: mentioned/implied domestic abuse and suicide under the cut but nothing explicit or graphic

Dex had never gotten used to Arkansas summers. He and his sister, Mel, had been born and raised in West Virginia, where the average temperatures were at least ten degrees cooler, and the dry central southern heat never failed to dig under his skin, as if the dust itself were embedded in his very bone marrow. It was one of the first things they both had complained about when they had been adopted at the age of twelve, and in the six years since, their shared hatred of the scorching temperatures had never wavered.

It was 2000 hours, and the thermostat on the dashboard still registered temperatures in the upper 80s. The setting sun did little to quell the heat-induced mirages pooling above the pavement on the horizon, and the air conditioning in his rust bucket pick-up truck whined pitifully.

“Fuck, I’m not made for this heat,” Mel groaned, sticking her sweat-sheened forehead against the vent, her red-brown hair blowing slightly in the breeze, and even though he hated it too, he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to yank her chain a bit.

“At least it’s not-“

“Yeah, yeah,” she grumbled quickly, sitting back up. She had met him at the airport just over two hours earlier, and evidently, she was already sick of his shit. “You spend twelve hours every day running in hundred-degree heat without food or water, with two hundred pounds strapped to your back, we know.”

“Mhm,” he hummed flippantly, because if there was one thing he could reasonably be expected to do, it was antagonize his sister. “Uphill, both ways. This is nothing, really.”

In some ways, it was true. Basic Military Training had been hell; seven-and-a-half weeks of physical training and drills in southern Texan heat, rolling around in the dirt or running for hours on end. On good days, they were allowed to wear their PT gear. On bad days, they were in full fatigues, weighed down by full packs, and carrying fully loaded weapons. Sitting in an—albeit badly—air conditioned truck at sunset was heaven in comparison.

In other ways, though… Both of them carried Irish blood in their veins. They had grown up running through wooded copses and shallow streams, had spent their childhood-hazy days climbing trees to catch glimpses of far-off ridges over the misty Appalachian mountaintops. The relentless, crushing heat of Oklahoma in August was oppressive at best, suffocating at worst. He had grown to love everything else about Oklahoma; he loved the wide expanses of flat fields, he loved the never-ending skies, he loved the deeply embedded culture. He loved the rodeos and cattle and storms and sunsets, but he had absolutely no love for the heat.

He’d rather die than tell Mel that he agreed with her, though. Such was the nature of siblings, he supposed.

“You’re a dick,” she laughed, shaking her head where it was lolled back against the headrest, and Dex glanced at her with a grin. A grin that quickly dropped when his gaze was drawn down to the sleeve of her shirt. It had been properly in place when she’d met him at the airport but the stifling heat and sweat-soaked skin had caused it to ride up, revealing a dark circle of bruises around her bicep, unmistakably in the shape of a hand.

“Where did you get that?” He asked, suddenly deadly serious, his eyes back on the road but all of his attention laser focused on the way Mel tensed beside him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her tug her sleeve back down, self-consciously turning her entire body away from him.

“Patrick-“

At the mention of the name, Dex growled low in his throat. Patrick had been Mel’s on-again-off-again boyfriend all through high school, and Dex had never liked how possessive he’d been of her. Mel had always accused him of being over-protective, but he’d never been able to help himself. The two of them had only ever had each other; orphaned at the age of eight, they’d clung to each other like life rafts in a storm as they weathered the foster system. It hadn’t been kind to him, but it had been worse for her. When they’d finally gotten to a place where safety wasn’t just a bedtime story to lull themselves into short bouts of fitful sleep, he’d become fiercely protective of it. For himself. For the both of them. If Patrick had graduated from possessiveness to physicality…

“It’s not like that, Dex,” she said, knowing exactly where his mind had gone.

“What’s it like, then, Mel?” He demanded, low and angry, his throat tightening with the force of choked-off words clawing their way up his esophagus, bitter like bile and twice as acidic. “Did he do that?”

“It was an accident, that’s all.”

“He grabbed you hard enough to leave bruises… accidentally,” Dex scoffed, blatant disbelief stealing all of the mirth from his tone and all of the air from his lungs.

“It- He didn’t- Dex, please,” she said, and he wasn’t exactly sure what she was begging for. Understanding, maybe, or for him to let it go completely.

“No, Mel,” he cut her off. “If he-“

“He just gets angry,” she said, and Dex saw red. She must have seen his knuckles whiten around the steering wheel, must’ve heard how carefully he controlled his exhale like he’d been taught in basic training, because she was quick to placate him. “Please, Dex, please, don’t be mad.”

“I’m not-“ He started, but stopped himself, because he wasn’t about to lie to her, at least not so obviously. “Where is he?”

“No-“

“Mel,” he said sharply. He kicked himself internally when she flinched and made a concentrated effort to soften his voice. “Where is he?”

There was a long moment of tense reticence, but Dex had just spent eight weeks enduring the worst hell that the Air Force’s military training instructors could come up with; his sister’s cold shoulder was child’s play in comparison. He simply waited, letting the quiet stretch like a rubber band, until she finally snapped.

“At home,” she said, quietly, and he saw her entire body collapse in on itself, like whatever was between her ribs that had been holding her up had popped, leaving her unbalanced and listing. He wanted to reach out, to cross the unspoken no man’s land that was the truck’s middle bench seat, to pull her against his side and tell her that she’d always be safe with him. That he’d always protect her. He’d always been a man of action, not words, but neither his arm nor his lungs were cooperating, locked in blind anger, and the rest of the drive was spent in strained silence.

Home, for Dex and Mel, was a modest two story, two bedroom house past the edge of town. The driveway was long and winding, but the house could be seen for miles over the featureless plains surrounding it. They had pooled their money and bought it together as soon as they had graduated high school, just days after Dex had enlisted, because he’d wanted a place to come home to that wasn’t their parent’s house. Evidently, they weren’t the only ones living there; in Dex’s absence, Patrick had apparently made himself right at home.

As the truck bounced its way down the pothole-riddled drive, Dex could see lights on inside, glowing yellow through the curtains drawn over the windows, and his heart rate ticked up. The combat drills he’d spent the last two months enduring swirled in his mind; weapons handling, tactical movement, and combat arms training all rushing back with crystal clarity. They pulled up to the front, Dex wrestling the parking brake into submission, and silence descended.

“Dex, don’t-“ Mel tried one more time, but she was cut off by a silhouette drifting past the living room window. The shadow of a man, obviously stumbling in the vague direction of the front door, and Dex’s head snapped up to follow the movement.

“Wait in the truck,” he warned, his voice unrecognizable even to himself. “Whatever you do, don’t come inside.”

He ripped the driver’s side door open and stalked to the bed of the pickup where he had tossed his bag back at the airport. He unzipped the smallest pouch and dug around for his gloves. They were military issued and barely padded, but if he was about to throw a punch, he’d take as much protection as he could get. He turned back to the house and caught sight of Patrick’s shadow moving once again. He’d walked past the front door and into the kitchen; Dex could see the glow of the fridge light spilling out of the open door, faint through the sheer curtains.

He tugged his gloves on as he approached the door, making sure to avoid the squeaky front step. Belatedly, he realized that his house key was on his keyring, still in the ignition, but he didn’t need it; when he tried the front door handle, it twisted easily under his palm, the door easing open on silent hinges. He’d oiled them just before he’d left for BMT, and he was glad of it now.

The entryway was empty when he stepped into it. About halfway down the hallway and hidden behind a painting was Dex’s gun safe, and he wondered if Patrick knew about it. Four silent footsteps brought him face-to-face with the ugly landscape, some god-awful desert in the middle of nowhere, but he didn’t pay much attention to it. He was more concerned with the secret latch behind it, swinging open to reveal-

An empty gun safe. His pistol was gone.

Mindless, irrational anger flooded his system; anger at his sister, anger at Patrick, anger at himself. It spurred him into action, propelling him forward, his feet moving without conscious input, without direction or a plan, just single-minded determination, because Patrick was armed and intoxicated and angry, and Dex was the only thing standing between him and Mel, between Mel and-

He turned the corner into the kitchen and stopped short, eyes widening at the sight. Patrick was closer than Dex thought he’d be, just a pace away, the pistol loose in his fist, his eyes screwed tightly shut as he aimed the barrel under his own chin. Dex opened his mouth, unsure of what would come out in the sudden rush of pure, visceral fear, and screamed—

“LEEROY JENKINS!”

TSgt Dex “Flatline” Murtagh bolted upright at the jarring, slightly mechanical soundbyte blaring over the base-wide PA system. Sweat stuck thick and cloying to his skin, his damp shirt clinging to his back, and he didn’t know whether to blame the heated nightmare or the nightmarish heat. He sucked in a deep breath, trying to clear his fear-soaked mind, but the air was heavy with dust, and he only succeeded in making himself cough, the dryness scratching against his throat.

“Scramble, scramble, scramble,” the PA system droned, alerting the entire base of the medevac emergency at hand. The mechanical tone was a torrent of cold water over Dex’s mind, washing away the syrupy residue of panic and replacing it with a jolt of eager excitement strong enough to be almost intoxicating.

[theelderhazelnut]

For the WIP ask!

🌈 Share something soft/fluffy from your WIP.

💧Share something romantic/hot from your WIP, or just something sweet if it's gen.

☔Is there a fic concept you have that you'd like to just explain and share because you're not sure you'll ever write it? If so, what is it?

🌈 Share something soft/fluffy from your WIP

Unfortunately for this question, there's no fluffy scenes in the first chapter, but I'll share a paragraph which I think is the softest.

Ombra’s train of thoughts crashed to the minuscule walls of a cabin standing in the horizon, faded in a dense mirage. With a noisy exhale, she begged Kano for a considerably clean place which was not about to collapse on their heads in a few moments. She halted the fossilized vehicle closed to a wooden wall.

   Ombra got out of the jeep, her palm touched the set of set of keys in her pocket. Without minding what those two were doing with the arms, she swiftly twisted the suitable key in the oxidized lockset. The wooden door opened with a creak. The subtle, leathery smell of paint thinner hit her in the face, sending small fractions of pain to her forehead. The dusty, worn out furniture included two white couches which were turned brown thanks to the thick layer of dust on them, a coffee table which was barely standing on its legs, a small television and a fossilized refrigerator. The savage sunlight could barely reach through the tight frame of windows. Ombra bit her lower lip. If in any case they were attacked, this cabin would accelerate at killing them first.    “Didn’t know he had such a…neat place in the middle of nowhere.” Kabal observed the room. “What does he keep here? Dead bodies?” He opened the door to the fridge. “His favorite snacks?”

💧Share something romantic/hot from your WIP, or just something sweet if it's gen

Ombra and Quan Chi will meet in the chapter 3, so no romance for now :( BUT here's a side drabble related to these series, if you're interested to read!

Drabble: I don't want to scare you

☔Is there a fic concept you have that you'd like to just explain and share because you're not sure you'll ever write it? If so, what is it?

I have two fic concepts in my mind currently:

It’s about Raiden and Quan Chi finally working together to protect the Earthrealm. The fact that Quan Chi is able to retrieve the dead while Raiden can’t brought about this idea. The title is possibly “Godfather” which depicts Quan Chi’s role in Earthrealm, if he ever decides to cooperate with Raiden.

I’d love to flesh out Quan Chi’s life and how he became the sorcerer he is today. This idea is still in its infancy, so that’s all I can tell you about it.

[circa-specturgia]

Circa Specturgia - The stars were shining…

A scene from my main WIP, Circa Specturgia. This one's got some heavier lore stuff that I haven't explained and might not explain for a while, but, I can say this much. Specturgy isn't the only magic in the setting, and the world is so much more ancient when one looks in the wrong places...

Inspired by the songs Heart of Darkness and Dancing with Flames, and Untold II, all by Secession Studios - Good to play in the background for the vibe! ✨

TW// Scars, Blood, Burn scars

The stars were shining.

The sky parted, and he descended from the space within space, setting foot on the quiet field. The wind swept his black hair, masking his eyes as though he’d torn out a part of the canvas of the night to hide them. In between their blackness, two eyes, gold like the sun, shone, iridescent.

His steady gaze met the dozens of golden pairs now trained on him, glittering like the ones in the sky above… The wind whistled in the silence, as he scanned over the horizon, recognizing each of his siblings, his kin.

- “The vessel has been named.”

A shiver ran across the crowd, murmurs in the ether of their minds growing louder, voices of worry, agitation stirring up in the crowd. A raised finger, the smallest gesture, and all grew silent, listening to the man as he continued.

- “We must come together as one. I invoke viimievät.”

One stepped forward, up to where the man had set down, kneeling as he placed the back of an open hand against one shoulder and brushing it to the opposite in traditional salute.

- ”Sire, we must be reasonable, mobilizing all-”

The man raised one hand, a wave of cold and quiet rippling away from his palm, the air growing still. The clouds dissipated, the wind turning the grass into a navy ocean of waves in the moonlight.

The stars had gone from the sky.

- ”I have been alive… for over six thousand years now. None are my elder.” Each word was heavy, echoing off of nothing. His voice, austere. Hushed, yet burning, of disturbing intensity.

In his outstretched palm, visions began to coalesce, nebulous shapes of light and dust rolling across the emptiness around in pulses. Shifting, doubling, changing. Horrifying.

- “I was there when She was struck down laughing from her heavens with the cruelest weapon.” His eyes had begun to shine with withering starlight, a glow like plasma flowing through their hair, their form.

- “I heard the screams of my brothers and sisters at the dawn of the Everburn.” Mirages, dancing lights, shifted across their skin, flashes of history continuing to emanate from their hold.

- “I witnessed as the sky was torn open to swallow the Astralim.” The clouds above turned to nebulae as they wreathed their form, growing simultaneously to a hundred feet and remaining grounded.

- “I was the one to cut down the self -made god and sealed the mind that promised to burn our Istra...” Their words echoed in a thousand voices, a hundred hands manifesting and fading around them, their eyes supernova.

A single step forward, all those gathered, a step back, unable to breathe.

They brought just one hand to the chin of the man who had spoken, tilting it upwards, the vision in their eyes being the most horrifying one of all. Tears began streaming from the mans face, evaporating instantly under their unwavering gaze. It was burning itself into his eyes, into his memory, unable to look away. A man of dark eyes and messy hair, standing with a sword of flame and blood. A world razed at his feet.

- ”I stood at the epicenter and survived.” They hissed. “I am Viivoktyn. Do not speak to me of reasons.”

A few seconds that stretched into an infinity passed, the sibilant thrum of energy hanging in the air, before they stood up straight, their form collapsing in on itself. Returning to the simple black robes he had worn before, he turned to look away from them all, before speaking once more, voice returned to a whisper, melting with the wind that had picked up.

- ”Should the vessel claim it’s birthright, none of us will be safe. Not our Istra. Not any world. We must move to keep it from doing so, at all costs and by any means. I say this not as caution, or cowardice. I say this as fear. I have seen what happens when gods touch our world.” He turned, a sharp breath rippling across all those that saw…

It was like staring into a dead star.

Eons of memory etched into their soul, weathered and worn. Weighing heavily on them, a burden born of a bloody past, and borne by them alone. Blood as black as midnight began to pour from a hundred bleeding gashes that refused to close.

Their eyes were dim, as though the previous gold was now at the bottom of a pit, buried under silt in a riverbed, stars a thousand miles away. One of them cried, with crows feet deep as scars, tears on his cheek. The other could not, his other half burned, blackened, craterous.

So old yet so young. Eyes that begged for someone to ask “Child, who had done this to you?” Eyes that proved they never heard it.

- ”I cannot let it happen again.”

Hope you enjoyed! Some bonus inspo pics above!✨

Taglist? Taglist! ✨ Thanks to all these wonderful people for supporting me and giving me the inspiration and motivation to write!

@bloodlessheirbyjacques @athenswrites @magefaery @writingonesdreams @muddshadow @awritingcaitlin @agrimedena-drax @pinespittinink @tryingtimi @jessica-writes22 @the-void-writes

[ectogeo-rebubbles]

Does anybody else keep crawling toward distant plotbunny mirages on the horizon, even though the comments/kudos oasis is literally RIGHT THERE, if only you would just spend like A DAY finishing up one of your one million mostly written WIPs so you can post it, or is that just me?

[image id in alt text]

[lambourngb]

If you are still doing this, to make it through (with hearts and wrists intact)

combining the wip ask with WIP Wednesday ! Alright, so there’s two remix challenges going on right now, but I didn’t sign up for either of them because I have enormous anxiety about deadlines and I’m also kind of a control freak about my work. I do love the concept, so I decided to remix my own work.

to make it through (with hearts and wrists intact) is a remix of Last Years Wishes. It is completely the fault of @haloud who mused aloud about what if Jesse got to use the shed on Michael. You guys remember what I did to the shed in LYW right? Yeah. Poor Michael. So while Alex is waiting at the Airstream, talking to agents Ross and Rollins, this is how Michael’s day is going....

[warnings: canon divergent within 1x13, mention of Michael’s feelings for Maria, but nothing happens past the discovery of Rosa’s body in the cave ]

“Old man, you are calling me on my day off,” Michael yelled into the receiver of his cell phone speaker over the rushing sound of air after picking up the call. 

The windows were down because his AC in his truck went on the frizz again sometime during when Max had stolen-borrowed it to drive Liz home from Texas, leaving him behind to share a long awkward ride with Maria in her classic Chevy. Awkward because he had been buzzing from the encounter in the desert. He hadn’t slept with anyone in weeks, not since Alex, and that had been a ridiculous attempt for him to pine in celibacy considering just how little the other man had missed him. Some things end in a whimper.

Texas had been about hope, about maybe finding someone who was connected to him on a species level. He hadn’t realized how deeply Max’s enthusiasm had sunk into him until the fraud had been revealed and disappointment had set in. Between Alex’s brusque brush off and realizing they really were alone on this planet, Michael hadn’t thought he could feel even lower with the weight of Isobel’s salvation fully on his shoulders (and Liz’s). Then shining like a bright star in the night sky, he had found Maria. 

She had effectively chased away the touch starved ghouls that had haunted his skin that night, he could still barely believe they had dropped right to the rocky ground and scratchy blanket to fuck. It was the type of raw passion he had with- no, in that particular moment he hadn’t thought about Alex but afterwards? He couldn’t avoid the connection the next morning, particularly when she had sworn him to secrecy, and then had reinforced it when she had fully kicked him out in the cold after he had returned her repaired necklace. 

It was unfortunate for her that he was already wired to enjoy a push-pull hot-cold dynamic.

Ten years of Alex Manes meant Michael had learned to read past a blustering denial to see the real truth. She really liked him, she just didn’t want to admit it, and good god, if that wasn’t a déjà vu moment for Michael, he didn’t know what was. Maybe it was stupid to believe it would work out any better with her than it had with Alex, but with Noah dead, his m- his reason for building his ship gone, what did it hurt to try again?

His healed hand curled around the grip on the steering wheel with a shiver of disorientation at the new flexibility, but he pushed it down to concentrate on that meager bubble of hope of what was ahead for him. Maria. Normalcy. When he had offered to leave her alone at the gala, she had refused to take him up on it. That's the problem, I never do. 

It had felt good to hear that, that he was wanted, even as he heard the conflict in her voice over what she desired versus what she thought she deserved to have. That was also painfully familiar to Michael as well.

Caulfield had seeped into his skin, three layers deep in the worst type of burn. That brief moment of his mother, wrapping around his mind with her love and sorrow and hope, and then she was gone. The screaming, that he had heard from outside the chain link fence, suddenly disappeared as the explosion moved outward in a shockwave. For a few minutes he had stood on solid ground in that prison, for the first time since a sweet boy had returned his kiss at seventeen under a galaxy of plastic foam planets, and then it was over. His mother was gone, and in her stead, he had Alex telling him that -

Michael forcefully pushed that thought away and returned his attention back to the cranky drawl of Walt Sanders, “I know kid, but I’m already out with the wrecker in the other ass-end direction, so I need you to go help this cry baby who can’t change a flat. Help me make some money, so I can afford to keep your ass employed.” 

“Fine, tell me the location, but this is holiday pay, not overtime.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sanders muttered, before rattling off the mile marker and the highway. “It’s a Lincoln sedan, black. Probably some old geezer out on a drive to church who ran into trouble.”

“You calling someone else a geezer is funny to me, I hope you know that,” Michael replied, hitting his turn signal to make a left to pick up the state road. It wasn’t as if he had a planned time to see Maria, the lunch hour and official opening of the bar was still an hour away. A little delay that made him some extra cash was doable. 

“Shut the hell up kid, and get going,” Sanders griped good-naturedly, before hanging up on Michael. 

The sun was bright overhead, the storm from the night before having washed the land and sky clean of clouds. Across the pavement ahead, the heat and the brightness, cast a mirage of dark shimmering water that creeped just out of reach as he drove toward his new destination. His mind ticked over the set of priorities ahead, to make a little money with a tire change, then to drop in on Maria to make his case, and finally, he knew he needed to swing by Isobel’s to check on her in the aftermath of Noah’s betrayal. Somewhere in all of that, he knew he would need to make it home to see Alex for that promised talk, but there was plenty of time for that because Alex rarely came by during the day to see him.

“I’m still fighting his battles, not mine.”

Michael flexed his hands on the steering wheel again and pushed down the heaviness in his heart that accompanied thinking about Alex. Ten long years of waiting and wanting him. If Michael cared to count up all of the trips to Roswell that Alex had made on leave, the two weeks together after the class reunion that frankly felt like a hallucination to Michael, all of those hours spent together would add up to a month. A month that stretched out over ten years, 520 weeks, or 3,650 days.

Counting the distance to the nearest star was in light years, but when it came to counting the distance between the stash of wedding rings he had purchased for Alex over the years and what he had been actually allowed to have with Alex, well, that was a calculation beyond the redshift spectrum. It would take energy to transverse that distance one more time, and Michael had nothing left inside to fuel that journey. He couldn’t afford to be lost in the black again, not with Isobel in free-fall from Noah’s years of manipulations, not with the prospect of telling Liz they had found Rosa’s body on the horizon. It was just too hard to believe that this time, with Alex calling him family, with Alex throwing back the closest declaration to love that he had ever made, actually meant he was ready to move toward Michael and work to cut the distance between them on his own.

It was better to head forward in a new direction, than to look back like Max had said. Besides, every other time he had failed to be enough of a reason to help Alex bridge his own chasm between what he wanted and what he had allowed himself to have. What could have changed? Caulfield had just cemented the complications for them both. 

A dark shadow in the distance, parked just off the road caught Michael’s attention. He glanced down at the odometer to mark the mileage and started to ease up on the gas. That must be the motorist Sanders had fielded a call from earlier, he realized. The ‘old geezer’ in the black Lincoln with a flat tire. He glanced in the rearview mirror to check for traffic but the road behind him was devoid of other vehicles. 

Michael hit the turn signal and hazard lights on his truck, turning briefly to the side to check that he had some spare water bottles for the customer and his toolbox within reach and then turned onto the shoulder of the highway. Mentally he was already five steps ahead of himself as he stepped out of the truck to approach the car, thinking about the size of socket to fit over the lug nuts for the Lincoln’s wheels, whether his torque wrench was even in his box, or if he would have to camouflage his telekinetic efforts to change out the tire, that it took a moment to realize the tires on the Lincoln were whole and unharmed on the driver’s side.

Puzzled, Michael slowed his approach, and started toward the passenger side of the car. The windows were rolled up and dark, the tint was straddling the threshold of legal for New Mexico. There was still no sign of defect in the tires, he noticed as he was halfway around the passenger fender. Faulty tire gauge, he mused before he noticed the engine was rumbling almost inaudibly. Fucking hybrid, which meant whatever issue it had been definitely beyond the parts available at Sanders.

It was a little odd that the driver hadn’t stepped out to greet Michael, but not terribly unusual when it came to elderly customers who seemed to have a healthy paranoia about everyone they encountered. Still, Michael pasted a smile on his face and tapped on the window. 

The automatic window slipped downward in an expensive whisper, but it wasn’t a helpless old man on his way to church at the wheel. 

Jesse Manes smiled at Michael flashing his teeth, “Surprise.” Before Michael could do more than step backward, Jesse lifted a large gun-shaped object and fired. Yellow particulate matter exploded into the air, enveloping Michael completely. Pulling his arm to his mouth to attempt to block the pollen, did little good as he felt the sedating effects almost immediately.

He coughed into the open air, scrambling back toward his truck on weak legs as he tried to clear his lungs of the fast-acting poison. Behind him, he heard the car door open, and the crunch of boots on the loose gravel from the road’s shoulder as Jesse approached him. Though his powers were gone and his strength was waning fast, Michael had never backed down from a fight in life.

Certainly, not a fight for his life.

Swinging with all of his might, he hurled his heavy toolbox at Jesse blindly. There was a thump and a curse, but the footsteps kept coming. Animal-like terror set in as Michael crawled now on his knees toward the cab of his truck. He had to move, he had to live, he wasn’t going to die here on the side of the damn road- Suddenly a black boot came down on his hand, pinning him place and lighting up a fierce agony of pain in its wake.

“I like the fight, Guerin, I do,” Jesse remarked with a quiet menace. “Shall I make this hand match your other-” 

It was on the tip of Michael’s tongue to point out the obvious, but then Jesse saw it for himself. His left hand, healed and pristine, clutching at the hot blacktop surface. 

“I see.” He barked out a laugh that chilled Michael. “I knew it. I knew you weren’t the only one in Roswell. I thought about killing you right here you know, but now, you might finally serve a purpose in your useless life. You thought you could use my son in your perverted schemes? Well now it’s your turn to be bait.” 

Michael’s vision was already fading into blindness with the pollen taking hold, but he managed to spit out between numb lips, “Go fuck yourself.”

“Not today. You’re the one who is fucked.” A hand grabbed a tight hold of Michael’s hair, wrenching him backward, and then it was merciful darkness. 

*** 

[liahswriting]

The Resident Whore (series masterlist)

Relationship(s): Mirage/Bloodhound, Mirage/Gibraltar, Mirage/Lifeline, Mirage/Pathfinder, Mirage/Wraith, Mirage/Bangalore, Mirage/Caustic, Mirage/Octane, Mirage/Wattson, Mirage/Crypto, Mirage/Revenant, Mirage/Loba, Mirage/Rampart, Mirage/Horizon, Mirage/Fuse

Chapters: WIP

Warnings: NSFW. Like extremely NSFW. Threesomes, robot sex, blow jobs, dubious consent, breeding kink, mommy issues, mommy kink, praise kink, drugs.

Summary: Everyone loves Mirage. Everyone.

Read on AO3

Chapter 1: Mirage/Octane

Chapter 2: Mirage/Octane

Chapter 3: Mirage/Loba/Wraith

Chapter 4: Mirage/Wattson/Octane

[mako-bones]

It’s Lonely In the Desert (BOTW)

[snippet from my first legend of zelda; botw wip called “Reaping Hook”. I’m not sure if it’ll make it into the story, but I like this a lot and find it good character practice. Enjoy!]

tw; emotional abuse tw? slight mentions of self harm, but nothing too explicit

“You know...Mirages are a weird thing. Makes you see things that aren’t even there. I dunno, you might even hear things.”

“Like what?” Kiso asked, and only the burning heat replied. Wildly, he looked around for the voice, and only saw the desert.

That’s right. The blistering, scorching, endless sand dunes and dust clouds in the horizon. The elusive hydromelons that were needed at the village were nowhere to be found, and Kiso was more than just deadbeat exhausted.

He was hearing voices apparently as well.

Rolling his eyes, he continued trekking through the sand, eyes scanning for the sprouts of vine and vibrant green against gold. The kind of green that reminded him of home. 

Summers in the shade of trees, cooling rivers that never let you burn, and sunsets spent running back home; Chased by the golden sunlight of carefree nostalgia.

How long had it been since those days? How long would it be before he would go back? Could he even go back?

Slowly, his feet sank into the sand when he didn’t step ahead an further. Just staring up at the sky with eyes squeezed shut, as if blocking the sun would somehow purge all the homesickness from his chest.

No matter what, it didn’t seem to go that way. He could never forget.

“Well, I’ll be damned. It’s really you.”

Kiso spun around, and his heart dropped to the pit of his stomach. “Mom?”

Ellie crossed her arms, staring down at her son with something unreadable in her eyes. The tattoo on her head was glowing.

“Did you really think you could run from me? I can play this game a little better than you, after all.”

Each step didn’t seem real. But she walked forward for each step Kiso took back, calm and precise and cold.

“And look at you now. Wearing these...Clothes. Standing here, in the dirt and sand. You’ve gone and ruined everything we did for you. Everything we planned.”

She placed her hands on his shoulders. “But you had to find out, didn’t you? Are you happy now, my little rabbit? Did the truth set you free, Kiso? Did it?”

She squeezed.

“I warned you so many times, dear. To stop searching so hard, and just do as you’re told. Follow in the tiniest trace of dignity that I could give you, after your father’s disgrace and treason. But you couldn’t even do that, hm?”

She dug her nails into his shoulder blades.

“So tell me, Kiso. Are you content, among these traitors? Are you?”

...Mirages are a weird thing.

When Kiso delivered the hydromelons to the village, A as there at the edge of town. Waiting as he always did, to walk Kiso back to the Hideout before nightfall. That late afternoon, he was sharpening his blade when Kiso trudged over.

“You’re a bit later than usual. Everything alright?”

“Mhm...Yeah. Just a long day.”

It was then A raised an eyebrow, and looked up, and immediately rose, his sword becoming the farthest thing from his mind. He stopped Kiso in his auto-piloted walk. “Kiso, your shoulders...What happened to you?”

Tiny crescent moons fit for five fingers were embedded deeply into his skin, already scabbing over with dried blood around the shape. Kiso glanced down with empty eyes, shrugging. 

“I don’t know. I’m just tired. Can we skip training tonight? Please?”

A stared a little longer at the scabs, quiet concern making him nod absentmindedly. He gently pulled Kiso along, but he couldn’t quite tear his eyes away from the shift in the air, heavy with an uncomfortable silence. 

“Of course, Kiso. Is there anything you want to talk about?” He prodded gently, frowning when Kiso shook his head. 

“No, thanks. It’s just...Mirages are a weird thing out here, you know?”

[gemmahale]

Call of Duty: Modern Warfare (Reboot) - Works In Progress

I'm always happy to answer questions and share progress on any of these! My Ask Box is always open. Links lead to the tag for that WIP.

All WIPs are 18+. Minors, please don't.

John 'Bravo 6' Price

#Useful Girl WIP - A retrospective that takes John Price from Pompous Playboy Lieutenant to Suave Dominant Captain with a woman that makes his head spin and his pants tight. BDSM, D/s, boot blacking and similar kinks. John Price x OFC Scarlett Morgan

#Bury The Lede WIP - An investigative journalist followed the paths of multiple women that have gone missing in a desert town. Now she's stranded with her car fucked. The kind Samaritan that took her to his friend's mechanic shop might know more than he lets on. John Price x OFC Reporter x [Redacted] x [Redacted]

Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick

#Call of The Wild WIP - When his werewolf girlfriend goes missing, Kyle Garrick must set his feelings aside in order to save her from a hybrid trafficking ring. Kyle Garrick x OFC Shannon Porter Shifter AU

#The Contract WIP - In a fit of frustration, Rosalind Henderson makes a deal with a demon. When he comes to collect, they're taken aback by how normal he is. Or is there more to this contract she didn't know about when they signed? Kyle Garrick x OC Rosalind 'Rosie'/'Lin' Henderson Demon AU; Collab with @pfhwrittes

#Corporal Distraction WIP - Sgt. Kyle Garrick has been seeing Corporal Anna Gibson in secret. His teammates have had enough of their late night shenanigans and decide to take matters into their own hands. Kyle Garrick x OFC Anna Gibson; John MacTavish, Simon Riley x OFC Anna Gibson

#Embroidered Secret WIP - Kyle Garrick meets Lucille Fitzroy at one of the many balls. Follow their courtship with a lost and found trinket, a realization of love, and lots of witty banter and stolen moments. He fell first, she fell harder trope. Kyle Garrick x OFC Lucille Fitzroy Regency AU; Collab with @ofdivinity01

#Flowers from My Love WIP - Johanna Hawkins, disabled flower farmer, meets the Taskforce 141 and becomes smitten with Kyle Garrick when they occupy the neighbor's house. When a farmer's market event is attacked, she has to trust her new friends to be able to get her out of the precarious situation she's found herself in. Kyle Garrick x OFC Johanna Hawkins

#A Protégé's Trust WIP - Laswell's CIA Operative Lisa 'Badger' Compton manages to get under Kyle's skin every which way he turns. It's infuriating how much she bothers him. Her silky voice over comms, her voluptuous curves handing him information, the twinkle of her painted fingernail on her firearm's trigger - one of these days, he's going to lose it over this woman. Kyle Garrick x OFC Lisa 'Badger' Compton. Collab with @pfhwrittes

#Squeamish Stitches WIP - When Gaz is injuried on a recon mission, it's up to Jen 'Glitz' O'Dolan to get him patched up. One catch: her last visit to med bay resulted in her fainting at the sight of blood. Squeamish or not, his life rests in her hands while Ghost secures the safehouse. Aka: the Triple G Crew Kyle Garrick x OFC Jen 'Glitz' O'Dolan; Simon Riley & OFC Glitz

#Palace Hallways WIP - It's not awful being the newly crowned Queen's lady-in-waiting. What is awful is the attention you've unintentionally garnered from Sir Garrick. What's even worse, is the Royal Artificer and Royal Druid seem to be paying you the same kind of attention. You're a mess, and no one will do anything about it. Fantasy AU Kyle Garrick, Johnny MacTavish, Simon Riley x OFC 'Petal'

#Schooled WIP - Kyle's life's been uprooted after the failed capture of Makarov. Will moving to Wales, accepting a new position in MI6, and flirting with his twin sister's best friend help him reacclimate? Kyle Garrick x OFC Erin Whitford Collab with @eilidh-eternal

John 'Soap' MacTavish

#Museum Muse WIP - An online friendship blossoms between KelpieTinker93 (John) and IrisOfTheLake (Daisy) when they keep finding themselves active in the same online forums - especially a few spicy ones. Shy flirts become outright come-ons, and a tentative relationship blooms.

Tinker and Iris eventually decide to meet at a coffee shop in person - but can their relationship survive the shift to IRL? Or are they in for the biggest surprise of their life when face to face with reality?

BDSM, D/s dynamic, puppy play Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x OFC Darlene 'Daisy' Houghton

#Righteous Fury WIP - When one man finds himself in the same position he was in four years ago, he has a choice to make. When the beast hungry for retribution and protection roars, Sergeant John 'Soap' MacTavish answers.

That choice leads him into a life he never expected as part of Task Force 141 and SpecGru: one of subterfuge, counter-terrorism, and intelligence operations. He knows how to defuse a bomb and shoot a gun, but can he handle the increased pressure of the work?

Set in the Museum Muse Universe. Published Masterlist John 'Soap' MacTavish, Task Force 141 and Others

#Brix WIP - Orchard manager Annabeth Turner deals with becoming a safehouse for a clandestine task force. The Scot on the team can't seem to help himself and continues to get in the way. Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x OFC Annabeth Turner

#Highland Tartans WIP - John MacTavish and Holly Duncan, of neighboring Scottish clans, are set to be wed. Historic Scottish Highlands AU (historical accuracy is questionable) Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x OFC Holly Duncan

#Corporal Distraction WIP - Sgt. Kyle Garrick has been seeing Corporal Anna Gibson in secret. His teammates have had enough of their late night shenanigans and decide to take matters into their own hands. Kyle Garrick x OFC Anna Gibson; John MacTavish, Simon Riley x OFC Anna Gibson

#Palace Hallways WIP - It's not awful being the newly crowned Queen's lady-in-waiting. What is awful is the attention you've unintentionally garnered from Sir Garrick. What's even worse, is the Royal Artificer and Royal Druid seem to be paying you the same kind of attention. You're a mess, and no one will do anything about it. Fantasy AU Kyle Garrick, Johnny MacTavish, Simon Riley x OFC 'Petal'

Simon 'Ghost' Riley

#Palace Hallways WIP - It's not awful being the newly crowned Queen's lady-in-waiting. What is awful is the attention you've unintentionally garnered from Sir Garrick. What's even worse, is the Royal Artificer and Royal Druid seem to be paying you the same kind of attention. You're a mess, and no one will do anything about it. Fantasy AU Kyle Garrick, Johnny MacTavish, Simon Riley x OFC 'Petal'

#Squeamish Stitches WIP - When Gaz is injuried on a recon mission, it's up to Jen 'Glitz' O'Dolan to get him patched up. One catch: her last visit to med bay resulted in her fainting at the sight of blood. Squeamish or not, his life rests in her hands while Ghost secures the safehouse. Aka: the Triple G Crew Kyle Garrick x OFC Jen 'Glitz' O'Dolan; Simon Riley & OFC 'Glitz'

#Corporal Distraction WIP - Sgt. Kyle Garrick has been seeing Corporal Anna Gibson in secret. His teammates have had enough of their late night shenanigans and decide to take matters into their own hands. Kyle Garrick x OFC Anna Gibson; John MacTavish, Simon Riley x OFC Anna Gibson

Kate Laswell

#Edge Dressing WIP - Kate is roped into a bootblacking demonstration by her wife Letty. A curious voyeur learns more about the art than they expected. Kate Laswell x OFC Letty Laswell x OC (TBD)

Task Force 141 - Price, Ghost, Gaz, Soap (May Include other MW characters)

#Feylands WIP - The Court of Maevonia have been in search of a human for their court plaything for a while. Josephine Kaplan fits the description of what they want. But when she accidentally shows up unannounced just as a war with a neighboring kingdom is kicking off, it seems like things might work out differently. Can Josie work with the Court to save not only Maevonia, but also Earth from the Penumbra and it’s Shadow Bringers? Fey AU OFC Josephine ‘Josie’ Kaplan x Gary 'Roach’ Sanderson; + Task Force 141, Kate Laswell, Wife Laswell, Alex Keller, Farah Karim

#141 Studio WIP - Samantha West, stage name Poppy, interviews for a position with Studio 141 - one of the most elite, ethical and diverse porn studios. With her hiring comes a whirlwind of changes - mostly for the better. But when trouble comes knocking, will Poppy have the answer on the 'Tip Of The Tongue'? Porn Studio AU. AKA: Kinky Bullshit. Gemma needed a sandbox for gratuitous porn, pro sex-worker. Task Force 141 + Friends x OFC Samantha 'Poppy' West

#7 Sins Bookstore WIP - Seven Sins Bookstore and Cafe is warm and cozy inside - a maze of bookshelves filled with tomes and little reading nooks tucked throughout on one side, and on the other, a bustling cafe with delicious food, hot beverages, wine tastings and room for groups to congregate. But in the basement, beyond an unassuming office door, lies the real purpose of the institution. That’s where the real deals are made, where blood is ordered to be spilled, and pacts signed in indelible hemoglobin ink. Vampire Mobster AU Task Force 141 x OC's - Journalist, Researcher, Barista Manager, Author, Regular Customer

#Horizon Mirages WIP - With an increase in bandit activity in the area around the small town of Whisperdale, recently elected Sheriff John Price and his deputies - Simon Riley, Johnny MacTavish, and Kyle Garrick - are pressured to ease tensions between cattlemen, homesteaders and townsfolk alike. Western AU Task Force 141 x OCs - Seamstress, Shepherdess, Saloon Co-Owner, General Store Manager

#Blow A Man Down WIP - The clipper 141 sails upon the seas, exploring and trading at ports across the globe. Returning to home port is always an adventure. Historical Sailor AU Task Force 141 x OCs - Captain of the Sally Lou, Barkeep, Merchant, Dockmaster + Friends

Glitter Background in Header: 1tamara2 from Pixabay Text Divider: @saradika-graphics Last Updated: 10/10/2024

[sigmalied]

WIP Preview

Aria/Tevos 

Premise: Aria has assembled a consortium of eventual subsidiaries in response to a lush world within asari space being greenlit for colonization, but she quickly encounters some complications from rival interests vying for the same plots of land. Coincidentally, these same rivals have challenged the asari councilor’s goals for the planet’s future, and the pair reach a mutually beneficial arrangement in countermeasure. But even when their business concludes, Aria can't stop thinking about her. Once the obsession becomes mutual, the pair are left to wonder whether it was all just another Nevos mirage - a temporary escapist fantasy in paradise - or something with longevity.

Effectively replaces the story Confidentiality. This preview is still pretty rough, skeletal, and lacking ambient detail, but it’s just to give an idea about what the story is. Also, a cameo of Parem Igrahal, but here she’s young, around 30. The most notable features of this story are the fact that Aria and Tevos are never antagonistic to each other, Liselle is a year or two younger than she was in Confidentiality, and Tevos’s character is less self-critical, but still as cautious.

I.

There was an indulgent sense of tradition in meeting on a lush world to apportion another. The matriarchy had spent the last few years echoing the potential of Ryasus, their precious emerald glistening under the mists of interminable waterfalls and giant dew-heavy aroids. In the right hands, they said, Ryasus would become a second Nevos within half a century. Its exotic vistas would attract renowned filmmakers, mountain peaks penetrating the canopies would stroke egos of business executives opening new branches, and tourists wading into the shallow crystalline oceans would rather lose themselves than turn back to shore.

Aria’s judgement of the generous optimism was it being a bit out of proportion. She only agreed with their rhetoric insofar as expansion onto that beautiful, yet undefiled planet was discussed as a symptom of corporate success, and therefore encouraged. Beyond this, all the commotion had simply inspired too many interested parties to flock to petition the asari government for permits. In consequence, the competition had considerably grown. It seemed as though every household name company in the galaxy was vying for the largest chunk of untamed tropical splendor they could get their hands on.

The elevator Aria and her two bodyguards stepped into was a cuboidal space, strictly glass on every side save for the floor and the wall attached to the lifting mechanism that sent it crawling up the spine of the tower hugging the cliffside. It was commodious enough to transport a dozen individuals comfortably, and was furnished with a square arrangement of low sofas and palmed plants in each corner.

Aria led her guards to the furthermost window. While they faced the room, Aria stood gazing out at the river-cloven forests of Nevos, to where its green was engulfed by hazy gold at the horizon. She could see one wing of the building curving along with the cliff at her left; countless glinting windows on stratified white.  

She could also faintly see reflected in the glass the overwhelmingly asari population periodically entering and exiting during their ascent. Tourists and businesspeople alike. But upon noticing the surly batarian and asari accompanying Aria’s mysterious figure, they would fixate on the identity of their charge. Aria’s civilian apparel, however expensive and expertly tailored, kept them guessing. None could divorce her from the powerful iconography she had established, and none dared approach her for a better look.

After a few minutes, Aria saw a few matriarchs superimpose themselves on the idyllic scenery. They were looking at her, saying nothing aloud for fear of being overheard, but Aria could tell they recognized her. She fitted her hands on her hips, content to ignore them.

Aria was not enchanted by their dreams of paradise. She dreamed not of velvety flowers and beaches, but of rich, dark soil. She dreamed of fragrant batarian tobacco fields stretching on for endless kilometers, to be one day rolled into a new brand of luxury cigars with whom she would partner.

II.

“So, Aria.” Parem rested her cigar against her plate and folded her hands together on the table. “Be honest with me. Do you really think our people are going to be able to woo the matriarch panel?”

Aria exhaled irately. “They’d damn well better.”

“The girl Senaya doesn’t have the stomach for tobacco. She takes no interest in it. And [X] is afraid of his wife. Afraid of her!”

“I know.”

“[Y]’s going to have his partnership within several years when he expires,” said the batarian woman. “Is that really who we want to work with? Maybe we should do something.”

“We can fire her and keep her from taking administrative actions, but we can’t take away her partnership. We’d have to buy her out of it, and that’s only if she’s willing to sell.”

“Don’t we have a more... traditional option of solving this problem?”

Aria subtly shook her head. “It’s not that easy here. The Republics are liable to investigate something like that. And how much effort are we willing to put in to keep it looking clean?”

“Getting rid of her may be worth any cost. You’ll see, Aria, once she’s rotting us from the inside.” 

[...]

“I’ve been receiving requests from suitors,” said Parem.

“Anyone you like?”

“None. I hate looking at their faces. They only remind me of people like that salarian who would surrender his life work to the woman he doesn’t even sleep with. I keep wondering, what if I mistakenly choose an insect like him? It will be a colossal waste of my time. I can have sex with as many strong and beautiful men as I want without having to marry them. They only thing they have ever offered me that I cannot obtain myself is children, and still, I do not need to be married for that.”

“Well, I think you’ve got the right idea about things. You seem sure of what you want.” She crossed her legs beneath the table. Nearby, their personal security dealt another hand of cards.

Parem slowly nodded. Then a curiosity struck her, but it was charged with dissatisfaction when she asked, “I know you usually prefer the company of women, but have you ever slept with a batarian man, Aria?”

“Are we that familiar now?”

“Humor me, please.”

Aria turned away to face the other tables arranged across the balcony, her expression neutral and unchanging as she considered her answer. There was a wind chime mounted above the door leading back into the warmly-lit restaurant, softly ringing. “I might have.”

“They’re selfish. Greedy. They touch you like they touch a marinated roast.”

Aria’s shoulders shook with soundless amusement. With a lingering smile, she replied, “Then I guess I’m lucky,” and lowered a hand to roll the cigar’s head of ashes against the side of her plate.

III.

“I’m afraid you’re occupying my seat.”

The crispness of the northern Thessian accent, along with its mindful elocution and lack of hostility despite the declared grievance, nearly annoyed Aria. She neglected to afford the stranger so much as a glance, and instead dismissed her with a flat, “Move along.”

“I need to ask you to relocate.”

The persistence riled her. “And who the hell is asking?" When Aria at last regarded her harasser in contempt, she found a face embellished by stark white tattoos and austere cheekbones only made amiable by the serene set of her eyes. She was carrying a portfolio.

“Well, would it impress upon your opinion at all to know the asari councilor is asking?”

Aria settled on a passing insult before turning back to the stage where the panel was assembling. “I think Idras would turn over in her grave if she knew about the state of her office.” 

“Idras would have never granted someone like you a visa,” said the councilor. “I see you’ve made good use of the referendum I introduced.”

“Yet I still can’t own land.”

“A necessary compromise.” Accepting the fact that Aria was as immovable as a ton of stone, she sat down with a single seat between them. “Asari space is the collective inheritance of our people, and all of asari descent should have easier access to our homeworlds regardless of citizenship. At the collateral expense of inviting people like yourself - I believe only due to your high profile mitigating your risk factor - I think we’ve done a great thing. But you raise an interesting point. Coincidentally, your landowning ability has been the topic of multiple conversations this morning.”

For a time, Aria said nothing. 

The councilor continued, “The matriarchs are trying to figure out which jockeys you’ve bet on, so to speak.”

“And I’m supposed to thank you and tell you what I’m doing?” She scoffed.

“I don’t expect you to. I’m only sharing what I’ve heard.”

“Trying to make friends?”

“Avoiding making enemies, rather.”

[...]

Tevos analyzed the region Aria highlighted in the face of her datapad. “Unfortunately,” she said, “there are multiple groups interested in that area. Most notably, a mining corporation. Preliminary surveys have documented a large deposit of palladium less than a kilometer beneath the surface. Despite the inevitable environmental damages, extracting the ore is tempting to the panel because of the tax revenue it would generate.” 

“Shit,” Aria hissed. “Are you serious? We’re not already out of the race, are we?”

“It appears to be the case. They’re a behemoth. They will easily eclipse any smaller outfit by name alone. If I were you I would advise my associates to prioritize other plots of land.”

“I can’t fucking believe this... We’re interested in that area specifically for its soil quality. There’s nothing else like it on that world - it’s an integral part of our branding and if we can’t get that land, we’re dead in the water.”

“If it’s any consolation, most of the matriarchy are also displeased about the probable outcome. They wanted to keep the planet pristine for tourism and ecological studies. The way this is headed, another Nevos isn’t looking very likely.”

Aria lifted a hand to rub at her temples. While she had made a point of staying for the land petitions, she had only done so as a formality in good faith for Parem’s cousin. Actually needing to take initiative to solve a problem of this scope would delay her departure by at least two or three days, and with a baby at home and her station led by her eccentric lieutenants, it was not an ideal outcome.

IV.

[In a smaller auction house in the larger building]

After placing her exorbitant bid in the console beneath the twisting marble sculpture, Aria turned to find amused incredulity dashed across the councilor’s features. Her arms were folded across her middle and a hand concealed part of the lower half of her face, as if to hide her expression. 

“Do you even have a use for it?” Tevos asked her.

“Maybe I’m just an avid patron.”

She shook her head at her, glancing back to the sculpture.

“I'm going to take you to dinner,” Aria said. “Belaisa at seven.”

Despite her supreme confidence, the moment Tevos seemed to process the offer, the jovial climate between them soured and became grim. 

“Aria, I appreciate the offer, but - ”

“But?”

“I don’t think it would be appropriate.”

Aria was not yet discouraged. “Then I’ll send over a bottle of something to your room. Tell me where you’re staying.”

“I’m not giving you my room number,” Tevos replied. A vein of humor was present in her tone, but it was overshadowed by remorse. “Listen to me for a moment. The matriarchy expressed their... concerns about me speaking with you.”

“I’m sure they understand that you’re entitled to your own personal decisions.”

“Yes, but, even if our interactions are innocuous, it’s not good publicity if people start taking notice. I’m a councilor, Aria. Professionalism always comes before my personal desires. And what we did at the petition toed the line enough; although the matriarchy is pleased, they want no more of it. No more of... you. Especially if it can be avoided. You’re watched, you realize. We watch everyone in the galaxy of note, and you in particular make them very nervous.”

“And they should be nervous,” Aria asserted. “But not about what you do.”

They were quiet for a time. Aria hoped they had kept their volume low enough to not be overheard by both their personal security, who they had left at the entrance of the auction gallery, always within sight.

Tevos reached into her coat’s interior pocket to produce a small paper notepad and attached pen. She wrote something down, presented it to Aria, and said barely above a whisper, “I'd like you to call me tonight.”

She accepted the paper and gleaned what it contained: a long string of characters Aria recognized as the access to a well-encrypted line. But before Aria could lift her gaze and provocatively compliment her decision, Tevos spoke again in warning.

“If you ask why, I may suddenly regain my senses and reconsider.” She stepped away from her once, then altogether as she retreated toward the exit, only delaying to say, “Goodnight,” over her shoulder.

[thunderheadfred]

Paradox Preview (wip!)

The next chapter of A Pretty Taste For Paradox is far from complete - as in, the entire first half isn’t written yet - but I wanted to share something, anything, because I’ve been fine-tuning this closing sequence for months. No guarantee of quality, just saying I’ve been exceptionally nit-picky and self-critical about this one for some reason.

(Horizon)

Shepard tries to meet Garrus behind one of the trucks, but staggers before she can reach him. Biotics on the fritz. Her barrier explodes, taking her amp along with it. Purple fireworks crackle through her eardrums, leaving her stunned, too dizzy to run straight.

The praetorian turns, beam flickering. It’s running out of juice. They’ve nearly cracked it, but even at half strength it’s still a shivering hoard of limbs. A million mandibles slavering above her head, hungry to grind her body to pulp.

Charge, she thinks. Now.

Legs shaking, head full of smoke. Her amp objects, fizzling at the bottom of her skull. Her right knee buckles.

On her last reserves, she dives behind the nearest cover. A naked crate is too fragile to hold for long, but her legs won’t move. She’s pushed too hard, too fast. No time to learn the limits of this remade body, and Ash’s spite has made her foolish.

The enhancements, the powers, the dogs of the underworld at her back. All had granted Shepard a sloppy notion of invulnerability, but mortality has reasserted itself with vengeance. Sure as shit, she’s still killable.

On her six, Garrus slings a flashy overload while clattering across a mountain of shipping crates, trying to draw the praetorian’s gaze. On her nine, Solus peeks around his own cover and judges Shepard’s position. Wheels turning, trigonometry in his eyes, he calculates. She sees her odds reflected in a twitch of wet nictitating membrane: they’re not good.

The praetorian’s energy beam reactivates, carving an unbroken line through the ground. The impact tremor blows Shepard’s cover to smithereens and knocks her flat. A furious shuffling blow to the organs, painting her vision hot pink. She can’t see.

Garrus swears, gunfire drowning the comm. In the thick of it, Mordin yells Shepard’s name. Her only warning.

Agony cuts across her thigh. Slicing muscle from bone. Bursting arteries. Sawing through nerves. The beam outlines her pelvis, but stutters and fails before it can reach anything vital.

Her vision clears. She blinks at the praetorian. It shivers, temporarily spent, then starts paying closer attention to Garrus.

OVER HERE ASSHOLE

Garrus. Screaming like hell, shooting through clip after clip.

Coming for you, Shepard

Mordin. Throwing ordnance as he runs, great eddies of flame that slam into the praetorian’s hull.  

In a storm of rippling heat and gunfire, shimmering like some terrible mirage, the monster finally wilts and evaporates. A glowing carcass that floats away on a swift breeze. Dust.

Only sky looming now. Nothing to fear. Overhead, the welcoming infinity of miracle-blue. Homey, the place she came from.

Shepard can’t focus. As if from a great distance, she watches Professor Solus dragging a mangled body into his lap.

A slap to the face shakes her down from a perch in the breeze. Slowly, she brings the picture into focus.

Armor is melting on her skin with a smell like a human foundry. Bonding her to the earth, to the doctor, welding her firmly to this world. What’s left of her suit makes too many noises, cautioning with bells and whistles that she’ll be dead in minutes.

Mordin’s voice runs alongside, disagreeing. His words trill sweet and high, ringing with the coloratura of panic.

Eyes on me, Shepard. Aha! Sleeping on the job…

A sigh of profound disappointment.

Lazy.

Another slap, violent and innervating. Thrown back into her body, Shepard pays attention.

Somehow, like always, the pain gets worse and she stays alive. She bleeds, gushing. Impressive height. Cerberus showing off again. Her left leg dangles from her hip on a wet thread. She sees white, the cross-section of her femur, the gory engineering of arteries laid bare. An artistic, labyrinthine weave: the crosshatch of not-quite-indestructible muscles and bones and so much blood.

She observes only, has no control. Her right hand waves drunkenly and wanders into the Professor’s way. Without pausing his work, he grabs her fingers and puts them on his shoulder, sidelining her tremors. A practiced move. He’s been here before, resuscitating lost causes.

Her hand clutches his shoulder, his neck, her safety rail in a decompressing airlock. One of his creased old tendons twitches beneath her thumb, throat long and pale, skin stamped with red fingerprints as carefree as polkadots.

The Professor bites open a sterile bag of supplies. His hands are already busy, covered in blood and holding something in place. Something of hers.

Vakarian! Acute hemophobia - not helping!

– I don’t –

Need reminder? Rocket to face uglier than this! Commander stayed wide awake, held shattered carapace together. Rare opportunity to return favor. More pressure!

Mordin babbles around the plastic between his teeth. Perfect lucidity, administering emergency coagulant and an impressive lecture about integrity all at the same time. Pattering on and on and on, never breaking eye contact with Shepard.

Something something femoral artery something something eyes on me…

The red fountain begins to lose height and enthusiasm, and Shepard feels lighter.

With everything spinning, her eyelids sag, her head falls into the slim bend of his arm. Soft colors whisper in the sunbeams overhead, dust and light reminding her: she’s been borrowing time since day one.

Come home, the sky suggests, blue and safe. Come home.

– shuttle ETA ninety seconds –

Not fast enough! Strip torso plating!

– I’m going as fast as I can Mordin she’s flatlining–

Chest clear. Administering cardiac stimpack. Direct adrenaline burst in 3 - 2 - 1

A clean blast of air, detonating her from the inside out, minty and mentholated. Vitalizing needles prop her open. A sting of relief that keeps her soul from squeezing out, away.

Breath flavored with medicinal vapors, a face blocking out the sun.

Her reignited heart fills as he nears. Singing.

“Welcome back, Shepard.”

[glare-gryphon]

It’s 3am, so before I go to bed here’s a WIP snippet of a Vaderwan prompt fill I was working on tonight feat. Suitless Vader and Sand Wizard Obi-Wan

Obi-Wan is older now than he was that final day on Mustafar, a fact that is more surprising than it rightfully should be. His hair and his beard are more grey than red, his face lined and worn by the desert. The twin suns, just beginning to dip below the horizon, have managed to tan the man’s stubbornly space-pale skin, bringing out the freckles on his shoulders and the bridge of his nose. Blue eyes, familiar yet so very different, follow the trajectory of the displaced stone until they settle on Vader. There is recognition there, but not comprehension. Not enough for the enormity of this situation.

A brilliant smile blooms on his face. “Anakin!” He calls, pushing himself to his feet. The process is considerably slower than it had once been, joints aged beyond his years by the abuses of war. “I was wondering when you would visit me.”

The smile he wears, the vacancy of his eyes—there is something unsettling about it all. No one knows better than Obi-Wan Kenobi the monster that Anakin Skywalker has become. He alone knows the face hidden behind the cold mask presented to the rest of the galaxy, and he alone knows the name long-shed in favor of his new moniker. A memory flickers across Vader’s mind of the gossip he’d heard passing through Mos Eisley. Old Ben Kenobi, the Wizard of the Wastes.

Those hills can drive a man mad, the voice of a nine year-old slave boy murmurs in his ear.

“It’s been some time since you last visited,” Kenobi continues, and there’s a flicker of something injured in his expression. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever come back.”

A mirage. That’s all he is, or at least, all Obi-Wan believes him to be. This would be the perfect time to strike the man down. He would never see it coming. Never suspect. Yet something stays his hand, and he finds himself climbing down the hill to meet Kenobi and his herd at its base.

“I was just about to take the Bantha back to the homestead, but you’re welcome to join us.”

Even aging and desert-mad, Obi-Wan has still retained his gift for the Force. It takes but a brush of his mind, his will, to get the herd moving. Vader tracks along beside him as they make their way through the Waste, listening as the man babbles on about his life here in the desert, filling him in on the happenings since his mirage’s last visit. It’s mostly uneventful: the birth of a new calf, a raid by the sand people, repair to the vaporators. “Qui-Gon comes around quite often, these days,” he says, suddenly solemn. “Sometimes I think I see… see Satine. She never lingers, though; not the way you and Qui-Gon do.”

Vader wonders how long the ghost of Anakin Skywalker has been haunting his old mentor. How long had it taken for the curse of the Waste to take its toll?

[gemmahale]

Horizon Mirages - Western AU WIP

I also never posted about this one other than having it in my WIP list and tagging some inspo pictures.

With an increase in bandit activity in the area around the small town of Whisperdale, recently elected Sheriff John Price and his deputies - Simon Riley, Johnny MacTavish, and Kyle Garrick - are pressured to ease tensions between cattlemen, homesteaders and townsfolk alike. After the initial quashing of the bandits with help from the cattlemen on the Shadow and Vaquero ranches, life sets into a comfortable routine. Newly established patrols, and the responsibility of settling low-stakes disputes at the saloon, the Sheriff and his Deputies would call this life almost idyllic in comparison to the chaos previously. But when bandits strike anew at the Vaquero’s herd en route to the annual auction and tensions escalate, the safety of Whisperdale is again under threat. Will the Sheriff and his Deputies be able to restore peace to the region, or will it shatter and leave a ghost town behind?

Town seamstress - observational, quiet but knows everyone’s business, widowed city girl moved west by late husband, lives above the general store (Knows Price by first name because he keeps blowin' out his shirt seams - really he does it so he can see her roll her eyes in teasing annoyance at him.)

Shepherdess - firecracker, takes no shit, will swing if someone offers her help unbidden, always looking for a fight, transient in a regular rotation with sheep (Soap's got his eye on her after she decked him on accident during a brawl.)

General Store Keeper - always soft and sweet until someone tries to take advantage of her, jane of all trades (Always has those sweets Ghost likes on hand, just in case he happens to stop by to check that no one's been a menace)

Saloon Co-Owner - owns with brother, manages the brothel girls, sassy, flirty, “the face” of the operation (Gaz has been trying to woo her, much to her brother's annoyance. She keeps thinking he just wants a discount.)

[gemmahale]

Ugh, asking someone to be a cultural consultant/sensitivity reader is fucking nerve wracking.

But sometimes, the characters tell you something about themselves that won't let it go and you have no choice but to listen to them.

And if I'm going to do something, I'm not going to do it by halves.