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chaotic-orphan · 2 months ago

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Intoxicating Fear (XX)redraft*

Revealing the Monster

Read part one here // Masterpost // Continued from here

Here's the tea, I am redrafting PART XX of this series and uploading it here, this is the canon - but I WILL POST THE NEXT PART TOMORROW!

The new part starts about halfway down XD

I am sorry, I wasn't happy with part XX! SO part XXI tomorrow, thank you for your time. :)

~*~*~*~*~*~

Kit was wary about following Ambrose down a very dark, a very concrete set of stairs. “If this is the fucking torture basement I woke up in initially—”

Ambrose waved the accusation away, as if it was daft for Kit to be wary. “It’s to the garage,” he told him, keying a code into the pin-pad beside the metal door.

Ambrose walked through the door and held it open, rolling his eyes when he noticed Kit still lingering at the top of the stairs.

“Come on.”

“I’m not going to willingly follow you into your torture dungeon.”

Ambrose blinked, tilting his head. “The sex dungeon is two floors down, Mallory.”

Ambrose laughed at the face that Kit pulled. “Come on. I can always force you to come if I want, and we’re kind of a time crunch here.”

Kit glared daggers at the man and begrudgingly walked down the stairs. He stopped at the last step, trying to get a peak into the room. Ambrose walked away from the door letting it close before Kit could. Kit lunged forward to catch the heavy metal door, but relaxed immediately when he saw it was in fact a garage.

Kit let out a long low whistle after stepping into the garage. The door shut with a buzzer after him. Ambrose opened a lock box with keys hung up in a numbered order.

He grabbed the keys named ‘01’.

“You’re such a control freak,” Kit snorted. “Do you have OCD or something?”

Ambrose shrugged, taking off through the cars covered by different tarps. The only car that wasn’t covered was the one closest to the garage door. The same car that Ambrose kidnapped Kit in last night.

He hated that Ambrose had a good taste in cars. He hated that Ambrose had this many cars when Kit couldn’t even afford one, nevermind a garage full.

Ambrose grinned at Kit over the roof of the Wraith as he unlocked the door. “If you like, I can give you one of the ones I don’t like.”

Kit rolled his eyes. “I thought I told you to stay out of my head,” he said, opening the door and climbing into the passenger seat. The cream leather was so comfortable under him as he put his seatbelt on.

“Seriously,” Kit went on, anger curling around him the more comfortable he became with all of Ambrose’s luxury. “Don’t you have any thoughts of your own?! It’s fucking creepy, man. Just ask questions if you want to know my thoughts.”

Ambrose laughed as he opened the garage door with a remote and they rolled out of the house and onto the road again.

“I mean, don’t you have any friends?” Kit demanded hotly. In all honesty, he didn’t know why he was getting pissed all of a sudden, it’s not like Ambrose invading his mind was a new thing, but now? It pissed him off. “Don’t you know how to talk to people?!”

“Relax, Mallory. You’re the only person I relay their thoughts to. It might shock you, but generally, people love when you know what they’re thinking. It’s why humans seek connection. To feel understood.”

“Okay, Socrates,” Kit grumbled. “It’s just fucking weird. I don’t like it when you do it.”

“All of a sudden.”

“Yes!” Kit snapped, glaring at the villain beside him as the forest zoomed past them. “All of a sudden!”

What had Ambrose seen? What parts of him did he know? Could he see everything or was it selective?

“After you found out I’m Mentor’s son,” Ambrose said pointedly. Kit scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring out the passenger window. They drove in a terse silence for a while, cause Ambrose was a psychopath and didn’t have the radio on.

“We have to talk about it, Kit.”

“Well, you already know my thoughts on it all, so enjoy having a conversation by yourself.”

“Mallory,” Ambrose said with a tired sigh, flicking on the indicator as they pulled to a stop. “I know it must seem like a weird coincidence to you, but I swear I didn’t know you were Mentor’s s—”

Kit’s hands tightened into fists. Son. He was about to say son.

“Prodigy,” he settled on, taking a right and messing with the gears until they were coasting again. The air seemed tighter. “I didn’t know that he meant anything to you. I swear— I just assumed that when you were scared of me turning you into him, that you had heard the horror stories in the academy, or Superhero told you. Not that you… not that you were personally affected.”

Kit’s eyes burned as he stared out the window, the forest growing sparser the closer they got to the city. “I didn’t know. You have to believe me.”

“And if you did?”

Ambrose hesitated.

Kit turned his head to look at him, studying the villain’s reactions.

“And if you knew that he was like a father to me.” Like a father, not an actual one. “If you knew how much it hurt to see a man who plucked me out of nothing be destroyed. Would it have been any different?! Or would you have laughed and rubbed it in like salt in a wound?”

“Kit—”

“Oh, come off it. There’s no one here, Rosey. It’s only me and you,” Kit said, his voice dripping with a horrible hysterical knowing. “You can be your usual sadistic, unfeeling, monstrous self and I can tell nobody about it—”

“Mallory—” Ambrose tried to interject but Kit spoke over him again.

“But you know the funniest part in all this? You already took away the one person who would have given a shit about this! About me, not the Hero. Me. And you made him a monster!” Kit roared, something wet hitting his cheeks and flowing like a stream down his face. “And now, because clearly God hates me, I have to team up with you of all people, to go and stop — the one man who ever treated me like a person — from becoming a monster like you.”

The silence was deafening. In some strange way, it was comforting. No electricity crackles or malfunctioning lights accompanied his breakdown with the power dampeners locked around his wrist.

It was cathartic.

They had just pulled into the main road that brought them to the outskirts of the city, the skyline visible over the horizon when Ambrose spoke.

“He wasn’t a hero to me,” said Ambrose quietly, almost imperceptibly. Kit glanced at him, but his eyes settled on the white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel.

“Don’t fucking tell me you have daddy issues.” When Ambrose didn’t answer Kit let out a strangled laugh. Blinking in bewilderment, Kit raised his brows. “Are you telling me you have daddy issues? Mr Big Bad villain?”

“Oh fuck off, Mallory. At least I had parents.”

The words stung. They cut deeper than Kit would have ever admitted out loud or shown physically, but Kit knew that Ambrose was in his head after the villain winced.

Shifting in his seat, he said: “I’m— I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to come off snarky. I just—” Ambrose let out a groan. “You just rub me up the wrong way.”

“Well who’s fucking fault is that, dickhead?!”

“Do you want me to explain, or are you just going to argue with me the entire drive to the hospital?” Ambrose snapped. “I can only do one of those things in our limited time, so choose.”

Kit clenched his teeth, glaring forwards at the car in front of them. “Fine. Tell me.”

“Mentor is my father. As you know, he only rose to prominence within our lifetimes, though you may be too young to remember. Before him, heroes and villains weren’t really a thing. There were a couple dotted here and there, but mostly they were vigilantes. The good guys and the bad guys.”

“Yeah. I remember learning about that in the academy.”

“Right. So after my father rose in public opinion and word of mouth, well the government started stepping in and trying to regulate it. Which they did and the rest is history, but he wasn’t the same heroic good man when he came home.”

Kit swallowed, tightening his fingers into fists. He didn’t want to hear this, he realised. He really wanted Ambrose to shut up and not tell him anymore, but he asked for this, didn’t he? To know the side of Mentor that Ambrose knew?

“He wasn’t abusive,” Ambrose said softly and Kit released a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Not physically, anyway. When he discovered that I was born with powers he sought to train me, to make me in his image. A family of Superheroes. My Mom, she didn’t want that for me. She saw the toll it took on him to be the city’s saviour everyday, and that’s when they started fighting.”

Kit sat rigid in his seat, staring forward. He couldn’t imagine Mentor fig— well, no. He could, actually. How many times had Kit walked in on Mentor and Mr Silver arguing? Or Superhero trying to tell Mentor that the next step was a bad idea, that it was too risky.

“I trained hard. When he wanted me to push myself, I pushed myself. When he wanted me to commit 100%, I did 200%. It was never enough for him. None of it was. He wanted a son and a wife who adored him, who worshipped the ground he walked on, and instead he had a family. His ego was a problem.”

Kit cringed at that. Even he knew that Mentor wanted people to adore him, no matter who or why. He wanted to be the city’s saviour, the man on everyone’s tongue and in their thoughts.

Kit let out a breath of a laugh, running a hand through his hair.

“I guess… that’s why he adopted me, isn’t it?” Kit asked, his voice hollow. Ambrose didn’t answer, and that was answer enough. God, how could he be so stupid? How could he not have seen that to Mentor, Kit was just some charity project he knew would always support him. Worship the ground he walked on, defend him even when Kit knew he was in the wrong.

Ambrose opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again, setting his lips into a thin line.

“Mallory…”

“No. It’s okay,” Kit replied, letting out a long breath. “It’s fine, go on.”

Ambrose hesitated, fingers lifting from the steering wheel, before curling around them again. They passed the memorial garden in silence, taking the diversion around the square towards the hospital. They weren’t far away now.

“He started the Hero academy when I was twelve. A school for children with powers to develop their abilities to become heroes. I saw it for what it was though, incentive and resentment. He failed to teach me to control my abilities, and found a fault in me that I couldn’t rectify. My ability wasn’t flashy enough, or showy enough for him, for the great Mentor.”

“He wanted a child who would make the world stop and look at them. Someone who was as fast as him, as strong, but not stronger. In his eyes, I may as well have been born with strong charisma because you couldn’t see the effect of what I could do, only experience it.”

Kit looked down at his wrist, at the power dampeners locked around it. Lightning was flashy. Lightning gave Kit strength and strong reflexes, he was fast, he was flashy. He trained hard, to the point of exhaustion everyday in the Hero Academy. Not caring if he had no friends. Not caring if he passed out from pushing himself too hard. He just had to be the best. It was all he had. It was all he could do.

It wasn’t until he was beating people three years above him that Mentor started to pay him any attention. It felt good at the time. It felt like somebody finally recognised him for what he was.

Mentor made him feel seen. He saw that Kit had put his everything into training, because everything in him was all he had to give.

He didn’t have a family to worry about him getting hurt.

He didn’t have friends that would mourn him if he died in action.

All he had was being a hero.

Of course Mentor would latch onto that. Of course he would pick up on the fact that Kit was desperately trying to prove himself. Of course he would take pity on the orphan and bring him home like a trophy. Show him off to the world.

But that… that wasn’t the Mentor that Kit knew.

He brought him home, but it was after Kit denied him so many times. Told him to piss off, and asked if he was a pervert that prayed on boys his age. Kit had grown up on the streets, he knew what happened to skinny kids like him. One day they’re there, and the next, you never see them again.

Mentor was patient, and kind. He didn’t push Kit after Kit said no, told him he had everything he needed in the academy.

“Then my Mother got sick, and well…” Ambrose said, trailing off, pulling Kit from his memory and back into the car. “After she died it was like he… he didn’t even care. All he cared about was building the city up, saving everyone from possible Villains that lurked in the night. He didn’t sit with her in the hospital because he knew he couldn’t rescue her. He wasn’t there when she—”

Kit was quiet beside Ambrose, head tilted down. He knew what loss was like. He knew the absence a parent can leave behind, but losing someone who meant that? Kit didn’t know how to relate to that. When Omen destroyed Mentor’s mind, it wasn’t the same as if he died because Kit could still go and see him. Still talk to him, even if the Mentor he remembered was dead.

“I’m sorry,” Kit said softly. Ambrose cleared his throat, turning his head so Kit couldn’t see his face.

“Yeah,” he agreed, going rigid. “Me too.”

They drove the rest of the way in silence. It wasn’t far. Five minutes in the car, and two minutes to park.

“Are you…?” Kit began, then cut himself off when he met Ambrose’s black eyes. What was he going to say? Are you Okay? Alright with going into see the unfeeling man who wasn’t a good father? The man you cursed for being…

Ambrose shook his head, no. “Of course I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Kit said with an awkward shrug. They got out of the car, closing the door in unison. Kit thought nothing of it.

It was borderline awkward in the lift. Ambrose kind of just, stood there like a totem pole. His hands behind his back, standing straight up like a serial killer.

“Would you relax?” Kit said, rolling his neck. “You’re making me nervous.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I’m fine,” Ambrose said slowly, voice cold. Kit shrugged and said: “fine.”

He ahead and almost cried in joy when the doors opened to the ground floor. He stopped at the reception desk. Ambrose was walking and stopped when Kit stopped, two steps ahead and glancing back to see what Kit was doing.

He joined him a moment later, standing beside him and glowering at Heather when she turned and beamed at Kit.

“Hi Heather.”

“Hey, Kit. You goin’ up to—” her big blue eyes trailed to Ambrose beside him, who looked as if he was under a storm cloud, or extremely constipated. “Oh. Hi. Is this your brother?”

Kit’s eyes blew wide, but Ambrose didn’t hesitate. “Yes. Older. We’d like to see—”

“I didn’t know you had a brother, Kit. Of course, darlin’s, go ahead. I’ll let them know you’re coming.”

Ambrose nodded stiffly and stepped back. Kit blinked, shaking his head, and smiled at Heather. “Oh, actually. Was there anything strange with him? Any new visitors or—”

“I’m sorry, hun. I’m just the receptionist for the main desk. You’ll have to ask the nurses up there.”

Kit nodded, standing up. “Thank you, Heather.”

“Anytime. And nice meeting you.”

Ambrose nodded at her. “You too.”

Kit clapped him on the back, a wide grin on his face. “Let’s go, bro.”

Ambrose made a noise and Kit had to stifle a laugh until they were in the stairwell. “What was that!” He barked, laughter bubbling up his throat.

“I— panicked.” [***RE-DRAFT STARTS HERE***]

“I thought you weren’t nervous,” Kit teased. He was turning to walk up the next set of stairs when Ambrose slammed his forearm against Kit’s throat, shoving him back into the corner of the stairwell, pinning him there.

Ambrose’s nostrils flared, his eyes blazing with cold fury down at Kit. “Of course I’m nervous, you fucking child. Tch. Don’t you ever switch off?”

Kit pushed Ambrose’s arm off him, and to his surprise, Ambrose let him, running a hand through his hair and letting out a breath.

The realisation only dawned on Kit, his mouth opening into a small ‘o’.

“You’ve never been to see him.”

Ambrose straightened. The villain returning as he stared down his nose at Kit, a sardonic smile on his lips. “And why should I? He didn’t give my mother that courtesy.”

Kit put his hands up, showing Ambrose he meant nothing by it. “Hey. It’s your decision. Not mine. He’s your dad, not—” the words choked up before he could say them. Ambrose didn’t pry. He knew what Kit was going to say.

Ambrose stared for a moment longer before glancing up the stairs and nodding stiffly.

“Yes. Well.” He cleared his throat and started walking up again. “What floor is it?”

“The fifth,” he replied, starting up the stairs beside Ambrose. “Top floor. They don’t want anyone stumbling amongst the crazies.”

“Probably for the best,” Ambrose muttered. Kit had meant it as a joke, but, he didn’t disagree with Ambrose as they climbed the stairs. Thankful that their footsteps filled the silence he couldn’t in the lift. They knew something had happened when they got to the fifth floor.

Kit stepped in first, Ambrose craning his neck around the door into the hall. Kit breathed a sigh of relief. No police tape, no police, no anything. That meant there was nothing to worry about.

Kit smiled at Ambrose and slapped him on the back, walking towards the door to the locked ward. “See! You were irrational. Overthinking everything. Nothing’s insidious about Mentor. He was here the whole time.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because if he did somehow magically vanish, there would be police and Superheroes and politicians here to interrogate him about what happened.”

“And if they just moved him down to the station to do that?” Ambrose asked, raising his brows. Kit’s smile dimmed a little, but it remained on his face.

“Too much risk. Trust me. Everything will be fine.”

The door buzzed open after Kit waved to the camera and the pair stepped through. Kit walked his usual path to Mentor’s room, and only realised halfway there that Ambrose wasn’t following him anymore. He paused, looking over his shoulder for the villain, before turning after laying eyes on him.

Ambrose stood in the middle of the hall, his eyes blazing and his little finger twitching by his side. A muscle in his jaw clenched and tightened when he met Kit’s questioning eyes.

He swallowed. “This was a mistake.”

“No,” Kit said, coming to stand beside the Villain. “It wasn’t. He’s out of it most of the time anyways, Rosey. He probably won’t even recognise you.”

Black eyes flashed like two burning coals. “He’ll recognise me.”

Kit didn’t tell him that Mentor didn’t recognise Kit for months after his accident. Then again, he didn’t have to. Something smoothed out in Ambrose’s face as Kit remembered his first meeting with a stark raving mad Mentor, who screamed at Kit to get out and leave him be. Kit thought for a minute that Ambrose could see the memory, but quickly remembered that the ward was built of the same power dampening material as the supers-prison and power dampeners.

Ambrose swallowed. “Let’s get this over with,” he said through clenched teeth. This time Kit led the way beside Ambrose, and let Ambrose walk into the room first. Ambrose didn’t falter as he stepped through the door, black eyes settling on his father for the first time since he drove him insane.

Kit followed him in, leaning against the wall beside the door. Mentor was sitting in an armchair, gazing out the window when they arrived. He turned his head and locked eyes with Ambrose and didn’t even glance over at Kit.

The tension was palpable in the air, tied like a three-way noose over their throats as nobody dared breathe in the room.

“Oskar,” Mentor said softly. Kit’s eyes blew wide, glancing at Ambrose who stiffened at the mention of his name. Mentor recognised him? He— remembered Ambrose?

“Hello Father.”

Mentor grunted a huff of a laugh. Almost like a derisive scoff, but Kit had never heard Mentor make a sound like that. A sound so like— well, Ambrose. Kit didn’t dare move, but he had the sneaking suspicion that Mentor didn’t notice, or if he did, didn’t care, that was Kit was in the room too.

“Is that all you can say to me, boy?” Mentor demanded, his voice hard, like gravel grating against gravel.

Ambrose shrugged, but Kit noticed the tightness to his usual casual gesture. “I can say a whole lot more, but word on the street is you have trouble remembering things lately, old man.”

Mentor’s eyes were cutting. “I remember the important stuff.”

The words came like a sharp slap to Kit’s face, almost staggering him out of the room, but Kit didn’t move. He just stared, eyes burning at the man that helped shape him into who he was today. But this man he was staring at may as well have been an alien. This wasn’t Mentor. This was the cold father that Ambrose told Kit about. The man who looked like Mentor, but was a monster beneath skin.

“What are you doing here?” Mentor spat. “Have you come to take more from me, hmm? The breath from my lungs.”

“Well it would be a wasted trip if I didn’t take something from you,” Ambrose replied with the cold smile that Kit was so used to seeing.

What he wasn’t used to seeing was Ambrose flinching. Kit pressed off the wall, eyes wide as a cold, dark chuckle filled the room. An empty laugh that caused shivers to run down his spine and freeze him in place.

“You’re still good at talking, Oskar.” Black eyes met Kit’s across the room, aware that Kit had just seen him flinch at Mentor’s raised hand and it was like the world slowed down around him, his heartbeat rushing in his ears.

Then it was as if a switch flipped of indifference. Ambrose straightened, black eyes smiling as he faced his father again. He slipped one hand into his trouser pocket, shifting his weight to lean on one leg and shot Mentor a cold smile.

“You’re still good at being a piece of shit, only, now you’ve exposed yourself to a witness.”

Mentor’s eyes narrowed and he got to his feet, turning his body to face Ambrose. He had only just turned when his eyes found Kit’s frozen blue ones staring as if he were a deer in headlights.

Mentor’s expression shifted into something softer, something kind. “Kit my boy—”

Kit’s eyes burned, his nostrils flaring. “Don’t.”

“This is-” Mentor began, gesturing between himself and Ambrose. “Family issues. They go back a long while.”

“I don’t care about your explanation,” Kit told him, shaking his head.

Mentor’s hard eyes looked between Kit and Ambrose, scrutinising. “What are you even doing together? Aren’t you a strange pair.”

“Not at all,” Kit said before Ambrose could even open his mouth. Kit stood talk, feeling Ambrose’s black eyes slide over to him as he commanded the space. “He’s helping me on a case. A new Supervillain.”

Mentor scoffed, folding his arms over his toned chest. “Have you considered him?” He asked, nodding his head to Ambrose.

“I have,” Kit ground out through clenched teeth. “But it turns out this new Supervillain has telekinesis. You wouldn’t happen to have an alibi for last night, would you?”

Mentor’s mouth fell open. Even Ambrose raised a brow at the accusation in Kit’s hard voice. He had never seen him so angry. It was very entertaining to watch, especially when it was directed at his father.

“I was here,” Mentor said, spreading his hands in a helpless shrugging gesture. “Obviously.”

“Can anyone corroborate that story?” Kit demanded, spitting venom at his old Hero and Mentor. Mentor glanced between Ambrose and Kit, his expression tightening as some understanding flashed across his face.

He rubbed his temple with the palm of his hand, kneading it into the soft flesh, letting out a disbelieving huff. “I can’t believe this. You’re seriously trusting this man over me, Kit? You're like a son to me.”

“Clearly I wasn’t,” Kit practically yelled, but he didn’t shout. His voice was surprisingly level despite everything. “Or you would have told me you had an actual son.”

Mentor’s gaze was cutting. “Surely you know what he did to me,” Mentor said, his voice a quiet fury. “What he did to our family, to this city! He—”

“Is Omen,” Kit finished, his eyes flashing. Mentor took a step back as if he’d been hit. Kit didn’t stop there though. “Yeah. I know. And I know he’s not a liar. So do you have an alibi or not?”

Ambrose was quite happy to let Kit take lead on this interrogation. It was true, Ambrose wasn’t a liar. If he said he’d torture you, he would. If he told you he liked you, he did. If he said he was Omen, he was. Something Ambrose didn’t think Kit picked up on, but was happy by the turn of events all the same.

Mentor was halfway through stuttering out a reply when a Doctor walked into the room, a clipboard in hand and already speaking. “Mentor, how are we tod—” Doctor, sensing the tension looked up and smiled at his obvious intrusion. He put the clipboard under his arm and stood taller. “Ah. Sorry, Mentor. I didn’t know you had visitors. Ah, hello Kit.”

“Doctor,” Kit replied not taking his eyes off of Mentor. “Can you confirm Mentor was here last night?”

Doctor’s eyes went around the room before bouncing back to Kit. “Uh, yes. I mean, CCTV and the hospital logs can probably. I wasn’t on personally, but as Mentor’s doctor today I can tell you there was no anomalies last night.”

“Great. Thank you,” Kit said, nodding at Ambrose. “That’s all we needed to know, we’re leaving.”

“No, wait—” Mentor protested, but Ambrose was already talking to the Doctor and walking back out the door. Kit turned to do the same when a hand was on his wrist, stopping him from leaving. Kit glanced back over his shoulder to see Mentor clinging to him like a desperate, old man.

“Kit…” he said with shining eyes. “M’boy. Please, let me explain.”

“You lied to me,” Kit hissed, finally letting the hurt shine through his features. “You told me, you— you made me feel special.”

“You are special, Kit, and not just to me.”

“Was I only special to you because I was strong?” Kit asked. Mentor hesitated. Kit pulled his arm from Mentor’s grasp. “You never saw me as a son. You saw me as a tool that you could mould and use to further your great image. Superhero. Saviour. Good charitable man,” Kit spat, tears springing suddenly to his eyes. “He even rescues orphans, the übermensch. Mentor: The great man.”

“Kit—”

“You were everything to me,” Kit said, his bottom lip trembling. “My only normal in the world. My family. My father. I worshipped you, and you used me!”

“Kit, please. Let me explain.” Mentor said again, pawing at Kit’s jacket. Kit recoiled, shrugging his hands from his shoulders.

“You have two minutes before I’m walking out that door.”

“In the beginning, yes, I wanted to be close to you because I saw your potential. Nobody else in that academy ever came close to you. You were extraordinary. I wanted a sidekick when I walked through those doors on the day of your exams, and instead I found a second chance.”

Tears streamed continuously from Kit’s red rimmed eyes as he listened, occasionally wiping them on the cuff of his sleeve.

“I found a son in you, and from that day onwards I decided that I wanted to help you. To give you the start in life that you deserved, not the one you were given. I patrolled the Rookery looking for you every night because one of the other kids told me you slept rough on the streets. I wanted to offer you kindness, and you had such hard eyes. It was weeks before I ever saw you smile, and when I did, m’boy, I swear the heavens themselves opened.”

Kit sniffed, his breath catching in his throat, taking in fretful breaths once he saw the glisten in Mentor’s eyes, and the tears welling up behind them.

“I never wanted to use you as some piece of equipment to further my image. I wanted to make sure you had bread, and safe water to drink. I wanted to give you a home.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me you had a son?” Kit asked, barely above a whisper. “Why… why- why didn’t you tell me you had a family? I would’ve understood.”

Mentor shook his head. “I had already left them at that time, Kit, and I was too ashamed to tell you. To tell you that I fucked up my last family. How could I tell you that? A child yourself when I was trying to gain your trust so I could help you, and the way you looked at me…”

The pair of them stared at each other, tears streaming down their faces the longer they spoke. “You saw something in me that I hadn’t seen in years, and it made me feel special, Kit. It made me want to be the better man you thought I was. To change, for the better, for you. For us. I thought it was my second chance when I met you, and I can tell you now for certain, it was.”

Kit looked away, afraid he might collapse if had to listen to any more of this. Mentor touched a hand to his cheek, thumbing away the tears, drawing Kit’s attention back to Mentor.

“Just please,” he blubbered. “Please say you don’t hate me. I will fall to my knees and beg for your forgiveness, Kit. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. Please.”

Kit didn’t say anything. He just stepped in and hugged his old man, wrapping his arms tight around him and holding him up when Mentor sobbed harder into Kit’s jumper.

“I’m sorry,” Mentor cried into Kit’s jumper, muffling the sound. “I’m so sorry. I love you, I’m so sorry.”

Kit held him tighter, trying to compose himself but there was nothing to be done except wait it out. Ambrose stood outside the door, leaning against the wall to his father’s room, downcast eyes staring unseeing at the clinically clean floor in front of him.

Kit stepped out after a few minutes, his tears dried but the red rimmed eyes gave him away. Ambrose stood, face impassive as he took a deep breath. “You good to go?” He asked.

Kit nodded dumbly. They walked to the exit of the ward, but Doctor shouted from down the hall and the pair turned. “Oh good, I caught you before you left. Here. I’ll walk you out.”

Doctor quickly caught up to them, half-jogging towards them with a self-deprecating smile. “Sorry. Shall we talk outside?”

Kit glanced at Ambrose before nodding. Doctor fell into step with them, flashing his keycard on the control panel and the doors to the locked ward opened with a beep. He pushed through them and held it open for Kit and Ambrose to walk out. They stood just outside the ward, Kit tilting his head at Doctor.

Doctor smiled at the pair, a handsome smile. He was a little older than Ambrose, his eyes crinkled at the edges when his smiled. His tan skin contrasted against Ambrose’s paleness to a stark degree that Kit would’ve laughed if he didn’t feel so drained.

Kind green eyes found Kit’s. “I double-checked the log’s after you asked about Mentor’s whereabouts last night,” he said. “He was here all night, I can confirm with 100% certainty.”

“Okay, thank you Doctor.” Kit said nodding.

A copycat? Ambrose said in Kit’s mind. Kit glanced at him, but Ambrose was still looking at Doctor.

Maybe. Or maybe another telekinetic… Kit thought, pushing it towards Ambrose.

“Well,” Doctor said, clapping his hands together. “I hope that is everything you need?”

“Yes, Doctor, thank you for confirming the alibi,” Kit said. Kit reached his hand out which Doctor took and shook it. Doctor turned to Ambrose as well, offering his hand which Doctor took with a smile.

“Nice meeting you.”

“Thank you Doctor,” Ambrose said coolly before withdrawing his hand and stepping away. The pair walked down the stairs, hearing the buzzer of the ward door open and close again.

“What now?” Ambrose asked. Kit ran his hands through his hair, letting out a sigh.

“I don’t know. I need to get my phone from my apartment, just to see if anyone’s been trying to call.”

“Right. Of course.” Ambrose said as they walked to the car. Sensing the stiffness in Ambrose’s body language, Kit kept quiet, not wanting to poke the bear, but feeling too bad to just remain silent and not say anything.

They got into the Wraith in silence. It was only when Ambrose turned the key in the ignition that he broke the silence. “It’s not your fault, Kit.”

“I’m still sorry.”

Ambrose turned his head to look Kit head on. The expression on his face would’ve floored Kit had he been standing up.

Ambrose’s eyes were like two rainbows, his eyebrows drawn low over them, his lips were curled up on his face, exposing his smile lines that usually looked so annoyed.

Was Ambrose smiling?

When Kit wasn’t even covered in blood or bruises or struggling to breathe?

“Really, Kit. It’s okay. I don’t have any ill will towards you. Just think of it like, we both had one good parent and leave it there. Okay?”

Kit nodded, not trusting his voice to speak. Ambrose’s face went back to neutral and Kit felt like he could breathe.

Then his eyes narrowed as they pulled out of the parking lot. “What?”

“I just—”

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I don’t think you should smile, Rosey. It doesn’t suit you.”

Ambrose almost hit the roof. “What?! My smile is charming.”

“I feared for my life. It is mortally terrifying. Do you smile at babies like that?”

“Babies love me,” Ambrose hissed.

Kit laughed, running a hand through his hair. “Actually can you drop me off at a therapist before we go back to my—”

“Oh yeah yeah,” Ambrose grumbled, turning the indicator on and taking off onto the main road. “Laugh it up.”

Kit did, and he felt good after it. The laugh smoothed everything out in his chest, unwinding the tension that weighed heavy on it and for a little, fleeting moment, he felt lighter than he had in a while. Ambrose turned the radio on.

*~*~*~*~*

Continued here

Orphanage roll-call (lmk if you wanna be added or removed): @beatenbruisedandbloody @404lunar1216 @whumpyworld @nameless-beanie e @andithewhumper @annablogsposts @whumpasaurus101 @0eggdealer r @rejectedbytheempty @sleepy-pearl @n3rv0usn0v4 @whumpatize-me-captain @sunshiline-writes @burningkittypoet @honeyed-euphrates @sacredwrath @theonewithallthefixations @m3rakii @xxgalgurlxx @princess-bubble-blossom @blood-enthusiast @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @andtheysaidspeaknoww @dutifullykrispyland @mononeigbour @tippytappytyping @shinokoro @bedtimescenarios @whatwhump @memepsychowhowantsuperpower-blog @ehobep @acer-whumpstuff @fa1rie

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songoftrillium · 1 year ago

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Well, well, well, if it isn’t the consequences of my actions before me.

I am delighted to announce that Dead Mountain's release, initially slated for Halloween 2023, has been delayed!!!

Wait, what?

This post is enormous, but please take the time to read it. Likes don’t increase visibility to others! Please reblog this to spread the word!

When I started this project, my stance on Werewolf: the Apocalypse underwent a series of evolutions between then and now. In short, Dead Mountain, a chronicle meant to simultaneously provide a game module and queer inclusivity at gaming tables, has grown beyond its original design and size and into something much bigger and bolder than what I initially set out to do. It has become a more significant task than one person can accomplish alone. Of course, I could delay Dead Mountain's release a few months to get it completed, and I will still be releasing it standalone eventually. I could also put it out, but what would come out would fall short of presenting Werewolf in a way I feel does the game justice.

In many ways, nothing changes; it just happens later. In its current form, however, Werewolf: the Apocalypse doesn’t provide a game that fully supports the scale and inclusivity this chronicle demands. The project rapidly ballooned the chronicle into something more resembling a corebook; while fun to imagine, it is more than I initially set out to accomplish. The volume of literature needing redrafts and the need for this to be a single chronicle alone are at odds with each other, and more than one person can write independently.

I plan to reapproach this in a way that has the team excited, and I think this will excite you, too. See the rest below the cut.

As work on Dead Mountain progressed and drew closer to completion, the things I needed to include to make it happen in a way that did its subject matter justice grew beyond its original scope. The more aspects of inclusivity, culture, and story that turned up missing from the newest edition out of the occasional paragraph, the more I came to realize that if I wanted Werewolf: the Apocalypse to represent what good I see in it, I needed to also make the game itself presented in a fundamentally different way than it has before.

I have a challenge to World of Darkness writers:

New players should only have to read for no longer than an hour to start coming up with character concepts.

Every Werewolf corebook put to print is falling short of that goal. It would be unjust to force players to wade through the old literature to explore all the game has to offer, and I think y’all deserve better. The tribes they read about should focus less on everything wrong with them out of the starting gates and provide players and storytellers with something worth fighting for and motivates them to action.

Over the past few weeks, we have realized that the things we need to include to do justice to the subject matter of Dead Mountain have grown beyond the project's original scope. We want to ensure the game is inclusive, culturally representative, and accessible to new players. Given the available core literature released with the latest edition lacking coherent structuring, our writing has had to balloon beyond a typical RPG supplement size to provide a functional game representative of, and relevant to, queer culture. Therefore, we have decided to delay the game's release by one year to Halloween 2024. This extra time will allow us to create a game that meets our high standards and provides an enriching experience for all players, and make Werewolf: the Apocalypse a more accessible game, particularly regarding accessibility to new players and storytellers.

My goal is simple: Nobody new to the World of Darkness and Werewolf with an 8th-grade reading comprehension level should do more than an hour’s reading (10,000 words) to comprehend Werewolf: the Apocalypse well enough to start thinking up character concepts. New players shouldn’t have to wade into problematic legacy literature to get the specifics of Garou society or to seek cultural representation. Storytellers should have guidelines on creating chronicles with their players and interlinking them with stories.

A series of players guides and storyteller handbooks intended to streamline the flow of information to the reader, sorted by Garou ranks, both in terms of gaming power levels and depth of information relevant to Garou of that rank. New players want to know how to make new characters. Storytellers wish to know the kinds of NPCs appropriate to characters of that power and how to run games. This is not a corebook but a series of reference guides intended to keep the depth of the world we all love in the legacy game in an easily navigated format while only revealing the most pertinent information for a given Garou’s rank and a ready-to-go adventure to pair with that game ranking. With each successive release, more information about the world of the Garou, Garou society, their enemies, and the complexity of available storytelling tools will also evolve to grow the game in tandem with players and storytellers.

Book 1: Cliath — Contains enough information for new players and storytellers to get started, focusing on character generation, Rites of Passage, and culture.

Book 2: Fostern — Expanded Garou powers for the ‘citizenry and society (and not-so-nice things that happen in the background that they keep hidden from the cubs and cliath) of the Garou.

Books 3: Adren — Explodes into an anthology of Tribebooks with expanded powers and tribal customs and detailed septs, camps, and factions vital for any Adren fighting for Gaia.

Book 4: Athro — exploration of spirit and history. The secrets that bind society and a more lucid view of what elders in the Garou Nation face, with expanded Garou stats covering both rank 4 and 5.

Book 5: Elder — The Storytellers guide, focusing on world-building and running one's own chronicles in the World of Darkness.This puts all prior ST info in one place with a master index and any extra systems errata needed.

Our small team consists of seasoned storytellers, writers, and werewolf academics working on making Werewolf more accessible to new players. We’ve been researching, playing, or running inclusive Werewolf tables for over 60 years combined, and are self-taught experts in everything Werewolf. Everyone on this project deeply loves the game and sees its inherent value and well-meaning beneath its 90s liberal veneer. Many of us have spent decades perfecting our craft and knowledge of this game, and we want the rest of you to see the Werewolf that we see in the pages.

We are using By Night Studios' edition of Mind’s Eye Theater: Werewolf as a baseline reference for this project. Much work has already been done to bring inclusivity to the game and encourage character investment in the world, and translating that to the tabletop will be a more inclusive baseline to utilize than any other corebook. We will continue the metaplot of Werewolf: the Apocalypse, with a handful of changes to tribes and factions of Garou. Due to the MET systems translations needing to be done, we still have our work cut out for us and plenty of writing to do. This game will be shifting the formatting to prioritize ease of identifying information pertinent to players versus storytellers while prioritizing keeping culture, mechanics, or cross-edition compatibility as best we can with updated sensibilities.

Stay tuned for another post this afternoon to learn more about our first upcoming book in the series!

#world of darkness #werewolf: the apocalypse #dead mountain #werewolf the apocalypse #werewolves #world building #hearthbound

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kokoroshiki · 23 days ago

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Return to what you know | Continuing W3 Prompt, Vampire (again..another long yap)

Above pic: recoloring with Derwent color pencils

So…those that know me will recall how I literally went through an “art depression” or 8-10 yr hiatus from drawing. This is primarily due to life things (definitely early work career/workaholcism, and focusing on that cuz money = nice things like my SuoSaku plushies lol). I am finally in a different place in my life now, where my weekends and my evenings are truly my own, plus a stable career. And…WIND BREAKER just hit me..and I started digital drawing for real for the first time in July (mainly cuz I have 0 space for sketchbooks…I already have a bucket full that I can’t disconnect myself with though they are from the dark ages and make me cringe lol).

Monthly/weekly prompts and getting inspired by WBK buddies fanfics/fanart has really kept me motivated, and I am enjoying not being scared to draw or not stop again. And everytime that I think I would drop out of this phase..well I can’t cuz Sakura and Suo are just sooooooooooo…💕❤️ (and I mean all the characters..but u know SuoSaku…) And..yes I was that person that if it slips.i crumble the paper and trash ROFL..and then go into drawing depression ROFL..I think this is why digital is working well for me…

I ALMOST returned to art depression this past week…but then I look back at how much I kept redrafting this piece..and convinced myself to keep going..

Below is not the final..but something I did IN CASE I went into art depression ROFL (..which didn’t happen cuz I started drafting something for a buddy’s SuoNirei fic..plus the recent WBK chap..and getting inspired by artists on discord/tumblr/twitter). So I realize that I’m having coloring depression..since my hand still allowed me to sketch (though not as well as that New Moon day). So..where am I?

So I really liked the idea of the piece, but hated how the rushed (though I��m slow lol but looks rush) coloring ruins it a bit. Plus, I just was not in a mood to read/watch tutorials etc after having to learn other stuff/skills for work.

I somehow recalled the physical tools that’s I am most familiar with…and they are color pencils…and Procreate just so happens to have the “brush” that mimics a pencil brand I’m familiar with “Derwent.” (though I’m a Faber-Castelle fanatic lol)

And this…was a game changer for me…and I can breathe a bit more now.

So yeah…sometimes u just need to take a step back..recall..and return to what you know. Also…be patient. If it’s not looking the way you want now…you can always do a redraw/recolor a year or two later. But just finish and keep going.

Cuz we don’t want it to get stuck in the backlog like this piece from 2009 lol…(hope to redraw this Persona 3 fanart..Death Note’s Mello-inspired chapter cover at some point).

#suosaku #sakura haruka #suo hayato #artists on tumblr #current wip #artist notes #artist rambles #wind breaker fanart #anime fanart #fanart

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steelycunt · 8 months ago

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sorry if you’ve been asked this a thousand times, but how is it going with your pride au? so excited for, still thinking about the little snippet you posted a while ago.

hi no not at all!! honestly love being asked about it it makes me very happy when people do because i like talking about it : ^ ) rambled a bit so ill put it under the cut with a little snippet!!

it’s going well thank you!! ive done quite a bit in the last couple of weeks by my own standards, and im looking at the last leg of chapter two now!! im quite a slow writer n will probably have to ease off soon for uni stuff, but as it stands the five chapters look like they will be about 20k each give or take a few thousand!! currently i have done about 31/32k so it’s already the longest thing ive ever written…truthfully though i think 95k is far too long so hopefully itll be reduced when i redraft it all. but yah!! having a lot of fun…chapter two is where it starts getting really fun (for me. hopefully it’s fun from chapter one for other people or we’re in trouble) i think chapter one and the start of two stressed me out a bit because there’s a lot more plot and a big ensemble cast im really not used to writing, but a lot of the major details have been established now!! and im really enjoying it...im quite happy with what im writing and im looking forward to being able to share it : ^ )

ii.

#telegram #anon #pride au #r/s #snippet #my fic

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workingtowardsthatphd · 6 months ago

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Saturday 4th May

May the 4th be with you. Working in a cafe in town today because I have a society coffee morning at 11, so I've arrived a little early to get some work done.

Incomplete from Yesterday:

Nothing! I'm on a roll.

To do:

Re-write Chapter 2, add in the conclusion. Go back through make sure all newspaper names etc are italicized.

Write first draft of Chapter 3.

Re-write the introduction using the chapters as a guideline.

Complete:

Nearly 600 words into Chapter 3, this one seems easier to write than the previous two, probably because I am drawing on themes already established.

Hit a wall on Chapter 3 and started redrafting Chapter 2 instead.

Finished redrafting Chapter 2, spellchecked and italicized all titles. I now have a solid 4,000/8,000 words finalised, putting me nearly halfway through.

Chapter 3 is going badly! I attempted to switch to writing the introduction instead but that is also going badly so I think that's my sign to stop for the day. Hopefully I can write 2000 words tomorrow and on Monday, otherwise this is not getting done in time.

Ignore all of that! I have found a second wind and started completely rewriting Chapter 3! 450/2000 words.

About 800 words of Chapter 3 now done, and it is quite late, so I'm gonna head home and try again tomorrow with a fresh brain.

Cups of Coffee: ☕☕

#student life #studyblr #uniblr #chaotic academia #undergrad student #study blog #university #study motivation #studyspo #student #dissertation

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aadmelioraa · 2 years ago

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Hi! I was just wondering, what is the difference for you between the Scrivener categories you use? What makes a certain section redrafted vs revised vs punched up vs polished? Thank you!

Hey!! I am more than happy to elaborate on that post. Here are the scene (or chapter) draft categories I use via the "Label" function in Scrivener, and what each category means to me:

To Write. Any scene that I haven't fully drafted, ranging from an idea in my head to a few bullet points to a scene that doesn't yet have a beginning, middle, and end. Lots of ellipses and all caps notes to myself [ADD CONVERSATION WHERE X AND Y ARGUE ABOUT DINNER PLANS] at this stage. I am a planner-pantser hybrid—I usually start writing without a real outline, and then create and reshape my outline as I continue writing new scenes, the outline evolves as my draft evolves and vice versa.

Drafted. I have written a full version of the scene. It has a beginning, middle, and end. I have hit all the major points I want to hit. It's messy, but it's on the page. These scenes comprise the Rough Draft.

Redrafted. At this stage, I follow Matt Bell's "Rewrite Don't Revise" advice in Refuse to Be Done (highly recommend this craft book!). Once I have a Rough Draft version of the project (the entire book has a beginning, middle, end, and enough essential connective tissue scenes to prop it up), I print that off* and open a fresh Scrivener file. I hold myself to Matt Bell's no copying and pasting rule, and it's honestly been a game changer mentality for me. I refer to my Rough Draft and my Revision Plan Outline as I create a new draft that is both leaner and more fleshed out as needed. The Revision Plan Outline is the roadmap of the book I wrote (the Rough Draft) spliced with a roadmap of the book I want to write, including new scenes, stronger versions of the scenes I already have, and notes about what needs to be cut. *This is probably obvious, but you don't need to work from a printed copy, you can open your Rough Draft doc side by side with a blank doc if that is more your speed. The important thing is to start with a blank document rather than making revisions to your Rough Draft. It might sound insane, but I've found that it allows me to let go of what I would otherwise struggle to cut, and opens me up creatively to write new material.

Revised. Once I have the fresh, stronger, more intentional version of my scene, I go through and check that it's doing what I need it to do in terms of character work and plot points. It's not only a complete scene in that it begins and ends where I want it to, it's also functioning as part of a whole.

Punched Up. This is my favorite draft stage in most ways, I just find it really fun and satisfying. My goals are to make sure that the tension is properly threaded, that the emotional beats are landing how and where they need to, that the humor is working, that each character's voice is coming through, that my language is vivid and interesting.

Polished. Here I am making final cuts and changes, taking things at a line level and evaluating individual word choice. Nitpick city, but ideally in a productive way.

Right now in my current WIP I have an array of scenes at every level in a single Scrivener file. Most of them are Redrafted or above (I already completed a Rough Draft, printed it off, and am working from that and my Revision Plan Outline to create a new version of the book) but there are plenty of scenes in my Revision Plan that didn't exist in the Rough Draft. I will once again shout out @bettsfic and her invaluable developmental insights, you can check out her substack here and read more about her services here.

Anyway, this is what works for me, it definitely won't work for everyone, but hopefully you find something useful here! I will note that you can use the Scrivener "Draft Status" category to function in a similar way as the "Label" category, allowing you to use "Label" to denote POV or something else. Labels are visible in the sidebar (you can find options under "View," and Draft Status shows up in the corkboard view (it's stamped over the notecard for each scene if you select that option).

#kat replies #anon #long post #sorry for the charlie day red string board energy of this reply lol #i hope it's helpful in some way!#i have used a version of this framework for long form fanfic and past (abandoned) original novels #but this is definitely a more organized and functional iteration #writing #scrivener #[redacted novel project]

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howyouloveyourdragon · 1 year ago

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yandere rhaenyra x aegon (platonic) headcanons. rhaenyra sees aegon decides to love him and gives him the attention he craves and he trusts her above alicent and otto so he possibly when they are trying to crown him, he goes to her like always when afraid. I feel she could have forced alicent to let her participate in her siblings lives if she had desired it.

pairing: Platonic Rhaenyra Targaryen x Aegon Targaryen alternate universe: Yandere Rhaenyra type: headcanons warnings: yandere tendencies dividers by: firefly-graphics bullet points: 48 A/N: thank you for your request and i hope you enjoyed, lovie ♡ regarding my break: i want to preface this post by saying that this post does not mean that i am not back yet and i still have not checked any notifications from this account but i worked myself up to posting this today and i know that these are not up to the level i usually get them to as they are shorter than i would have preferred and less detailed but i hope you can still enjoy these headcanons ♡ to make up for any disappointment i might consider redrafting these or making a part 2, whichever you decide, and tagging you in them once i have returned properly to tumblr and posting

i'm going to merge this with similarities from my last request because i don't want to repeat myself too much but the requests are also very similar, a link to anyone who hasn't read it is here

so this will start from when rhaenyra hears otto; "What would your mother say?" The older man hisses, grasping the pale boy's shoulder "If she heard that you were whoring and poisoning yourself with ale at a time like this?" the ferocity is strong and harrowing through Aegon's bones, jolting him "I-I-I cannot–it's not my fault!" Her brother's words stumble and splutter, an ache resides in her she tries to remember every argument she has ever had with her own sons, were they ever this afraid? she cannot recall it, she hopes she will never have to a lump forms in her throat as familiar words belt in her ears "This is not what your mother needs right now, you are a disappointment to the throne and a disappointment to me." Aegon holds back his flinch but she does not at the abrasive words "I do everything you ask of me," His voice sounds so quiet, so fragile

Rhaenyra remembers all the times she squeezed Alicent's hands and felt the nibbles at her nails, the stark red indents

She remembers her friend, she remembers her vows of protection

She remembers teaching Aegon how to pronounce her name

Ahe remembers teaching him to pronounce his own

"And yet you are still not enough." The grown man sneers with a pelt of venom. "It would be better had we sent you to Oldtown rather than Daeron. At least he had better wit even as a mere child."

and that is when the first instinct kicks in

the first time she orders control of Otto Hightower

The first time she cares to comfort her half-brother

Her face pinches as she steps out, a hard sneer on her face.

It isn't immediately that she decides to chew the old fool out but when he sighs and hardens his stance, she doesn't hold back

"Are you not ashamed of yourself?" She roars

Both man and boy flinch upon hearing her

Aegon's eyes have never gone so wide before

"Threatening a young boy–no, a prince of all boys." Otto stiffens but tries to hold back his anger in front of the named heir though he is sure that detail will change soon enough "Your highness, I am threatening no one, I assure you. I am simply chastising my grandson." "And how would his parents think of this?" Rhaenyra asks, raising her brows. "The King and Queen?"

she cannot help but delight in how a glimmer of concern and contentment flicker across his eyes. She hums and all but snaps her fingers.

"Perhaps I should be spending more time with my brother then, if he needs chastising such as you say." She tilts her head as his eyes widen. "Come Aegon, let us speak." He trails after her like an unsure puppy

which is when the obsession begins

she has someone fighting for validation of her, the very person who threatens her reign is the same who desperately wants her to see him

she knows her father plays favourites and she particularly knows where he falls in that order, Viserys has always favoured herself and Helaena but if she can twist that lens even slightly, she knows that Aegon will be more than agree to an allyship

It has been so long since he had her attention, he had even tried befriending her children to secure it

i think Rhaenyra would be a defensive and targeting yandere when it comes to Aegon

for example, she may begin isolating Aegon from The Greens she believes to threaten her

At the top of that list is Otto

Otto has been controlling Alicent since she was child, whether it was how she can braid her hair or to whom she will marry

Rhaenyra does not want Aegon under that control nor the environment but there is little she can do to isolate him if she is in Dragonstone and Alicent is insistent that Aegon stay in the Red Keep

...Unless she can trade out guards loyal to her and guards loyal to Alicent without her noticing

Which is precisely what she does and it takes a long time but slowly, with her husband's help, she is able to transfer half of her guards but years pass before this is achieved

Messages are sent between Rhaenyra and Aegon without interference but soon Alicent becomes suspicious of the hours Aegon pours into learning High Valyrian so that only Rhaenyra can read his letters fluently

She has never seen him so dedicated nor dependent on anything else but finds no matter how she tries, she cannot get word of her responses because she too has begun writing to him in High Valyrian

She has paid for him to be gifted his own private tutor and he is ecstatic, becoming spoiled by his sister for every response he gives her

When he recieves word that she is visiting, he drops everything and greets her with the excitement of a namesday

He stands by her and Alicent is surprised to find that Rhaenyra accepts the way he clings to her

It worries her but she believes all will be well once she leaves

And after Viserys has passed?

She is shocked that he doesn't try and flee

That he doesn't even hide

He just walks through the castle as if nothing is the matter

It is safe to say that both she and Otto are on edge but begrudgingly place faith in him

And when he swipes his father's crown into his hands with the ease of a mischievous cat? She expects him to throw it...

Until they reach the platform and a familiar silver haired princess is walking into the ceremony with her head held high. Gasps whip across the crowd but none move to stop her and especially not when their supposed soon to be King kneels at her feet

Otto commands the guards to cease her steps and those of the army behind her but they do nothing, in fact they seize him before any arguments to her role as Queen can take place

Aegon holds the golden crown high but before anyone can take it, Rhaenyra stands before him, Daemon at her side who takes it into his lean palms to place it upon her, recalling vows of safety and faith in her reign. Aegon kneels proudly before her as the words are spoken but when Alicent is about to seethe, she swallows

It is too late for long-standing plots and panic embeds in her gut

It is clear that to every suggestion, to every blatant demand, Aegon has told Rhaenyra tenfold

He has done more than deny his right, he has blatantly abdicated it before the court and spectators

But she needn't worry, Rhaenyra is very fond of him indeed

Perhaps he would even make a good Master of Coin, he understand not only the money of the castle but the prices in which take course in Fleabottom, he has been there enough to understand their suffering

So Alicent's fearful gaze roams Rhaenyra and her people as the woman is crowned

The same question bounces around in her head over and over again...What happens now? as Rhaenyra caresses Aegon's proud face gently and calls for him to stand beside her

#platonic #rhaenyra x aegon platonic #platonic headcanons #platonic rhaenyra x aegon #rhaenyra targaryen x aegon ii targaryen #rhaenyra targaryen x aegon ii targaryen platonic #yandere rhaenyra x aegon platonic #yandere rhaenyra x aegon ii platonic #yandere rhaenyra targaryen x aegon targaren platonic #yandere rhaenyra targaryen x aegon ii targaryen platonic #yandere rhaenyra #yandere rhaenyra targaryen #yandere rhaenyra platoniic #yandere rhaenyra targaryen platonic

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gumjester · 7 months ago

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How much longer until the next chapter?

No pressure just curious !!

now that is an excellent question that i would love to be able to answer accurately however i have no idea!!!! i like to get the entirety of whatever arc im writing finished before i start publishing, just because it makes things more flexible as i redraft, and thronecoming is the longest arc i've started so far with 20 chapters! which fucking hell is basically an entire book i just realised . WELL,

i am hoping that once my final semester ends in may, i will be afforded much more time to get on that hashtag GRIND, but i think this is one is going to be a doozy. first published chapter by the end of the year, hopefully? i know that is an Obscenely long time but i am going as fast as physics + human psychology will allow !!!

#ask #eah #ever after high #gum rewrite #i truly wish this was my full-time job sometimes LMFAOOOOOOO

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stuckytoyoulikeglue · 1 year ago

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Fun fact; once I'm done with the first draft of a fic, I leave myself a little note at the top of the file with a list of stuff I still need to do in order to get it ready to publish.

This list always starts with 'redraft' and is usually followed by things like 'pick a title', 'write the synopsis', 'compile a tag list', 'check the continuity of X thing that I decided to change halfway through writing', 'make sure the bit that's supposed to be canon-compliant is actually canon-compliant and not just some-fic-I-read-that-I've-now-mixed-up-with-canon-compliant' etc. etc..

It's generally very useful, because I have a terrible memory and way too many WIPs, so I have no chance of keeping it all straight in my head (and no one wants to get to the point where they're ready to publish only to discover they've forgotten to think of a title).

On top of that, when a fic begins to approach final draft status, I try and leave a fair amount of time between each rework so I can re-read what I've done with relatively fresh eyes, which means I'm even less likely to remember what I still need to do (and it really is very annoying when you think you're pretty much done and then realise you have to name the thing. Naming things is hard).

Anyway, at that point of the process my to do list is usually just 'proof read' and 'make sure that one paragraph I've already rewritten three thousand times isn't too clunky', but today I found a note on a fic I've been working on for literal years (and which I actually thought was done) that simply said:

Stop stressing. It's fine.

Fine.

So, yeah, I would really like to thank my past self for that ringing endorsement.

Guess I'll be reworking that one again, then...

#fanfic problems #writer problems #writing is hard

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mostremote · 6 months ago

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USE THIS TO POST ANY/ALL EVERSNOW YOU DONT PLAN ON POSTING

(ex. too graphic of sex scenes, idk maybe i’m just a whore for that old man but that’s really what i’m after)

lmao ok!!!

I won't post everything because I just have a mess of folders and subfolders and drafts and redrafts of all kinds of things and they're not that coherent. I've got a couple of pieces that are nearly finished or at least mostly coherent that only need a bit of work to finish, so i'll try to get to those.

For now here is a much earlier draft of what eventually became Chapters 11 & 12 of The Shivering Season, "Proserpine" and "Bombs". This approach just wasn't working for me so I entirely started over. There's a few chapters where I just scrapped what I had and started again. But there's still some fun stuff in here, I like Snow not knowing how to deal with Katniss' inexplicable hypersexuality.

Pancakes again. Katniss turns them over with her fork, over and over. They’re always making her pancakes. Is it because they know her mother made them? Is it to try to make her feel better, remind her of home? Or hurt her? Make her miss what she can’t have?

She cuts them into little pieces and makes towers. She builds the town hall of District 12 and the square, and she smiles as she makes the street with the bakery. She imagines Peeta, coming and going from the little pancake house. He would think it was funny to live in a pancake.

‘Is your breakfast particularly amusing this morning?’ comes Snow’s dry voice, and Katniss’ smile drops as she looks up.

‘Not really.’ She topples her pancake towers and moves them around her plate in entropy.

‘You ought to eat something.’ He isn’t even looking at her; he’s distracted by whatever he’s reading on a tablet. ‘You keep skipping breakfast. It’s not healthy.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

He glances at her. There it is: concern mixed with threat. A certain amount of unhealthy is useful to him. Too much is dangerous.

Katniss spears the smallest piece of pancake and lifts it to her mouth. It makes her sick to chew it, but Snow seems satisfied.

‘As I mentioned last week, there have been some comments on how “stiff and uncomfortable” you and I sometimes appear with one another.’ He holds up the tablet and shows her a photo. Katniss can’t help but crack a grin. It’s the two of them at some stupid event. They’re holding hands, but both are looking in the opposite direction. Katniss isn’t sure which of them looks more like they want to kill someone. ‘I’m glad you find this amusing,’ says Snow. ‘Perhaps you have forgotten how tenuous all of this is. Marrying you might have obliterated the mockingjay symbol, but there are plenty of people left who want to kill us. If people start to think you’re unhappy with me, well – they might reinvent you. The kidnapped child bride of the President. That might rejuvenate the rebellion. Is that what you want?’

‘No,’ says Katniss quickly. ‘I’ll do better.’

‘We both need to do better.’ He nods at one of the servants who comes to deliver the tablet along the table to Katniss. ‘Take a look at those. I had one of my team draw up a…’ He rolls his eyes and pulls a face of uncharacteristically extreme disgust. ‘…a selection of suggested intimate gestures that you and I might employ in public to appear more palatable. Approve the ones you’re comfortable with.’

Katniss accepts the tablet without looking the servant in the eye. She starts to flick through them. Each gesture has a title, a sunny summary, and an awful cartoon diagram to illustrate it. Head resting on shoulder: this is an easy way to express the stability and comfort one person feels in the other… Black-and-white, insipid cartoon people smile back at her, one resting its head on the other. After that comes forehead kiss, hand on thigh, hand on the back of the neck, stroking hair, nuzzling…

‘Nuzzling?’ she says incredulously.

‘We can veto that one,’ Snow mutters. ‘And forehead kissing. That will only remind people of our age disparity. Do you have any vetoes?’

Katniss tosses the tablet down. Weird little shapes are dancing before her vision and her anxiety is starting its inexorable climb up her throat. ‘Do any of them. Whatever.’ She collects herself a little. ‘Uh, not hand on the back of the neck, please. I’d feel like you were choking me.’

‘Fine.’

‘Maybe we should kiss more,’ she murmurs.

‘It would be easy for that to become unseemly. Katniss?’

She is rubbing her forehead over and over and over again. ‘What?’

‘Are you alright?’

Katniss contorts her face into something like a bracing smile. ‘Yeah. I’m fine. What’s happening with the rebellion? Are people still fighting?’

Snow nods and sips his coffee like death and rebellion are quotidian topics for breakfast discussion. ‘District 11 has been very inflammatory. A few dozen were shot there last week. But they’re making little progress, we’ll easily put them down. It’s just a question of how many lives they’ll lose before they surrender. District 12 has been utterly complacent. I think they saw the wedding as—’

‘A betrayal?’

‘Yes, perhaps,’ he says lightly. ‘Either way, they’re not willing to die anymore for what you once symbolized. But then we have other problems. Many in the Capitol were unhappy with our increase in rations to the Districts, so we have enemies on that side, too. There are plenty who think you’re a poisonous influence on me, eroding the Capitol’s power from within. That coterie want us both dead. Fortunately, they’re not a large or powerful group – at least at the moment. But if the election doesn’t go our way, well…’

Katniss’ head is full of cotton wool and ants. ‘If what? They’re only electing who’ll take over when you die, right? And you’re not…’ She frowns. Looks at the tiny pieces into which he cuts his food. Can see even from here a bit of blood on his napkin. ‘You’re not going to die soon, right?’

‘I don’t intend to, Katniss, much as that might disappoint you.’ His smile is wry and wan. ‘But the moment a successor is chosen, then certain people might get… impatient. The summary, Katniss, is that we have enemies on all sides. The best thing we can do is keep up appearances.’

Katniss crumbles some piece of pancake between her forefinger and thumb. This is like eating, only better, because it doesn’t make her sick. ‘Can I do anything more? Be more…’ There’s a big blank spot in her vision now, and it covers all of Snow’s face if she holds her head in a certain place. She shifts her head back and forth, back and forth, watching him disappear and reappear…

‘Katniss?’

‘Oh.’ She blinks. The blank spot remains. ‘I was going to say, can I be more… I don’t know, attractive to them? What would help?’ She shrugs. ‘I’ll do anything.’

‘In terms of your styling, I don’t think there is any room for useful improvement. All we can do is sell our relationship to them. Hence all of that.’ He waves, revolted, at the tablet.

‘You can do what you want to me,’ Katniss says, her words vague, her thoughts elsewhere – her thoughts nowhere. ‘I’ll make it look okay. I’ll smile, and I’ll look like I like it. I can do it.’

‘I don’t want to do anything to you,’ says Snow, and his voice is strangely gentle. ‘And if you can’t cope with any of this, we can reassess. I need you in one piece, Katniss. Do you understand?’

Katniss nods. She picks up a large piece of pancake, crumbles it, lifts it to her lips, tastes a few crumbs, then lets the rest fall to her plate. It sort of looks like she just ate a whole chunk.

‘I understand. I’m fine.’ She smiles, just how she does for the cameras, and all she can see in Snow’s face is skepticism and concern.

It’s easier once they’re in the car together. Some weird reversal has happened to Katniss’ anxiety. Rather than spiking whenever Snow touches her, now it’s at its worst when she’s worrying about it, or thinking about it. Actually feeling him against her is the worst things can ever be, and there’s something comforting in that. There’s reassurance to the smell of blood on his breath. It means the worst is currently happening: you are already in hell, and that’s okay.

They have to open some stupid new art gallery or political building or execution block today, so they stand for the crowds and smile. Katniss doesn’t initiate any of the new physical gestures, but Snow touches her shoulder and her hair. After he gives his speech, when the cameras are supposed to have lost interest (but, they both know, have not) he pulls back her hair and kisses her lightly, like this is meant to be a private moment and they just can’t help themselves.

As he shifts her hair Katniss is yanked back to her coronation after winning the Games, the first time he ever spoke to her. She had to stand still and let him touch her then, too. He didn’t ask permission then. He hated her. Now he doesn’t seem to mind her so much. Does that make it harder for him to touch her? Or is it because the first time he touched her it was predatory: examining a thing he had to control. Now it’s affectionate – or the performance of affection. Katniss wonders which she hates more.

[This is when a version of the ballet, hand-on-thigh scene from “Proserpine” originally occurred]

Katniss is struggling. The misplaced cog rolls around her body and makes it misbehave, makes it sick. Her anxiety has reached its limit, and the fluid that spills over in excess is abject and stinking and it pools between her legs.

They’re at a party. A fundraiser? A campaign party? It’s something to help some Capitol politician that Snow thinks is important, somehow, and Katniss is expected to attend and advertise to everyone the wonderful unity Snow has achieved with the districts.

She is not doing a good job.

When Snow reaches for her hand, Katniss pulls away. When he smiles at her, she turns her head. When the rich, fetid smell of his blood-breath cascades over her, familiar and vile and, now, also, delicious, she looks anywhere else. His scent drops through her chest and congeals in her abdomen, and then she feels sharp notes flutter through her clit. She tries to keep as much distance between them as she can, but just his presence and his smell – which once just filled her with anxiety – now fills her with syrup.

Snow is displeased.

He tries to engage her in light conversation when there’s a lull in the political small-talk, but Katniss’ voice is sticky in her throat. She cannot meet his eyes, and she cannot be near his mouth. He keeps trying to hold her hand, or touch her waist, or put a hand on her shoulder, and she keeps sliding away. It isn’t even putting a stop to her arousal, but she cannot countenance letting him touch her and letting that feeling build again. It’s profane.

The evening is crawling by and Snow is trying once again, in futility, to get Katniss to let him hold her fingers in his, when he finally has enough.

‘We need to talk,’ he says, and tries to steer her out of the crowded room. Katniss shies away from his hand and walks ahead until they’re out in the empty, quiet corridor, where Snow finds a private alcove in which to address her. His face is set in confusion and disappointment. Not yet anger. That will come soon. ‘What on earth is wrong with you tonight?’ he hisses. ‘We are supposed to be an advert for a prosperous new alliance between the Capitol and the districts, and you are doing an extremely poor job of selling that.’

Katniss leans as deep into the alcove as she can, her bare shoulders rubbing against the walls, trying to get away from Snow’s breath and his smell.

‘I’m just not feeling very well,’ she says.

‘That’s not good enough. As far as I can tell, there is nothing physically wrong with you. You can walk around and eat well enough, so there shouldn’t be anything precluding you from holding my hand.’

She’s not even eating that well. Snow has simply become so accustomed to watching her pick at her food that he doesn’t register any difference.

‘Can I just have the night off?’

‘No.’ She is trying to sidle away from him again, and Snow places his palm on her other side to trap her. His voice is sand and broken glass. ‘Thus far, Katniss, I have mostly been impressed with your conduct – barring a few notable incidents. You have played your role excellently. But this is unacceptable. You cannot have the night off. You cannot take a break. I warned you what this life would be like, didn’t I?’

A ghostly smile haunts her face. ‘No end,’ she repeats from memory. ‘No respite.’

‘Exactly. So, are you going to do your job, or do I have to force you?’

Katniss convulses with a shiver. The new, cancerous part of her likes the idea of being forced. There is no way out of this maze, only ever deeper in. Digging in the dirt at the center, burying her face among the worms.

‘Okay,’ she breathes, her voice high with despair. Resigned and disintegrating, she reaches for his hand and intertwines their fingers together like schoolkids in love. With her other hand, she reaches out and touches his face. His skin is soft paper, bristled and familiar, old and hateful. He does not stop her when she kisses him. It’s a small, pathetic, grieving kiss, and Katniss feels her body’s sexual response come in low, persistent waves. Perhaps it would be easier if she could just keep kissing him, and forget about the party, and lose herself in the sewage.

Snow pulls his lips away. ‘Good,’ he says, confused. ‘We don’t need to kiss, Katniss; it’s only a campaign party. Just try not to seem revolted by me.’ He smiles, and Katniss returns it with a completely different smile. Oh, she is revolted. Her revulsion will never be exorcised out of her. But the revulsion is lined with gold, and it makes her cunt leak.

At the very least, it’s kind of funny.

Katniss lets Snow escort her around the party and show her off, and she laughs at the men’s jokes. She lets Snow touch her however he likes, and when his hands brush against her waist or he leans against her side, unintentionally pressing her breasts, the usual anxiety sparkles into arousal.

She is introduced to some important senators who Snow tells her pose some important rival to Daric, a man she can barely remember, and Katniss laughs and smiles and looks at her husband with what looks like love but which is actually putrid desire.

‘I must say, you are every inch as stunning as you are on television,’ says one senator.

‘An astounding creature,’ says another. ‘You practically glow.’ Katniss smiles winningly.

‘My husband brings it out of me,’ she croons, and everybody laughs, and she turns her head to Snow’s and gives him a gentle kiss. He accepts it, as he must, and you can practically taste everybody’s heartfelt sentiment.

But Katniss doesn’t let him go.

She places one hand on the back of his neck and holds him prisoner, as once she did to punish him, and she lets her kiss bloom with all of her lips and her saliva and her tongue. She feels the craters of his mouth sores and erotic disgust trembles through her.

Just at the point where she knows she cannot push impropriety any further, Katniss pulls away. Snow’s expression must look like affection, but she knows how to track the fury in his eyes.

Katniss turns back to the senators – whose eyes are wide and astounded at the display – and smiles again, the picture of grace, and she laughs and the men laugh and everything is fine.

It is not until they are back in the car that Snow unfurls his anger. He waits until they are sat side by side, silent and unspeaking, and then he looks at her with his own kind of disgust.

‘I have warned you about this, Katniss,’ he says. His voice burns. ‘I warned you at the auction. You need to behave better than this. This is unacceptable.’

Katniss feels high with surreality and arousal.

‘It wasn’t unacceptable,’ she says lightly. ‘I was very careful. They were impressed by that. It was passion, not humiliation.’ She gives him a flat, adolescent stare. ‘They like to see that sort of thing. You’re not some sad old man who bought a child; you’re a man who inspires…’ She sighs and hopes a suitable phrase will come to her. Nothing suitable comes. ‘Who inspires intense sexual desire. They want to see that, the men. Makes them think they can get the same thing. They’ll go home, have sex with their wives that hate them, and they’ll fantasize about going out to District 10, 11, 12 and picking up some desperate little teenager who worships them. You’re selling them an ideal.’

Snow is unsettled, and Katniss likes that. He does not know where the lines lie. Nor does she.

‘It is true I have not been married in a long time,’ he says carefully. ‘And my last wife was one I specifically chose for her plain and conservative qualities. But… Katniss, it is not normal behavior.’

‘Of course it’s not normal,’ she scoffs. ‘How many men there genuinely have wives like me that adore them and want to fuck their brains out?’

He looks away from her at that. How he can’t stand it! But it’s not fun anymore. She’s not trying to torment him; she’s just wandering around her new labyrinth.

‘You just don’t like it because it makes you uncomfortable,’ she continues. She manages a bitter smile. ‘You’re kind of a prude like that.’

She studies the streetlights and the people for a while, and then she realizes Snow is watching her. She looks back at him. His expression is strange to her.

‘I worry about you, Katniss,’ he says quietly.

Katniss laughs: a short, brash bark, and then she throws back her head and convulses with laughter. It feels good to laugh; it takes the edge off her arousal.

‘Oh, sure, sure,’ she says, surfacing from the fit. ‘The man who let my District starve to death for years, who idly stood by as I fought for my life in the Games, the man who threatens to kill me on, oh, a daily basis… He’s worried about me.’

She expects a fight, or a cutting remark. But Snow only watches her. For some reason, it stops being funny. Katniss settles down and avoids his eyes. He does not stop staring.

‘Yes, Katniss,’ he says, at last. ‘I worry.’

She glances at him sidelong, and he finally turns away from her and absorbs himself in whatever important news has been poured into his tablet. She thinks about kissing him again. She thinks about smashing her head into the window, or getting into the minibar and taking one of those little glass bottles to her wrists. She would love to bleed out, wade into the quiet, and Snow could recede on the distant horizon. She would float away in the red, and wave goodbye, and he would wave back.

But… Prim…

So she sits still, and she tries to rest her mind, but it’s full of flies and blood and Snow’s lips, so she resorts to counting the streetlights, and she tries not to think about the raw, pulsing pit that her new future is hurtling toward.

#god i write so fucking much about these two #remote writes

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