#but mostly the toil part right now

[tggardens]

Modern day witch's brew is going nicely.

[forthelostones]

𝚙𝚝.𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 ; 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 ─── ⋆

⟡⋆˙୨ᥫ᭡. 𝚗𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚞 - 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚎!𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚢 𝚡 𝚏𝚎𝚖!𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛ᥫ᭡.୧⋆˙⟡

synopsis: abby was a woman whose presence was becoming deeply irresistible to you. in your final year of nursing school, you toil with the idea of pursuing her — ruin what you have or enjoy what’s in front of you?

warnings. 18+ (mdni); sub!abby, domsub!abby, sexual themes, jealousy, fluff, nickname: dummy, and modern au - pre-established relation.

an: guys. this has been such a crazy ride, thanks for the support on both of my stories. it means so much to me. sorry for the wait... lets get it.

CLICK HERE.

(no y/n)

Abby watched from the row behind you, observing how you chewed on the end of that neon #2 pencil. She could tell by the bobbing of your leg that you were nervous and stuck on a specific question. It was the same during studying — chew, bob, sigh. Almost on cue, a frustrated sigh left your throat. She knew it was her fault that this was happening.

She knew neither of you studied long enough for you to feel confident on this exam. Well, that’s what she kept trying to convince herself, she was already finishing up the last page. Although her pencil glided on the paper effortlessly, she couldn���t help but be distracted by your indecisiveness on the math equations and multiple-choice questions. The once full eraser had been subsided to pure metal scrapping into the pages.

The time on her watch read ten minutes left until the end of the exam and you were only on page two. Studying had become harder for you with Abby around. It wasn’t only the dating component it was mostly the difference in your skills. Her ability to memorize vocabulary and complete math problems without thinking twice about them made you academically insecure. While you averaged low B’s and high C’s, she had a 4.0 and made it look easy. The clock's ticking distracts you from the problem you are trying to solve. It was one you and Abby worked on multiple times, yet you’re frozen, unsure how to solve it. As everyone flicks their pages to finish, you just … froze. 

“Okay. Pencils down.” Your professor said just moments after you started a new equation. Your jaw dropped slightly and you squeezed your eyes shut. Abby shook her head, not at you specifically, but herself. You had practically moved in and the nights that would typically be spent studying were now used to learn more about each other beyond your friendship. Realistically, Abby understood that those moments would be worth more than a grade in the long run. But a part of her also resented getting this comfortable, ultimately impacting you. The feelings clashed within her. The heat forming inside of you could only be described as embarrassment. Why was it like your brain suddenly lost all power to its systems? It wasn’t unusual for you to skip a few questions but this was completely unlike you. 

You chew on your cuticles and fold the mostly blank pages and pass them down to the front, doing the same for your classmates. Their pages crumbled with computation answers and confidently filled bubbles exposed your shortcomings. You should feel relieved that the test is over but you don’t. A heavy anchor grounded you but you were still floating. Abby met you down in your row where you saw her concealing another A-plus smirk. Once you both exited into the hall Abby’s hand finds the center of your back and she begins to pet it slowly. You shrug her away gently. 

“Don’t.” You sigh. 

Abby knew it would set you off but she did it anyway to show you she sees you. The blonde’s brain was moving at a rapid pace. She so deeply wanted to ask you about the challenging problems and the scenarios on the quiz. Her translucent lashes tapped frantically as she imagined the sheet of paper behind her eyes. 

“I feel good about this one.” She finally says. 

“Good. I really did not do well. It’s — whatever. Right?” 

Abby looks to you and she couldn’t lie and tell you that it’s not just whatever. It’s your future. Both of your futures — together — it was important to Abby that her partner was just as successful as her. 

“You should be happy that you did your best but understand that if you did do as bad as you think, it’s worth asking for a makeup to understand the material.” She suggested. 

You hated when she got like this, rigid. Her posture was straight, her mouth set hard, and no softness found anywhere on her face. The regime her father instilled in her stayed and it was evident in moments like this. 

“Abby, sometimes I really need you to just listen to me and be rational later.” 

A chill followed down her spine following your sharp comment. 

“Maybe we shouldn’t study together anymore.” She muttered.

Part of you wanted that to be a joke but knew it wasn’t. The night before proved itself to be deeply uneventful for the both of you. 

“You’re distracting me.” You groan as you’re reviewing flashcards on Abby’s bed, the first mistake. She was wearing a thin, white tank top and a pair of loose black sweats, untied, on her hips. Her hair was drying from the shower you two just took and so was her body. The outline of her features was accentuated by the water being absorbed by the cotton. She was so casually beautiful and simply yours. The bed shifted behind you, her weight bending the mattress inwards, as she crawled towards you.

“Am I?” She asks, using the tip of her tongue to playfully lick a stripe of slick up towards your lobe. An instant bubble of relief popped inside of you. “Okay. Okay.” 

Abby couldn’t take her eyes away from you. She had seen you in this robe every night now but it was something about how it was gliding with you. As well as your skin's glint from your body oil makes you look regal. You sat at the base of the bed while Abby retreated towards the headboard, leg tucked under her butt. She took off three inches of hair and it looked so fresh, carving out her face perfectly, and highlighting her stiff jawline. “How about we make a deal?” She said brazenly. 

“What?” 

“For each answer I get right you remove something?” 

“Abby,” you chuckle, not denying her advances. 

You thumb the index cards in your hand and turn to tie your eyes with hers. 

“First question, the section is Anatomy and Physio. What best describes endocrine glands?” You ask. 

Abby taps her chin as if she’s searching for the answer. “They secrete chemicals into the blood, growth, metabolism, sexual development and function.” 

She raises her eyebrows and shoots her eyes towards your robe. A deal is a deal so you remove the silk, leaving you in your two-piece pajama set. Abby notices the goosebumps lining the outsides of your shoulders and can’t help but desire to rub them warm. 

“Question number two. Anaerobic respiration can lead to a burning sensation caused by which molecule?” 

“Easy,” she scuffed. “Lactic Acid.”

Her teeth appeared behind her Cheshire grin as your top found its way onto her floor. 

“Good job.” 

Your words made her cunt pulse. 

“The mediastinum is located within which cavity?” You ask. 

Abby’s face fell instantly. The outline of your nipples looked delicious and icy, she needed them in her palms immediately. “Fuck. I don’t know.” 

You lift yourself off the bed and bend right in front of her to retrieve your shirt, Abby’s shadow overcame you and her hips thrust into your ass in one motion. She spins you around to face her, mouths inches away. “Do you think you’re going to actually put that back on?” 

Her index finger traced the outline of your lips with her eyes following. You grip her wrist, halting her movements, “And if I do?” 

Abby gently places the index cards neatly on her bedside table and presses you into the wall behind you. Usually, Abby is submissive but the stalking woman imposed her strength on you, like she’s been wanting to do from the first time she saw you in clinicals. 

“I’ll just rip it off you.” She giggles. 

“Would that be so bad?” You reply, bringing her finger into your mouth, sucking it then adding another. Abby huffed a keen groan as she bent down onto her knees, immediately pressing her mouth into your cunt. She lapped at the fabric separating her from you and didn’t even ask for you to remove them. 

You insisted by beginning to take them off but she tore them off you and hoisting up one leg onto her shoulder following the other one. 

“Abby.” You gasp. 

“I got you, hold onto me.” 

She was flexing her skill by fine-tuning your pussy with her tongue while she slowly hoisted you up towards the ceiling. Not only did you feel as if you were floating, you actually were. She was a show off but you fucking loved it. 

After that, there was no more studying done.

“Do you think we should cut down on the time we're spending together?” You question, as the night replays in your mind. 

Abby’s face scrunched up in immediate disapproval without hesitation at the suggestion. She pulled her bottom lip slightly in her mouth and looked around as if the walls suddenly grew eyes. Abby wanted to tell you no but she knew what had to be done. 

“We can.” She grimaced with a shrug. 

Despite all the time you spent together the girlfriend conversation had yet to come up. She thought about it the most when you were in her presence. She didn’t comprehend how you liked her so much and yet, you refused to make it official. She truly believed that once you ditched Ellie she’d be over the moon, but right now it’s feeling the same and Abby doesn’t do stagnant. 

“Abby, we can still study together, in the library, several feet away from each other.” 

She forced a smile. “Fine. Does this mean you’ll still sleepover?” 

Before your crush on Abby developed you were denying yourself the fact that it was possible. But during this time, before the dating, your grades had been the best when you were alone, and you know for a fact, that it was because of her. You may not be as smart as Abby but you do want to come out on the other end with a degree too. 

“Why don’t we come up with a schedule?” She suggests.  

“That would be perfect.” You said. 

The schedule consisted of dinners at Abby’s during the week, sleepovers on non-clinical days which were Wednesdays and Fridays, and studying every day at the library. Abby liked the organization but her body had gotten so used to you beside her. A week into implementing the new schedule Abby felt an immense amount of anxiety without you around. She didn’t know how to break down the feeling and why it was so persistent. Although you two were next door to each other, text messages still provided a temporary cushion for her sadness, but it wasn’t enough. 

Abby clicked the icon that was the home for your name and called but there was no answer. Dinner was stewing on the stove, and in the middle of mixing a cocktail, Abby called to find out if you could taste what was missing. Another call led to another one and soon Abby was sitting with a candle flickering silently in front of her. Your plate sat untouched and she just picked at the remnants of hers. 

Little did she know you were closed off in your room after studying, panicking. You knew yourself more than you wanted to. The schedule was needed for you to clear your brain on the feelings you had for Abby. With upcoming exams and graduation where would that leave you? She'd move across the world while you were huddled up in your small town's hospital circulation? It was coming in so fast and before you could mix in a girlfriend you had to know what you wanted. The pages of your journal turned soft as you tore your pen through the book. 

A part of you wanted to hear the rapping of her fist against your door, ready to envelop you and reassure you that you would figure it out. She never came and because of that, a piece of you died. Conversations with her have turned short and passive since the last exam. It wasn’t just the exam it was a culmination of multiple things that either of you were ready to talk about. 

Abby put your dinner into a glass container and waited outside your door trying to gain the sense to knock. One of the many nights you spent together gave her a reason to knock instead of sulk in her bed, thinking about all of her shortcomings in the relationship. You were both lying down and Abby lit a candle that night that you bought her. The sweet scent of peaches and cream cut through the bitter smell of her pine products. She loved it. Between the sheets were your naked bodies damp and lazy. Abby had brought a glass of cold ice water and set it on the nightstand beside the candle. You took turns taking sips. 

“Thank you for the water.” You smiled. 

“Don’t mention it,” She nudged you. 

You twist your body onto your stomach and look up to her glimmering, post-sex face. 

“Abby?” 

“Yes, beautiful?” 

“You still make me nervous.” 

She cackles and brings her hand to your cheek and massages away your imperfections. With the roll of her eyes she licks her lips before curating a snarky response. But she quickly realizes you’re being serious. “Why?” 

“I care so much about you and that’s something I haven’t felt before. With anyone.”

A kind pause swells between you both. 

“I care about you too. I don’t want that to make you nervous.” She said. 

“I know you see me differently but I am a little insecure.” 

She leans down and kisses your forehead tenderly without a breath. 

“That’s normal.” 

“But I burrow. I distance myself when I get like that and I don’t want to subject you to that. I don’t want to hurt your feelings again. If I do that, get distant, don’t hesitate to just tell me to get out of my own head. It’s not your fault or your responsibility.” 

Abby’s fist banged on the door with your words echoing in her mind. The thuds startled you out of the sleepy daze you fell under. You shuffle to the door to see the goofy blonde in her pajamas and slippers holding what was supposed to be tonights shared dinner. 

“You didn’t come to dinner,” Her voice was more welcoming than usual. “I was worried. Are you okay?”

Shoving her way past you and nearly tossed the container on the kitchen counter. Without hesitation she opened her arms and you couldn’t help but to run into them. Although she didn’t say anything the affirmation from her presence was enough. 

“All too much in your head again aren’t you?” 

A sob escaped into her chest and she gripped you tighter. These past few days have been a blunder of confusing thoughts. A part of you knew getting together with Abby would make things unclear in your life. But if she was willing to get uncomfortable and support you, you were obligated to do the same to her.

“Abby, I should’ve answered your calls.” You pull away to notice how unswayed she is of your state.

“You should have but that doesn’t matter right now. We need to talk.”

You nod your head shyly and she grips your hand and takes you to your bedroom. Abby pats beside herself to welcome you.

“I’m so scared.” You blurt out.

“Me too,”

Abby was scared for the complete opposite reason. When she was with you it seemed like all the decorative things such as school didn’t matter. She wasn’t familiar with how that felt. To have an identity outside of her accomplishments or care about someone. With you, she could flunk out of nursing school, move back to her home town, and still be satisfied. That scared her — that one person could allow her to have such a paradigm shift.

Hearing Abby say those words made your heart settle.

“I care so much about you. I didn’t think I would, this much. I should’ve known because on orientation when I saw you I thought, ‘I need to know who she is’ and I am grateful for that thought blossoming into my mind.”

You couldn’t muster any other word but her name. She picked up your hands to bring them into her lap. She leaned in to place a soft kiss on your mouth and lingered there with her forehead pressed against yours.

“When you moved next door, I just thought maybe this is the sign I need to do something different. To not let my ambitions lead me but instead my heart. And my heart loves you, Dummy.”

[justporo]

A Scorching Letter

Brimsterton | A Staevstarion Regency AU

PREVIOUS PART | MASTERLIST | AO3

A/N: Yes hello, I know I haven't posted something I wrote in quite a while. Let's just say I've been busy, but mostly behind the scenes. This however I had written quite a while ago (end of June I think) and I need to get back into the saddle again with posting. So here we are, another trip into Regency AU with @velnna's beloved Staeve (thanks as always for letting me stick him in a costume) and Astarion. Picking off where we left off after the chaise longue incident.

Summary: With a lot mixed feelings after what almost happened between them, a scorching letter is written that reveals genuine truths and brilliant emotions. But the response might not have been what either of them had hoped for...

Pairing: Astarion/Staeve Wordcount: 5,1k Warnings: light implied nsfw

-----

Hands hastily tore open an envelope. On it, in elegant cursive handwriting that couldn’t be mistaken for anyone but Astarion’s, a name was written, boldly and with gold ink even: Staeve Brimstone.

Shivering fingers took several pages from the torn away paper and unfolded them. Immediately, it was visible that the letter had been written with a plethora of intense emotions: some parts seemed barely readable as if the pen had scarcely made its way across the paper in hesitancy. Others were quite obviously written with such vigour, that the sheets were almost torn and stained with blots of ink from a pen that had been pressed too harshly and hastily onto the paper - way too eager to get out the words.

The hands holding onto the letter kept trembling as the letter was studied. It read:

“My dearly beloved Staeve,

It seems we’ve gotten ourselves in quite the compromising position, haven’t we?Apparently, we do have a knack for this kind of thing, don’t you agree? It is nothing new for either of us, truly. How often have we gotten in trouble for something over the years? Quite frankly it might be a big part of the reason why my parents will finally be sending me off to the continent. I figure they fear what two - now grown - young men could get themselves into. And wouldn’t they be right?

A million times have we conspired together. A million plans. A million times it was us against the world. Together.

To our own surprise we haven’t always been discovered. But then again too often than we would have hoped. And yet we have always gotten out of a cornered situation.

This time it is different though.

I take it your sister hasn’t taken notice of what has happened that night. Or it might be that she doesn’t care - I was never able to read her well. And I do not dare to push her on the matter.

What could have happened had we been discovered in that moment? Truly discovered?

But to be quite frank that isn’t what I am concerned with. Not if I am being honest with myself.

You know I am a man of few regrets, Staeve. But I do regret having left like I did that fateful night. My mind kept whispering malicious things to me while my chest was burning, set ablaze by you and your lips. My heart was prepared to scream it all from the rooftops. But yet my anxious mind had me flee like lest we be found out.

But yet my heart keeps burning, the flames impossible to smother. I promise you I’ve tried. Only to find them flickering higher, brighter, hotter, whenever I tried.

And it has been hard to calm it for even just a moment since that fateful night on that chaise longue.

In the end, it has won over my mind even quicker than I thought as I still feel my chest burn with every single beat of my yearning heart. This is what my mind has been toiling with. This and the enticing idea of what would have happened had we not been disturbed, this impossible game of “what if”.

Would we have lost ourselves within each other, unravelled by our hands and touches. Would we have been void of words with only our bodies to speak the yet unspoken? Would we have gone all the way into oblivion together torn and then reformed together. And all to only be unravelled again and again until there had been nothing left but strings?

Strings we might have been able to have knitted into something new, something thoroughly intertwined?

Only the heavens may know.”

The words at the end of this page were thin; anxiously so. The author’s worries and fears clear already by how the words seemed to trail off at the bottom. In hopes perhaps, that they could just be shaken off the page lest they fall on deaf ears.

The next fresh page though started with bold writing again, even bolder than before. The written words proud, tall and unashamed:

“But I do know this: at night I lay unable to sleep with that blistering desire inside of me, slowly scorching me from the inside out. And when the heat becomes near unbearable, I lay there with nothing but the moon as a witness, touching myself while imagining - hoping - it was you. My hands wandering down over my own body and finding pleasure so easily and quickly - so intense - as they stroke and caress. Simply because it is you in my mind. The thought of you nearly enough to lose myself time and again.

I know I am a sinner for this, for my thoughts and my actions. But could a sin truly feel this heavenly? If this is what hell feels like, I will let it take me, gladly. I would welcome doom with open arms for just my actions, but truly, I’d much rather be doomed together with you, Staeve.

The feeling of your mouth on mine has been imprinted on me. I cannot forget it. I will die with the memory of your soft lips on mine on my mind as the last breath leaves my earthly body.

You've touched me a thousand times - a hug, a tap, a taunt - but not like this. Never like this. Not with that enticing intention, not with that need: giving, pleasing but also taking -  possibly all of me. And if I’m being true and honest to myself: I would give you all of myself - body, mind and soul. You may take it all!

Do you feel the same? Because even writing this letter I feel how restless my fingers are, how they itch to touch you again as well, how they need to feel you again: your lithe body, the skin of your face, your silken hair.

I just want to feel the warmth of you again, enveloping me, your body moving against mine as we fall together, endlessly.

And when your hands know me by heart, I want to feel your mouth all over my skin, tasting me before swallowing my confessions to you directly from my very own lips and tongue.

I want you to know me as deeply as no one has before. I fear no one else could ever understand me like you do anyways. And I hope, dearly, this is what you want too. I surely know it’s what I want with you: knowing you inside and out, better than myself.

Back in that moment it surely felt like that.

But memories are fleeting, fickle little things. Already I am questioning if I really saw the same yearning in your eyes I keep feeling in my very soul. But then again, it's not like this only transpired yesterday, hasn't it? Hasn’t this all been brewing for what feels like an eternity?”

Up until this paragraph the writing had been bold, the elegant cursive letters leaning so far it was easily distinguishable that they had been written without pause. Words that had  been too powerful to not let out.

But those next ones were more hesitant again. The pen had been pressed down to start many a time and then hastily taken off again, judging by how several blots and scratches of ink clouded the first letter of the next sentence.

But in the end even these words had found their way - either way:

“I reckon you know the feeling in the atmosphere before a thunderstorm approaches - when the tension is so dense it makes your hairs rise up. When the whole world seems to hold its breath, awaiting the inevitable.

Aren’t we just like that? Awaiting what deep down we have known for so long?

Aren’t we inevitable?

How long have we been like this? In that terrible limbo of potential and not yet made resolution?

Only for it to unload in but a blink of an eye, lightning hitting us both, scorching us through and through, down to our furthest depths - setting us brightly ablaze where light has never even reached before.

There is no way in which we could ever proceed, pretending as if we both haven’t been changed forever in this moment, changed at our innermost core - wouldn’t you agree?

At times I fear that all it would have taken was that one night. One night of scorching flames to then see the fire smothered. This - us - nothing but a quick intermezzo, a short crescendo that is quickly muffled and not to be heard again.

But whenever I think I’ve forgotten about this, about you, for a just moment, there it is again: the thought of you, impossible to get out of my head.

You are always there with me, Staeve, with every breath and every step.

You didn’t just light a candle inside of me, you started a wildfire.

And I welcome it - with all the heat, all the power, all the destruction it might bring but also the all encompassing warmth it might spend. I welcome it to be consumed by it!”

Before the final words of the letter there was generous space left. Quite obviously the author felt the need to let his final words take up room. The final conclusion to the letter read:

“I am in love with you, Staeve Brimstone.

I am in love with you - and looking back it feels like I have always been in love with you. From the moment I first laid eyes upon you up to the my last moments on this earth.

And even more than that: I need you. I fear I cannot live without you.

And even though it might be selfish - but we both know that I am -: I hope you need me too.

I hope to love you, Staeve, forevermore. And if I’m fortunate enough, that you will love me too.

Forever yours,

Astarion”

As eyes ran over the last page, the hands holding the letter had begun to tremble. They were gripping the paper so hard by now that knuckles showed white.

Then when the end had been reached they were shaking so much no word could have been made out anymore. The grip was crinkling up the paper now. Up until the pages were deliberately being crumpled angrily, pressed into a ball of paper, letters and emotions alike forced into an indiscernible mess.

With a few steps only, the way was made to the lit fireplace and the pages were given to the flames. The fire eagerly licked at the papers, ate it up until there was nothing left of the words and the long suppressed feelings they had finally expressed.

~~~

The Brimstone family had sat down for dinner. Or at least for their approximation of it. Viscount and Viscountess Brimstone were idly enjoying their dinner talking a bit of business, politics and gossip. Meanwhile, their son Staeve was more enticed by the workings of a small golden mechanical beetle his father had brought him as a souvenir from one of his business trips than by the meagre meal of roasted pork and vegetables he’d thrown onto his plate as more of an afterthought. The sleeves of his white linen shirt were rolled up to his elbows as he had discarded his doublet long ago to be able to move better and one of his suspenders threatened to give up on its job as it was dropping off his shoulder in his hunched over position. He had wholly reengineered what dinner time meant for him, much to the grievance of his parents. But dozens of tries to change first the boy’s and then the young man’s behaviour had failed. So at some point they had given up as long as he knew to behave when guests were over and was still honouring the family gathering times.

That usually meant that he was at least present during family dinner times, physically at least. But he’d only eat later, once it had all gotten cold. And then would sneak into the kitchen to grab seconds when he would have realised once more that tinkering around didn’t sate his bodily hunger. At least not enough.

His mother had long given up on trying to teach Staeve manners. When he had been a child she had been sure he would grow out of it. But once she had realised that his quirks had only been growing with him, she’d come to realise that it was for the best to just leave him be and hope for the best.

Only occasionally did she still try to enforce his older sister Nita as a role model to him. It never worked.

So, as Staeve was fumbling with his current project and his parents were lost in conversation, his sister Nita - void of any option to make dinner time pass any faster with her parents talking and her brother with his mind elsewhere - moved around some asparagus on her gold rimmed plate and wished she could’ve found an excuse to go eat with her younger siblings in the kitchen. Even they would have been a more ample entertainment discussing their playtime or perhaps their current tutor lessons.

That was until she thought of a way of hopefully grabbing Staeve’s attention for more than a fleeting moment.

“So, Staeve, have you found something to do yet, something to cope?”

Her brother’s tuft of green hair lifted shortly from where it had been bent over the small, intricately built beetle and some similarly delicate tool with which Staeve meant to dismantle the small object - thereby probably irreparably destroying it.

But the younger Brimstone shortly looked at his sister in irritation. Then his gaze snapped back to his hands and his workings and he began tinkering again.

“What?”

Nita rolled her eyes. “You know you are supposed to use full sentences, right?”

“Whoever has the time for that?”

“Ah see, he does speak in full sentences.”

Staeve grunted at his sister’s sarcasm but didn’t reward her with another glance.

Nita tried again.

“So have you?”

“I don’t think that was a full sentence.”

She was about ready to throw her fork at him, hoping it would drive the audacity right out of him - or at least take an eye. For a moment she debated just letting the silence draw out. But honestly she hadn’t been the one starting to be petty.

“You know, Staeve, I really get why even Astarion has decided to suddenly leave town when you’re being such a prick!” Nita almost shouted. That even had caught her parents’ attention now who immediately scolded her for her unladylike demeanour and choice of words.

She pouted, annoyed at how she had been the one being called out now instead of her brother.

And when she turned her head around again to throw him an angry glare she suddenly found she had finally caught his attention. Maybe even a bit too much of it because Staeve was now staring at her, eyes wide, face void of colour.

“What do you mean Astarion is leaving?”

Nita was about to snap at him again. But something in her brother’s gaze and his sudden stillness made her abandon the thought immediately.

“Didn’t- didn’t he tell you? I thought you always knew everything about each other.”

Immediately hurt flashed through Staeve’s teal eyes, too irritated to even try to hide it.

“Leaving when? Why?” Staeve’s voice was nothing more but a croak. A strand of hair had fallen into his eyes. He didn’t even bother pushing it out of his face.

Suddenly Nita felt unsure of what to do. Unsettled by her brother’s sudden burst of emotions. The only thing she came up with was snapping at him again.

“The Grand Tour, you idiot, what else.”

Staeve’s eyes widened even more. He set the small golden beetle and his tool down with a distinct thud, so hard, it even made their parents become silent and turn to their children in irritation.

“When?” Staeve simply followed up again. His words were terribly silent all of a sudden. Nita didn’t have it in her anymore to try and purposefully try and upset her brother. She threw a glance at the big mechanical clock - one of the few Staeve hadn’t disassembled yet: “I think right about now. They’re probably going to travel all through the night to catch a ship in the morning at one of the great harbours.”

Staeve didn’t wait for Nita to finish her sentence. He jumped up, almost making his chair fall over, staring at the clock. Their parents’ heads swivelled around trying to understand the cause of the commotion. But their son was already storming out of the room, not even sparing their scolding and quizzical looks another thought.

Immediately, Staeve made his way through the manor and down to the stables. As he rushed along servants, through a plethora of rooms and finally got outside, he realised that the weather was about to turn: an early summer evening threatening to bring a foreshadowing of yet far away autumn. The oncoming storm, announcing itself with distant thunder and dramatically darkening clouds, though, only felt like a fitting backdrop for what was brewing inside of him.

Questions filled Staeve’s mind as he made his way, and worries - and memories.

Every moment for the last couple of weeks since that fateful night had he basically been thinking about what happened. It only ever took him a split second to conjure up the scene again in his head: the last couple of breaths in which he had stared into Astarion’s eyes and how it had felt like he could see through them right to the bottom of his friend’s heart, the burning feeling of Astarion’s lips against his own and this desiring ache within him, physically and emotionally, threatening to rip him apart from the inside out.

He had been so sure Astarion had felt the same. And hadn’t his friend been the one looking up at him with such pleading in his crimson eyes, lips already parted in anticipation before they had met halfway?

But maybe Staeve was remembering it all wrong. He certainly must be. Why else would his lifelong companion leave him now unannounced?

Loads of feelings were forming up inside his chest, waiting to burst - like thunder after lightning had struck in the far off distance.

Staeve made his way to the stables to grab Freckle while his mind was somewhere completely else. He didn’t even stop to put a saddle or reins on her. A terrible premonition told him he hadn’t any time to waste. And the mare was used to being ridden like this, after all they were a well-practised team.

The young Brimstone led his horse outside and immediately felt raindrops seeping through his thin linen shirt and trousers. He couldn’t have cared less. Wasting no more time he jumped onto his mare’s back and with a click of his tongue and soft nudge from his boots they were off in a dash, cutting through the oncoming rain.

As Staeve thundered down the small trodden out road from the Brimstone estate towards the Ancuníns’ residence the rain turned from just a trickle to a pour - the kind that would turn grasslands into swamps for a good while after and dust roads into murky rivers. His mind was racing at an even more outrageous speed as the gigantic manor of his friend’s family came into view.

Lifting his head while holding onto Freckle’s mane as the horse felt his owner’s urgency and gave him her all, Staeve searched for the familiar sight of that one particular window with a light on inside, hoping it would betray his sister’s words. The one where Astarion often already had been peeking out of in wait for his companion to come by. The one where they had sat countless of times, talking, laughing, smoking some stolen cigars and choking on the burning smoke when they had been only boys.

But the lights were off.

And Staeve’s fears turned into all encompassing panic as he closed in on the giant building as he didn’t dare to let himself hope anymore. The rain around him had him fully drenched by now, his loose shirt clinging wetly to his body. Already he felt hot tears adding to the uncomfortably cold rain running down his face.

When he finally came around the manor, he found nothing but an ill-fated stable hand rushing through the downpour, perhaps tasked with a few last things before being allowed to flee the bad weather. Not even hesitating Staeve rode up right next to him making the poor boy shriek and stumble back from the horse making the gravel fly with a sliding stop.

“Astarion Ancunín?” he only managed to scream against the rain.

The boy just stared up at him, obviously too startled at the sight of Staeve like this. He probably looked like a madman. And he felt like one: not properly dressed, drenched to the bone on his equally aggregated steed. Even more so the more time he spent chasing down a man in this storm who so obviously tried to get away from him without him knowing.

But he needed to see him, at least a final time. One more try.

“The Duke’s son?” Staeve shouted again at the stable hand. And finally the boy seemed to have recovered from his stupor.

“Left. With his father the Duke, in the fancy carriage,” the answer came back, shouted against another thunder in the distance - the heart of the storm was coming closer.

Staeve’s chest clenched. Freckle became nervous beneath him. Even a well trained horse like her didn’t want to be out longer than needed in this weather. But just a moment more.

“When?” he screamed.

“Dunno exactly, couple of minutes, just when the storm started.”

Staeve needn’t hear more. Time was of the essence now. He spurred on his horse once more and left the befuddled boy behind who even forgot to finally rush inside and instead stared after Staeve racing off again.

The roads were already muddy, an endless amount of puddles strewn across them while Staeve made the decision to go for the hill overlooking the Ancunín lands, the one with the weeping willow. There he’d be able to see how far out they were already on the country road leading away from town.

But when he arrived at the foot of said hill and dashed on with Freckle, his horse slipped and almost took a tumble. And since his or his horse’s broken neck surely wouldn’t make him be any faster, Staeve slid off his mare’s back and continued on foot.

The rain kept pouring onto him as he rushed up the hill, his booted feet sinking into the wet ground. Several times he almost took a tumble when his boots sank in too deep. Illustrious curses that would have made his mother blush and his father scold him, left Staeve’s lips as he ran up the grassy hill as fast as possible, barely able to see anything anymore with the rain slashing his face. He didn’t even notice how the freezing cold crept into his body, his limbs, how his fingers began to become stiff. His whole body was shaking, as much from the cold and the wet, as from the feelings still burning inside his chest - the only thing still spending a bit of warmth.

Staeve reached the top of the hill and the weeping willow atop of it - honouring its name as rain kept dripping generously off its tendrils. Trying to wipe at least some of the rain out of his face and panting heavily from running, Staeve’s eyes flew along the road leading out of town, willing the carriage to be there, so he’d know he could still catch them. Or at least a glimpse, of him. To at least wave a last goodbye. Because he didn’t know when - if - his friend would ever return.

And he spotted the carriage. Right there, at the very end of what Staeve could make out. Just before it disappeared around a final turn of the road - and out of sight.

~~~

Inside the carriage Astarion was craning his neck only a little to see Ancunín manor slowly disappear behind the lazily sloping hills of the countryside as the wagon rattled along the road leading away from town. Now the ancient weeping willow was the last familiar landmark before the road would lead them along faceless fields and forests rushing past them, only there to be forgotten again in an instance. The storm was doing its part to make Astarion’s last impression of his home even more dull: clouds and the rain almost washing all of the colours out of this final sight.

This might very well have been the only time in his life when his heart actually ached at the thought of leaving home - or rather him.

Only a few weeks ago had he hoped to spend an incredible last summer with Staeve, his childhood friend. Especially as he had been sure of something new budding between them, something that could have meant them being more than companions possibly. Something that either might have been honestly terrified to explore. They could have gone down this road together.

But it seemed that instead of choosing this final adventure and what treasures and secrets might have been ahead, Staeve had chosen utter and complete silence. To his letter as much as his departure. Astarion had been unable to figure out what to make of it.

However, wasn’t the absence of an answer a response of its own?

Questions, regrets, fear and hurt were all swirling around inside of Astarion’s chest as he feigned indifference staring out the small window the rain kept drumming on. He was covering most of his face with his hand turned away from the other passenger in hopes it would make him look bored and hide his frown - and more than anything, the tears burning dangerously in the corners of his eyes.

Writing that letter, taking a leap of faith had taken nearly all of his courage.

When that kiss had happened after that invaded soiree, it had been easy. Fueled by the evening, laughter and lots of liquid courage it had been easy to fall into Staeve’s arms. It had been easy to be open about what had been building up inside of him for so long.

But writing this letter stone cold sober had been near impossible: opening up about everything that, all his life, he had been taught to keep hidden behind his orderly closed button border, tugged away behind a starched collar closed so firmly it made one choke. Admitting to desires that would make him a wretched sinner in the eyes of his family and society. And finally confessing his feelings to his lifelong friend, risking everything they’ve had. It had been taxing, hard, painful.

And in the end, apparently, he had paid the price.

In front of him, the Duke Ancunín kept talking about their travelling plans while Astarion could feel his heart get torn into pieces the further away from home they travelled. A piece of it begging to be allowed to stay.

“Son, it is a great honour that Monsignore Constantin will take you in for a few extra weeks as his disciple. He is very strict but he is the best,” the Duke repeated his words in a sharper tone when he noticed his son not paying attention. “He will make an upright man out of you, Astarion, I know it.”

“Oh, will he? I can barely wait,” Astarion replied with bitter sarcasm in his voice. His father, in response, was near boiling with anger at his son’s insolent behaviour.

“He has his methods, son, you will see. He will let none of your nonsense slip, I will make sure of it!” The Duke’s words cracked like a whip. But the young man didn’t care, his eyes were still trained on the outside, on the weeping willow becoming smaller in the distance. He didn’t honour his father’s wrath with another response.

The carriage filled with nothing but the sound of drumming rain and thunder rolling ever closer. When the older Ancunín apparently realised his anger would get him nowhere he tried a different route of grasping his son’s attention.

“Hasn’t the young Brimstone come to say his goodbyes to you, my son? Is that why you keep brooding?”

Astarion’s gaze snapped to his father, immediately betraying that he had spoken the truth. He felt how his brows drew together as pain flared up in his chest even more. Trying to get it back under control quickly he looked back outside the window as the carriage shook along the road in worsening conditions.

But his father had cracked right open what had been bothering him and finally Astarion gave up on trying to hide. What did it matter now anyways? The cards had been dealt.

The young Ancunín let his hands fall into his lap but kept looking outside as he felt how the tears in his eyes threatened to become overbearing.

“He hasn’t actually,” Astarion admitted. “In fact, I haven’t seen him in a few weeks. Not since I’ve sent him a letter a while ago,” he continued, voice flat and emotionless.

“A letter? How uncommon for the two of you,” the Duke threw in with a tinge of irony coating his words like bile. In a knee jerk reaction Astarion’s crimson gaze burned in anger at his father’s vile words. But in the end he wasn’t wrong. The young noble resorted to throwing a last glance upon the willow up on the hill.

“Come to think of it though, my son, I do remember seeing the letter,” the Duke rambled on. “And I remember handing it over to the butler so it may get delivered quickly.” Astarion turned away a little further once more from his father as he felt his composure threatening to break fully. “A difference of opinions maybe?,” his father finished.

Astarion didn’t see the slight tilt of the corners of his father’s mouth as he let the words roll off his tongue, not hiding his distaste for the young Brimstone.

The young Ancunín only could feel the final nail being put into the coffin with his father’s final words. His last string of hope he had been holding onto snapped in two just like that.

“Possibly,” Astarion simply replied, kneading his hands in his lap, emotions threatening to overwhelm him fully.

“Maybe even more than that,” he added after a while as he finally let his gaze fall from the last sight of his hometown.

Had he averted his eyes just a moment later he would have made out the figure of a dark-skinned, green-haired young man appearing beneath the weeping willow in the storm. But like this, thunder cracked as the carriage took a turn and Astarion’s home and his lifelong friend went out of sight.

[edutainer2022]

I keep amusing myself with the idea IR, the Tracies and their typical Tuesday shenanigans probably land A LOT on the (quite exasperated) Counterterrorism and/or Special Ops Division plate. A wider context can be found in PERSON OF INTEREST and a reference to that one background headcanon could be traced to the UNREQUITED-verse.

PERSON OF INTEREST TOO

"Whoa! You okay down there?!"

"Caramba! Yes! Just act normal! Pretend you're giving me directions."

That came out as a hissed whisper from behind the bench in Central Park, where the older of two women ducked to pretend retying the running shoes. The hastily pulled up hood added to the camouflage.

"Tell me when he passes by!"

"Alright."

The girl on the bench shrugged and tracked a tall figure in jogging gear, that just turned a corner at a distance. The man was balancing a cardboard stack of four take away coffee cups and a paper bag of baked goods from a world renowned place in Manhattan and still maintaining a running pace without a tilt in balance. When he was safely out of earshot, her counterpart unfolded a lithe form from behind the bench and watched the man disappear over another bend of the path.

"You should have told me he was in town already! I wouldn't have showed up myself for the briefing!"

"The World Expo starts only Saturday. I didn't think it was relevant."

"It IS! Scott Tracy is a stickler for routine. That's his Route 2 for running - the longer one. It's good for clearing the head and ditching the security detail. Which is just sweet, given there's a bomb threat!"

Her younger colleague followed the hushed, yet agitated muttering with increasing confusion.

"I thought the threat referenced the Expo!"

"It DID! And now we have two more high profile potential targets to cover. Coffee and bagles means brothers. Multiple."

"He had four cups."

"Two're for the Artist. But you're right - the Blond Fish doesn't drink caffeine. So there could be three more potential targets to cover. We'll need more feet on the ground!"

"There's the fifth brother!"

"Yeah, but the kid will likely be with the household security detail at all times. Unlike Scott! I can't leave that to chance! And we can't tip them off - we don't know where the leak leads, yet."

"You don't trust their head of security?"

"I generally don't trust international terrorists and their immediate family members. Not with Scott's life, anyway. How're things on your end, in Tracy Industries?"

"So far - nothing."

The girl on the bench adjusted the glasses and rubbed her hands against the morning chill.

"I'm toiling in the trenches with the interns. Which is fun, but is getting old. Everyone's hyped for the Expo and for sighting the CEO Dreamboat. There's no trace of suspicious activity or breaches in data. Well, except for Eos."

"Does the bot snoop around often?"

"She's an AI and no. She pops in here and there, but mostly to check in on the CEO or to tweak his schedule. She's not a part of any ongoing workflows at TI, from what I can see."

"Good! At least they're smart enough not to expose themselves to integrity lawsuits from competitors. Keep an eye on her, though!"

"You don't trust Eos either?"

"We have no record of her between escaping containment on our servers and resurfacing at Five. In the meantime she attempted an act of mass terrorism twice. Nearly successfully. We don't know what code may still be dormant. Neither do the Tracies."

"You think the Hood could have trained her neural network and set her loose?"

"The Hood. Or worse. The crowd whose chatter on the planned bombing we picked up make the Hood look like a cartoon villian!"

"I'll update the tracking protocol! Permission to speak freely, Captain?"

That earned her a quizzical arch of a dark brow.

"Permission granted."

"Why didn't you and Scott Tracy... I mean... you obviously care and worry about him! And you were engaged... it's in his GDF file, sorry! I looked the classified portion up before this undercover gig! What I mean to ask, with all due respect... He's Thunderbird One! How does one even unlove Scott Tracy?! Apologies if I overstepped..."

"You don't."

"Pardon?"

"The answer is "You don't. Ever unlove Scott Tracy." But sometimes the best thing you can do is walk away and do your job. We've got lives to protect, Dr. Simpson. Dismissed!"

The taller woman adjusted a well-worn oversized Yale hoodie and resumed jogging, leaving the silence hanging viscous in the morning mist.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Dark Knowledge: Part One

Miraak x Hermaeus Mora x Female Dragonborn Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical swearing, canon-typical violence, brief blood, horror elements, tentacles

Word Count: 4k

A/N: Part One of Dark Knowledge

The Dragonborn opens up a Black Book and steps into the realm of Hermaeus Mora.

Part Two

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // dark knowledge masterlist

On the island of Solstheim, deep within a cave, is a book.

Before you, the book rests upon an intricately carved pedestal large enough to hold the massive tome. The walls and floor around it are tentacles sculpted from stone. They form a tangled mural behind the pedestal and book.

It is a Black Book. A tome of esoteric knowledge. A Daedric artifact attributed to Hermaeus Mora, the Prince of knowledge, memory, and Fate. You’ve heard the tales—mostly from one of Master Neloth’s wayward stories. With your reputation, Neloth asked you to retrieve a Black Book, giving you its precise location.

Maneuvering through the cave was the easy part. Now that you stand before the massive tome, your feet have turned to solid steel. The book is bound in a black cover that appears soft to the touch as if it’s a living thing and not just Daedric reading material. On the cover is the symbol of Hermaeus Mora. Between the pages, a black mist leaks out and surrounds the book in its immediate vicinity. That doesn’t account for the oddly pulsing air, as if the book is vibrating, disturbing the space around it.

You do not move closer. You do not approach. You stand near the base of the stairs that you just descended. There is no eagerness in you to take a closer look.

“So. This is what Master Neloth wanted us to retrieve?” asks Teldryn Sero. The Dunmer mercenary stands directly behind you and to the right of your shoulder. He crosses his arms and also keeps a decent distance away. “Looks foul. I wouldn’t touch that if I were you.”

Without looking away from the Black Book, you answer him. “Sounds like you’re starting to care about me, Teldryn.”

Teldryn snorts and leans in, his helmeted head appearing next to your face. “You pay me to care. Therefore, I shall. I like the coin. Keeps my pockets full.”

“Ever the poet, Teldryn.”

“Naturally.”

The good humor is just a front. This…thing is repulsive, and you’re not sure you want to touch it, let alone open it.

Master Neloth isn’t the only reason you’re after this thing. Back on Skyrim, during a visit to the town of Riverwood, a trio of cultist attacked you. Before they lashed out, they mentioned someone named “Miraak.” From there, you came to Solstheim, only to find parts of the local population seeking out stone pillars. There they toiled, repeating a mantra that made no sense.

It all led to Skaal Village where the shaman, Storn Crag-Strider, diverted you to Saering’s Watch to learn a Word of Power. The All-Maker stones, as Storn called them, are all cleansed. But it only pushed you deeper into this twisted treachery. Storn was adamant about not turning to Hermaeus Mora for assistance in defeating Miraak, but did mention Black Books and who would know more.

Master Neloth was that person.

Now, you’re here, staring at the thing everyone’s been talking about, and you’re not entirely sure who to trust.

As if drawn by an invisible tether, your left foot slides forward toward the Black Book. Your mind registers it only when Teldryn reaches out and grabs your shoulder.

“What are you doing?” he asks with a whispered sharpness. Teldryn pushes you up against the stair’s central support pillar. “You are not touching that.”

“How else are we supposed to get it to Neloth?” you snap.

“We don’t,” replies Teldryn. “I love gold but I’m not stupid. We don’t need to do this. There are plenty of other jobs out there for us to do that don’t involve anything like that.” Teldryn emphasizes his distaste by pointing at the Black Book.

“But I’m the Dragonborn. I have to do this.”

“Do you? Do you really?”

You square your shoulders and stare Teldryn down. “Yes. That’s my destiny as—”

“Is that what those old loons up on the mountain told you?” interrupts Teldryn. “That you have to solve all of Tamriel’s problems?”

“No, but—”

“But nothing. You are not beholden to anyone but yourself.” Teldryn pauses a moment and then inclines his head. “Except me. Still owe me from that bet we made in Windhelm.”

“If I pay up, will you stop talking?”

Teldryn considers. “No,” he says after a few long seconds.

The two of you turn your heads in the direction of the Black Book. The black mist around it appears thicker, and distantly, you hear voices whispering. Yet this inaudible chorus seems miles away, their voices just existing at the edges of your hearing. Teldryn is Mer, and his ears are sharper than your human ones.

“Teldryn?” you ask softly. “Do you hear that?”

His head tilts to the right an inch. “Hear what?”

You focus in on the sound, pushing all your attention into deciphering the message. It is a chorus, a resounding force of voices all harmonizing together, but every time you try to pick a word out, the understanding slips and you’re left with nothing.

“Voices,” you murmur. “Do you not hear them?”

Teldryn shakes his head and then slowly pivots to face the dark tome. You take a step closer and Teldryn blocks your path.

“How can you not hear it?” You’re not speaking to Teldryn but to the air, thinking out loud rather than seeking an answer.

Teldryn is no barrier. You push past him and make it five full steps before Teldryn is able to cut you off. He places his hands on your shoulders, halting your forward momentum.

“The Black Book is speaking to you. Hermaeus Mora is calling you to him,” says Teldryn, shaking your shoulders.

Your nostrils flare and you smell ink. It is thick and viscous. “I should open it.” The words fall from your lips easily, as if you are one of the possessed and hearing Miraak’s mantra.

“This is insanity,” hisses Teldryn. “You’re not risking your life like this.”

The voices strengthen, and between each intake of breath, you hear their song. It is not one language but many, and they all speak in unison, their words matching up in syllable and pitch. Some of the voices sound entirely mortal. Others are odd. Primordial. You do not understand them and their strangeness batters away at your brain.

Something wet drips onto your upper lip. You don’t wipe it away.

“Your nose is bleeding,” murmurs Teldryn. Behind the Chitin helmet, all you can see are the Dunmer’s eyes. But they speak volumes. His concern is evident.

The tug to open the book is unyieldingly powerful. There is no part of your body that isn’t sizzling with the need to touch the fleshy cover and reveal the secrets inside. In the end, you will have to open a Black Book. In the end, you will have to involve yourself. All roads lead there. You know this in your marrow.

“They’ll never stop coming,” you say, and each word is laced with sadness.

This is your purpose. This is the life placed before you. The gift of the Voice is not one you asked for. It is not something you ever wished upon yourself. But there is no way to give it back. Time and Fate will eventually catch up to you.

Better to face it all now.

“You owe no one nothing.” Teldryn is not a liar. At least, not to you. He respects you even when he disagrees.

“I know.” The admission is painful.

“I can’t protect you once you open that book. We don’t know what will happen.”

You shake your head. “Miraak’s temple is too heavily guarded. I cannot seek answers there.”

“We cannot seek answers there,” corrects Teldryn, his voice breaking slightly. “Where you go, I go.”

“You only say that because I pay you well.”

Teldryn gently rests his helmet against your forehead. “You pay me shit.”

The bit of blood on your lip rolls down to your chin. “Don’t wait for me,” you whisper. “Whatever you do, Teldryn. Don’t. Wait.”

Teldryn’s chest heaves with a great sigh. “I get your homestead in Falkreath.”

“Deal,” you laugh as another wet drop falls onto your upper lip. Teldryn loves that house, and it’s been nothing but trouble for you.

With a final squeeze of your shoulders, Teldryn pulls away, moving out of your path, revealing the Black Book. What dwells inside the book is the unknown factor. You could go mad. You could experience visions. You could simply disappear from this plane. There is no telling what might happen.

The harmonious voices strengthen as you stride closer. On the cover, the symbol of Hermaeus Mora begins to glow a sickly green. Around the book, the black mist thickens. In its foggy depths, the shadows of tentacles unfurl. They are transparent. Faint, dark whisps. The tentacles venture outwards, reaching as if seeking an embrace.

Another step. Another. Another still and then you’re right there, staring down at the thing that won’t stop talking.

Neloth will have his book, but you need this to end.

The tips of your fingers brush against the edge of the Black Book’s cover. It is not fleshy as you expect it to be. It is coarse, but not sharp or scratchy. Slowly, your fingers curl around the edge. There is a hesitation just before you start to open the cover. Moving with you, the pages follow the cover, and then the yellowed papers inside present themselves.

At first, there is nothing. The pages you stare at are blank. In the next second, all sound disappears as if the room is frozen in time. It is followed by a soft pop, and the world comes hurtling forward.

The blank pages begin to fill in archaic, living writing. The unknown words and symbols move across the page in systematic lines and circles. Some are large and easy to see while others are so tiny they float around in the background in faint swirls.

Between the pages is a void. It emerges from the binding, moving outward over the pages. It is an abyss, and its emptiness drags you forward, your boots lifting off the floor until you’re on your toes.

Tentacles burst forth from the darkness. These are not the misty tendrils from earlier but real, tangible limbs that slide over and around you. They wrap around your arms and shoulders. They suction to your face and neck. They probe and push even as you thrash about, trying to break free.

Escape is impossible. You’re hauled forward, tipping down into the abyss, delving into the darkness. There is a loud roaring and then your feet are on solid ground.

The abyss is gone, and instead…

You’re not entirely sure where you are.

Around you is an alcove made of black metal. Attached to it is an archway made of books that connect to a long hallway. The books within the archway are stacked on top of each other, almost seeming to melt together near the center curve of the arch. Beneath your feet is stone. Some of it is gray like the rock on the side of mountain. Other chunks of stone are black and dull. There are pages from books scattered all over the ground but they aren’t moving. They simply rest where they lay.

You bend at the knees and reach out, sliding a fingernail under the corner of the nearest page. Its only lifts an inch or so, and with it comes something syrupy and sticky. You immediately retract your arm and stand, wiping away the reside on your leather pants.

Slowly, you rotate, surveying your surroundings. It’s only when you turn around that you notice the Black Book. The symbol of Hermaeus Mora does not glow. There is no black mist or odd whispering.

Without second guessing the choice, you grab the cover and open the book, expecting to find what you did just seconds ago.

Nothing.

The pages are blank.

You flip the page. Nothing. Flip again. Still blank.

You go to the beginning, examining every inch of paper. No living words or symbols appear. The book is dead. Silent.

Frowning, you spin around and stare down the long hallway. The air is stale and absent of wind. Glancing up, you peer through the small holes in the black metal. A glowing, green sky greets you. There are streaks in the sky that move like clouds but their radiance is more like lightning. Shifting on your feet, you change perspective, and discover a black abyss cutting through the green sky.

Is that what you fell through?

As you watch the portal, black tentacles drop from its darkness and sway as if caught on a breeze. But you feel no wind against your skin. Then again, you don’t sense a temperature either. You’re not cold but you’re not warm, as if the very atmosphere is adjusting to your body temperature, making the stale air around you feel like absolutely nothing.

Wherever you are, it is an atrocity.

Without a way to go back, the only path is forward.

With overly slow movements, you unsheathe the sword at your waist. The hallway isn’t well lit, but there is enough light to see by. Crouching slightly, you move on silent feet, keeping close to the wall without touching it.

The stone floor gives way to twisted metal, and the walls are nothing but books. You do not stop to peer at any of them. This place is dangerous, and you need to be alert at all times. Survival is essential. Information is important. Any clues that you can take back to Neloth or Storn might help in unveiling the mystery behind this stranger known as Miraak.

Hermaeus Mora is not unknown to you. You grew up on stories about Aedra and Daedra. They were standard tales, but when you were a child, those beings seemed far from the reality of your life.

It is so very different now.

Neloth did not shy away from talking about the Daedric Prince. It was Miraak that the Dunmer dismissed, seeming more concerned with Mora and the Black Books.

What was it that Neloth said about Mora’s permanent influence? Madness. Loss of self-awareness. Black spots in the whites of the eyes. There are no mirrors and you cannot see your reflection in your sword. You’re not mad, but for a brief moment you thought you were when Teldryn couldn’t hear the voices. Your self-awareness is intact. At least, for now.

Storn called Mora the Skaal’s enemy, and spoke of hidden Skaal knowledge that Mora wishes to obtain only for the sheer pleasure of possessing it. But Storn did not say more, merely focusing on the destruction of Miraak’s influence.

As you round a corner, you arrive at an open platform. Instead of approaching, you hang back, observing your newly unobstructed view of the environment. From here, the glowing sky and black portals are in clear view. Various structures dot the landscape, and it stretches in all directions.

But there is no landscape. There are no trees or blades of grass. What should be the ground isn’t rock or dirt but a dark liquid that resembles black water. It is as dark as parchment ink, and the surface of it ripples slightly as if something moves beneath it. You have zero desire to know if its as fluid as an ocean or thick like honey.

The platform itself is rounded and juts out slightly from the opening. As you step closer, the platform shifts and fans upward, extending like the wings of a dragonfly. Another appears from above, connecting to it to form a bridge.

There is a tower there, the outside of the structure nothing but pillars of books. Your gaze sweeps across it and the surrounding area. Nothing jumps out at you except the strangeness of the place. Nothing and no one lurk nearby.

Cautiously, you step out onto the bridge. Still, there is no wind. The air is still. With silent steps, you creep to the next platform. When you crest the small curve in the bridge just before the landing, you come to a stop and immediately drop to your stomach.

A strange creature hovers just inside the archway. It has four arms, two of which hold books while the others rest against its sides. Its head is squid-like with two thin eyes and no eyelids. Hanging from its shoulders are rags of some kind, but at this distance, it might also be fur.

It has not noticed you, and you use this to your advantage. Silently, you set your sword next to you, and remove your ebony bow from your back along with an arrow. Easing up to a low crouch, you pull back on the bowstring, aiming the pointed tip of the arrow at the head of the bizarre creature.

With a book in hand, it seems such a gentle creature. It’s head tentacles flare as it reads as if the words on the page are amusing. A brief moment of hesitation stays your hand. Then you remember the voices and mist, of how blood dripped from your nose from the brawling nature of it all.

Your finger slips from the bowstring.

The arrow whistles.

It lifts its head in curiosity.

Making contact, the arrow slides between the creature’s eyes.

There is no noise or cry of pain. It vanishes in a brief vibration of mist. The rags it wore and the books it held hang suspended in the air before falling to the ground. The books hit hard. The rags drift slowly.

Before the rags touch the ground, you’re up and moving, returning your blade to its scabbard. You remove another arrow from the quiver. In this moment, you are a stealthy killer, a being of darkness in a place made for it.

Your humanity will not pause your hand. The answers you seek go beyond that. You are in Hermaeus Mora’s realm. You are alone. Teldryn is not here to help you. Everything going forward must be done with only yourself in mind.

As you step off the bridge, the dragonfly-like structures break apart. You glance back and meet open air.

A howl reaches your ears. It bites and claws, sounding of blood-filled lungs. All the hair on your arms stand on end, and your skin prickles with awareness. The awful sound comes again. It’s closer. Moving in. Trapping you against a threat of falling.

There is a ripple. A change that you sense. Of a predator seeking its prey.

You drop to your knees as a ball of vibrating air launches over your head. Spinning toward your assailant, you release the notched arrow. It strikes true, hitting another one of those creatures.

This one shrieks. Then doubles. A replicate appearing beside it.

With quick fingers, you release two more, sending the tentacle twins vanishing into puffs of mist.

It is clear that your presence has been detected. Stealth will be of little use if the beings of this realm are actively seeking you out.

Charging down the hall only proves what you expect. More of these creatures lurk nearby, actively waiting for you to make an appearance. These are not visible. They are beings of mist, and they solidify with a blink, popping up from nowhere before your very eyes.

The first surprises, nearly knocking you down.

The second almost grabs you. It’s clawed hand just grazing your leather armor.

The third hurtles into you, but you manage to roll into the fall, getting back on your feet with ease.

The bow is useless. They are too close, disappearing then reappearing in rapid succession. Your blade is sharp, and you are eager for a bit of blood.

The steel blade rings loudly and the first swing strikes true.

“Fus!” The power of your Voice slams into one of the tentacled creatures. It flinches back. Recoils from your blow. It is enough for you to drive forward.

You duck and weave, slicing through the air and dispatching your assailants with the skill that has made hundreds tremble.

But there is no blood. These creatures do not bleed. They simply vanish into mist.

Chest heaving, you finally have a moment to gauge your new surroundings. It’s a massive circular room. There are several large, metal double doors scattered throughout the room but the doors are shut, barring entry.

All expect one.

With resolve in every step, you march forward toward the open gate, passing rotting stacks of books and floating eyes with tiny tentacles. They look like horrific stars. They even blink, following you for a few strides before drifting off to move about the room.

You ascend the raised dais, pass through the doors, and up another flight of stairs before you’re spit out onto another platform.

Unlike the previous platforms, this one is already attached to a bridge. It spans a great expanse of black water, connecting to another tower. But there is too much open space between the towers, and there is zero cover. You would need to sprint, or use a Shout to speedily propel yourself across.

A roar from behind you stirs your feet.

“Wuld Nah!” In seconds, you’re halfway across the bridge, already sprinting to the other side, your arms and legs pumping with every step.

“Dovahkiin!”

The primordial voice is an anchor tied to your feet and you are in deep water. Sinking. You are sinking. The bridge beneath you is melting, sucking and solidifying around your boots.

With a cry, you reach down and try to lift your leg. Nothing. You are rooted to the spot.

A shadow falls across the bridge. A deep, unsettling, slimy sensation slithers up your spine and wraps around your throat. Your eyes are fixed to your submerged boots.

“Fate has led you here, to my realm, as I knew it would.” Your fingers tremble and you refuse to look up. “All seekers of knowledge come to my realm, sooner or later. That is what you are after, isn’t it? Knowledge. That is why you answered my call so willingly.”

No forms on your tongue. You did not come willingly. Or did you? Yes, the pull was there but you intended to open up the Black Book. Didn’t you?

You’re…certain?

A lone black tentacles drifts in front of your face. It wiggles slightly, moving toward your nose. It retreats slightly, and then with an odd gentleness, curls under your chin, lifting your face to the Daedric Prince floating in the sky.

Hermaeus Mora is a grotesque abomination. He is a green and black mass, a void of tentacles and eyes. His entire being pulsates, expanding and retracting as he…breathes? Do Daedric Lords need to breath? Or is this just a formality to make you more comfortable?

If it’s intentional on Mora’s part, it’s creepy, only adding to his aura. Hermaeus Mora is large, taking up so much space he’s all you can see. While he hovers in the air, Mora is not far from you. In fact, if you lift your hand and extend your arm, you’d easily touch him.

The large eye in the center of it all blinks slowly in observation. “Is the Last Dragonborn a fool? Speak, mortal. Why did you come to me?”

Deep in the recesses of your soul, a stubbornness blooms. Your mouth does not form the answer he’s seeking. Instead, your lips pull back, and you bare your teeth like a feral animal.

“If you are the Prince of Fate, surely you can answer such a simple question. All this knowledge around you, and yet you cannot form your own answer. I expected more.”

Hermaeus Mora bristles, his form expanding in size as his tentacles vibrate with irritation. “Be warned. Many have sought my halls. I have broken them all. You cannot evade me. You cannot resist.”

The bridge rumbles. Hermaeus Mora’s massive eye slides up to watch a point over your shoulder. Slowly, you turn, finding yet another abomination. This one is incredibly tall, almost amphibious and slightly humanoid. Each of its footsteps shake the bridge.

Mora is calm. Serene. The creature moves closer, each shattering step a threat.

“You are in my realm now, Dragonborn. Apocrypha will be your home. You will converse with me and I cannot wait to know your secrets.”

From the monster’s open mouth emerge a wave of tentacles. They wrap around your body. They cover your face and slide into your mouth, reaching toward your lungs.

“Sleep,” hums Hermaeus Mora as your consciousness begins to slip. “And then we shall talk.”

Part Two

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @singleteapot @tiredmetalenthusiast @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado

[perpetualexistence]

Coils and Toils

Alenoah Week Day 3: Role Swap / TDWT Ending Rewrite

I decided to use woah-i-am-here's roleswap Alenoah for my funky little AU for today. The personalities are based mostly on their AU, and most of Alejandro's backstory is as well. Noah's I took more creative liberties with. It was a bit hard to translate that one over with this being a naga AU.

Because this is me, I couldn't help but make this a tiny bit dark at the end. So I'm just going to put a content warning for murder here to be safe.

Alejandro and Noah are fine! ...Someone else, not so much.

Alejandro is forced to go on his family's annual hunting trip. It's a week-long 'bonding' activity. He really doesn't care for it. He knows it's just an excuse for his parents to brag about traveling the world and conquering nature. José always turns it into this big competition that no one asked for, gets their parents praise, and rubs it into Alejandro's face. It's predictable, it's annoying, and it's bound to drive Alejandro up a wall.

The instant they split up, Alejandro focuses on putting as much distance between himself and the rest of his family. He's not going to hunt a damn thing. He'l just have 'bad luck'. It's an excuse he's used before, but it's not like they can truly make him do anything. He turns off his walkie talkie, the only thing that works in these godforsaken woods, because otherwise he'll have to hear his brother incessantly praising himself for each kill he bags. He has a bag of supplies, GPS included, and a gun. He'll be fine.

As he walks through the woods, he starts to notice strange markings on the ground. He'd mistake them for signs of animals having passed by. Except this looks wider than something like a bear having pushed through some brush. He climbs up a tree to get a better vantage point. From here, he can notice that it looks more like something large was dragged through the woods. The concerning part is it was dragged continuously. As if whatever was doing the dragging was having no issue in doing so. Despite the thing being as wide as train tracks.

That's when he heard the rustling. He couldn't tell where it was coming from, but it was getting louder.

Climbing down would attract too much attention. He could only cling against the tree as tightly as he could, and hope whatever it was didn't look up.

"Oh. You're new." said the voice that came from his right.

He dared to turn his head. He met the gaze of two slitted pupils.

Alejandro was over 12 meters off the ground and he was directly meeting the gaze of another.

He looked down to see the torso of the giant he was now looking at connected not to legs, but to a snake's tail.

He's grateful his instinct was to cling tighter to the tree, and not to loosen his grip.

After Alejandro successfully doesn't faint, the two get into proper greetings. Noah's incredibly polite, and is clearly doing everything in his power to make himself come off as careful about the height difference as possible. He's controlled in every action he takes.

...Too controlled for someone currently claiming that he's lived by himself in the woods his entire life. If he had, then he probably wouldn't know to control his volume or have anything resembling manners.

Alejandro calls him out on this, which shocks Noah for a bit. Not only that Alejandro found him out, but also that he'd have the courage despite Noah's size advantage. Alejandro realizes he might have screwed up hard, except Noah laughs and lets some of his mask slip.

He tells something closer to the truth this time. He's from the fae realm, and got cursed to look like this. He's trapped in these woods, serving as its guardian. Meaning he does need to know why Alejandro's trespassing.

Now it's Alejandro's turn to start lying his ass off. He knows about the fae thanks to reading, but he has no idea how much is true and how much isn't. He doesn't know what answer is acceptable, what answer will get him killed, and he doesn't know if Noah can read people.

He admits to being on a hunting trip, but he hadn't killed anything yet as his priority was finding somewhere to make camp. He didn't know he was trespassing, and wants to ask proper permission to stay in the woods for a week. He says nothing about the rest of his family because he knows that they've certainly killed animals by now.

Noah chooses to believe him. And because Alejandro did ask nicely (though with a bit of sarcasm since he couldn't help himself), Noah will let him stay. But he's only allowed to hunt what he needs to in order to survive. In return, Noah will promise not to hurt him. He'll even make a fae bargain, so both are bound to keep to their deal.

Alejandro doesn't really have much choice but to accept. Not that he planned to do any hunting anyways, but he has to go with this now or risk Noah catching wise. Noah lets him know that if Alejandro needs anything, Noah'll stay around here to make himself easier to find.

So Alejandro is allowed to leave to 'go find a place to make camp'. Which means returning to his family's camp and checking that Noah isn't following him. At least he's too loud to get away with sneaking up on the human.

Still, now Alejandro is going to have to convince his family not to go near the area Noah is in. He can't tell them Noah exists. They'll think he's finally lost it. Instead, he settles for committing to heading in that direction when his family splits apart to hunt each morning.

He doesn't have to actually go anywhere near Noah's slithering grounds. He just needs everyone else to think he's going there.

...Yet, Noah has been the most interesting thing that's happened to him in quite a while. The only other person who has proven to be an intellectual match to Alejandro is Jose. And he's insufferable. Noah is dangerous, certainly, but he isn't hard to be around. So long as Alejandro is careful about what he says. Besides, if he can keep Noah occupied, then he'll know that the rest of his family is safe.

This has absolutely nothing to do with how attractive Noah is or how his laugh made Alejandro melt like butter.

So he goes back to Noah the next day and says he wants to know more about Noah.

"Sure, I'm an open book." Noah replied. "You're as open as a mouse trap." Alejandro retorted.

This gets another laugh out of Noah, and the two begin to bond.

Over time Noah reveals that he hates the outdoors. He misses being small enough to read in peace. Not that he even has any reading material on him. But Alejandro does since his original plan had been to find a spot in the forest to read the entire time. So he pulls out one of his books and offers to read it aloud to Noah.

"Is that the only one you have?"

"I thought you were desperate enough to read anything."

"I just want to know what my options are. I don't want to read anything trashy if you're holding out on me."

This would be enough to make Alejandro snicker at how spoiled Noah was acting. He might have been imagining things, but he swore he saw the tip of Noah's tail flicker in delight at the sound.

Alejandro found himself going from keeping a respectable distance from Noah to leaning against the naga's coils.

Alejandro would begin to open up about his family. How he tires of playing second fiddle to Jose, and how his parents do everything in their power to encourage him. They put on a show for the world to see that Alejandro is 'lucky' enough to be a part of. He tried to show Jose up, once upon a time. But loss after loss whittled away at him. Until there was nothing left but a bitter, snarky teenager who would rather stay in his room than deal with anybody. Still with the knowledge of how to charm and fight, but none of the motivation.

It would lead to Noah opening up about his own family. He came from a line of powerful fae. Having eight siblings in the fae realm meant they were constantly fighting for everything. He was last in line to inherit anything by birthright. If he wanted anything, he'd have to fight for it. As the youngest, Noah could never hope to win in a battle of strength. He adapted to winning battles of wit instead.

He didn't care that he had to fight dirty. He never got a fair chance in a fight with his siblings. Why should he return the favor? The only way he'd beat his siblings is if he performed just a minor coup, so he did. Or well, he tried. He underestimated his parents' ability to catch on to his tricks.

So they cursed him. "You'll live as you truly are in the wild until you learn the sanctity of a life." Rather shitty of them to exile their own child instead of acknowledging the environment they created in the first place. But, oh well. Noah's here now. ...and it feels surprisingly refreshing to let his guard down and tell someone else this.

Alejandro is reminded that he should in no way shape or form trust someone who tried 'a minor coup' on his own parents. ...But it is nice to have Noah agree that Alejandro's parents and brother are in fact terrible. He'd been around so many sycophants to the Burromuerto name, he thought he must be the mad one for thinking ill of them.

Sadly though, the week is up before they know it. Alejandro is going to have to go back home, and miss his new boyfriend. Alejandro finishes reading the last book he brought over so Noah can have a proper ending. At this point, he's grown so comfortable with Noah that he's nestled in between Noah's loose coils. Noah could kill him easily anyways, so why deny himself something so warm and cozy?

By the end, Noah gifts him the largest moose he can find. It'll be rations for the road, plus the antlers will make for a good hunting trophy. He knows it's gauche but his options for giving gifts as a giant snake thing are limited.

Alejandro suspects something's up by the look in Noah's eyes, but doesn't say anything. Rejecting Noah's gift would be a terrible idea if fae work how he thinks they work. He could just bury the gift when he's far enough away from Noah. He can't imagine anything good would come from bringing this to his family.

...Yet he's so tired of them. He feels more comfortable with a stranger he's only known for a week than with his own family sitting down for dinner. That stranger could squeeze him to death without a second thought and he'd still trust Noah more than he would trust Jose not to find an excuse to shoot him in the head when he's in a mood. So you know what? Whatever happens to his family will just have to happen to them.

He takes the gift back to his family so he can actually win at something for once. Jose tries to play it off, but it is the biggest thing hunted, so that's what the Burromuertos decide to eat as their final meal here before heading out.

Alejandro, not trusting Noah, wisely waits for everyone else to eat the food first. He gets away with it because the second they take a bite, they're hooked. They're scarfing the food down like animals. He pushes his portion into the fireplace. He's grateful he did when his mother starts coughing, then gasping, then choking for air and foaming at the mouth. Soon followed by his brother, then his father.

Noah said his new body reflected his true self. Alejandro isn't surprised that means he's a venomous snake.

Noah slithers quietly behind him. He's genuinely happy that Alejandro did survive this. Because if he didn't, Alejandro wasn't the type of person Noah thought he was.

"If you hadn't found a way around it, then you weren't worth all the time and effort I put into you. And that would have been such a pity, truly."

Noah knew Alejandro was lying about being by himself the whole time, and that it was probably because his family had been hunting without his permission. Fae rules said he had to do something about it, and from how Alejandro described them, there was absolutely no reason to let them live. Alejandro getting caught in the crossfire was a calculated risk. 'Noah' couldn't harm Alejandro, but that isn't to say one of his gifts couldn't.

However, he genuinely thought he had done a great job of gaining Alejandro's trust. He believed Alejandro had no idea the gift was a trap, or at least didn't realize it until later. To find that Alejandro actually did know that the gift was tainted from the beginning, and that he still chose to give it to his family? He's delighted. Especially when Alejandro admits he's not that worked up about their deaths as he feels he should be. And when Alejandro pulls one last contigency:

Noah never gave an end condition to when he could harm Alejandro. So as long as Alejandro only hunts for food and not for sport, Noah can't cause any direct harm to him, ever.

Noah could of course try to find another work around to get rid of a final loose end. But he's much happier to offer him a place in the woods for as long as Alejandro wants. And he wants to start dating Alejandro properly. Alejandro has nowhere else to go, and he's much happier here than he's ever been. So he agrees to the home, and to being Noah's boyfriend.

Noah takes care of Alejandro, and Alejandro works on a way to break Noah free from his curse. 'A life' could just mean one person specifically after all. So if Alejandro just makes sure that person is him, he'd be set for life.

Everyone else?

Not their problem.

[godlizzza]

Prompt: Danbert outside POV? Bonus points if it’s the POV of someone at the hospital like a fellow doctor or nurse, but I’m not picky!

After twenty years of nursing, Simone had been through just about every emotion possible when it came to her job. From the hopeful highs fresh out of her degree, bright-eyed and optimistic, to the lows of burnout, hating her job, her life, and everything in between, before finally arriving at where she was now. Which was a quiet acceptance of the daily toils her line of work entailed. She both loved and hated certain parts of the hospital, but for the most part she just focused on one task at a time, going through the motions until she could clock out and go home to work on painting her miniatures.

One thing she definitely despised, though, was watching the drama between her coworkers. Simone mostly kept to herself and select few others; Cassandra, a fellow nurse, Paula, one of the cleaning ladies, and Bob, who came in every other day to do maintenance around the building. She largely didn't care for doctors, who were either cocky, negligent, or some combination of both. The two doctors at the top of her shit list were those freaks, Cain and West.

Simone looked up from her patient notes at the sound of West's clipped voice and spotted him engaged in a heated argument with Cain. They both wore pinched expressions as they glared at each other over a sleeping patient. It seemed like they were trying to keep their voices down, but their hushed whispers were getting louder and louder until they were basically shouting at each other in raspy voices.

Simone caught mention of something to do with keeping the basement clean before losing interest and walking off.

It was a few hours later when she was walking back to the floor from Pathology that she heard the familiar sound of the two men arguing inside a broom closet. She came to a halt, her sneakers squeaking softly on the linoleum floor. On any other day she would've just assumed the two were a couple of closet cases looking for a quick hook-up at work--irritating and unprofessional--and left it at that, but the urgency in West's voice had her straining her ears.

"Please, Danny," West breathed on the other side of the door. "I need it."

"Herbert, no," came Cain's reply, though even to Simone's ears he sounded like he was wavering. "We talked about this."

"I know but I just need you to give me a little," West whined. "Just enough to see me through 'til the end of the day. I can't stop myself from staring at you...knowing you could give it to me any time."

Simone's hand flew to her mouth to stifle her gasp. She'd never pegged West as being so whorish. Cain, yes. That man looked ready to both burst into tears and get nasty on a gurney 24/7, but West had always seemed to be the more buttoned-up of the two. How wrong she'd been. She supposed it was true what they said: nerd on the streets, freak in the sheets.

"Can't you at least just wait until we get home?" Cain asked. "It feels wrong, doing it here at work."

"I can't wait," West panted, sounding like a dog in heat. "I need it now. I need you now."

God damn, Simone thought. Cassandra was going to have a field day when she told her about this.

"Simone?"

Simone spun around to see Rachel, the head nurse, walking down the hall towards her. She was frowning in evident confusion.

"You okay?" Rachel asked.

Simone nodded quickly, already backing away from the broom closet (which had suddenly gone quiet). "Mhmm, yep. I'm fine. Was just heading back to the floor."

"Alright," Rachel said, sounding unconvinced. "Well, hurry up, please. Shenton needs help dealing with Mr. Collins."

"Right away," Simone replied, hurrying away.

She didn't look at West or Cain for the rest of the day. She thought it'd probably be a long time before she could look at either of them again without remembering West's breathy, desperate voice.

First that massacre a few months back and now this? Why couldn't she work at a normal hospital?

[catonator]

You hear about video game development?

Well. I wouldn't say I expected such a catastrophic implosion from Unity.

Now, I can't say that I didn't laugh at the situation. It's a hilariously terrible case of bad management coming up with bad ideas in desperation. But it's also a somewhat scary indication of the sorry state of the industry.

Unity controls about 40% of the engine marketshare (according to a linkedin post I found anyway). Unity dominates the engine scene by a large margin, followed by Unreal at around 30% and Cryengine by around 5%. Unity forms such a large part of the entire game development industry, that it's difficult to really even understand just how much they control the concept of games as a whole!

Most people are jumping to some paid alternatives, like the aforementioned Unreal and, to a lesser extent, Game Maker, but my suggestion is this: don't!

Within the last decade, all-encompassing closed super game engines have become less of a side venture and more of an expectation. Back in the 2000s, there were a few engines like this, mostly amateur ones. Game engines were less creation stations and more of a loose collection of middleware and tools. Purchasing the rights to the engine meant that you also got the responsibility of also tying the engine into something resembling a game yourself. I feel like this art has been lost.

Game engines nowadays are more of a purchase of a passing right to use and incredibly specific, closed set of tools. You don't get to define the tools, and you don't get to really own the tools. It's yet another example of the tradition of the games industry fucking over the customers, and the customers just going with it. Because of this, while Unreal got some free dunks on Twitter for this, I can assure you Epic is planning something equally terrible as Unity's PR faux pas, and it'll come into to play in about 3 years when everyone's just accepted that Unity sometimes financially screws you over.

But, game developers are indeed developers. They know software, and they can learn to make new software.

If you're a game dev and still reading this, I'd recommend taking a peek beyond the curtains of corporate cockfighting, into the realm of DIY game engines. It's a… somewhat janky world full of strange characters with unusual ideas on how much time it's acceptable to spend not working on a game, but it's also a place where you're not being sat on by fatcats.

Just as game engines have progressed in the past 20 years, so have libraries, middleware and resources for independents. Making your own engine isn't just picking up ANSI C and toiling for a year in software rendering hell. Open tools like Pygame, Monogame, LÖVE and Cocos2D (among many, many others) are far beyond just simple rendering libraries and border on being game engines sometimes. The difference is, these tools are open source, and they do not restrict you with what you can do with them.

There are several games you may have played made using these frameworks. Streets of Rage 4 (MonoGame), Celeste (MonoGame), Fez (XNA, aka. MonoGame), Miitomo (Cocos2D), Geometry Dash (Cocos2D)… I got tired of looking up more. There are a lot of games.

The future which I hope to see for game developers is one where you have a large assortment of simple tools you can pick. Level editors, asset converters, entity systems, all small chunks of a game engine you could drop into your own project to slowly build up your own collection of workflows to make games your own way, completely independent of any larger forces on the market.

The support for these frameworks is still somewhat barren compared to Unity, but I believe, that if more people jump to alternatives like this, more tools, tutorials and middleware built for them would start showing up. This is how Unity also got its start, about 15 years ago. You also really don't need all the power in the world to make your simple 2D Megaman clones. The fog created by the monolithic engines we have now have obscured just how simple the building blocks for your favourite games can really be.

It just takes some bravery and willingness to learn a new way to approach making games, but I think the outcome is worth it, even just for you.

[starlitvega]

Transformers: One rambles because I have to talk about this with someone (but I mostly talk about D-16)

(as someone who has consumed barely any transformers content besides 20 second clips on TikTok)

↓‼️SPOILERS BELOW ‼️↓

———————————————-

Okay for starters, WOW.

This movie was AMAZING, and if you haven’t seen it yet I HIGHLY recommend you do.

The animation is phenomenal, and the voice acting is great. The design of Cybertron can only be described as jaw dropping, and some of the scenes in that movie gave me CHILLS.

If you can, PLEASE go watch the movie in theaters so that we can get a sequel!!

Also, I am NOT that good when it comes to analysis. I am making this purely to share my thoughts about the film and D-16 specifically. Additionally, I’ve only watched the film once, so once I rewatch it again, I’ll probably come back with a more in-depth analysis. This is more of a ramble if anything.

ALSO!! I am NOT a big transformers fan! This is the first Transformers film I’ve seen besides brief clips from TikTok and TV. I am not well informed on the lore at all, so if I sound stupid at some parts, that’s why 😋😋

And now, it’s time to yap

Fun fact, D-16’s VA, the incredibly talented Brian Tyree Henry, played Jefferson Davis in both Spider-Man: Into the Spiderverse and Spider-Man: Across the Spiderverse, and was Lemon from the movie Bullet Train!

But moving on, I love him so much.

I don’t know about any other iterations of Megatron/ D-16 but I prefer this one to the one in the Bay films.

HE’S JUST SO SSNSHSJDJSKS

For starters, when we’re introduced to him, we can already see how strong his relationship with Orion is. He helps him escape those archive guards (and given how smooth it was, it’s safe to assume that this isn’t the first time he’s had to do so), and when Orion pops out the cart, he swipes some dirt off him :)) (how nice!!)

He’s used to protecting Orion. He is used to helping him out when he gets himself in trouble. Because Orion is his friend, he’s got his back, and he knows that he’d do the same for him, and he does!

Whenever they’re reprimanded for their (Orion’s) reckless behavior, he’s always the first to own up, and admit it was his idea.

Got this from Twitter, but as the story progresses, the sticker Optimus gave him at the start gradually begins to fade, which is a sign of their friendship.

And not only that, but the fact that this symbol of their friendship ends up transforming into the symbol for the Decepticons at the end (talk about foreshadowing)— GOD WHY DO YOU HATE ME

Notice how D-16 objects to every idea that Orion comes up with, scared of how it would affect his rank at work and how he’s viewed in society, like when Orion offers to enter into the race. And on the day of the race, as Orion leads him to the sign above the starting zone, he objects then too, obviously skeptical. But despite his protest, he still follows him, and that’s because he trusts him. Despite disliking being dragged into whatever antics Optimus gets up to, he still does it with him because he’s his friend, and he knows that he can trust him; trust Orion.

D-16 doesn’t like breaking the rules, but if it’s for/with Orion, I feel as if he’d do nearly anything. Because they’ve got each other’s back, always.

And ohmigod, that scene in the cave was literally had my mouth gaping. You could’ve heard a pin drop with the way everyone shut up.

Think, you just learned that one of the people who you admired the most has rigged the system against you, that since you were born, you were denied what is essentially your birth right, and the freedom that this prophet promised you was nothing but a lie that was fed to keep you going so he could live the high life while you toiled away endlessly in the mines. All I can think about is how devastating that is.

You dedicate your entire life to one man, and he ends up not only being a liar, but also a traitor. Shit I’d be pissed too.

And when we get to the end and Megatron is about to kill Sentinel Prime, but Orion jumps in front of D-16’s gun to block the blast, sacrificing himself in order to prevent his best friend from filling falling to the dark side— only for it to BACKFIRE at the end—

Im gonna end it all.

And then when his face starts to twist. You can see him going through so many emotions in that moment. Worry, confusion, and panic at first, and then frustration, anger, rage, and then finally, certainty. He makes up his mind here. He becomes Megatron here.

When he let go of Orion, he let go of himself as well. He exchanged his life, the life of Orion Pax and the relationship he had with him for his idealized future. The result? His now former best friend rises from the dead, now rechristened as Optimus Prime, stops his attempt at seizing control, and then banishes him.

And also the genuine SHOCK and DISBELIEF you can see in Megatron’s eyes when Optimus tells him he’s been banished, it just tells us that at this moment, he still saw Optimus Prime as Orion Pax, his best friend, and he can’t believe his best friend would do this to him.

And just think about it. Orion literally risks his life for his best friend, because they’ve always had each other’s back. He trusted him. and his best friend, the man he loved like a brother, ends up breaking this promise, choosing his own path, a path without him, betraying him

AND the fact that the action Orion does that ends up making Megatron is done out of love, a last ditch effort to remind his best friend of who he was, and the fact that the action that transforms D-16 to Megatron is done out of hatred and rage

OHH IM GONNA BE SICK

they’re so doomed by the narrative oohhhh my god

Anyways that’s it for now 😋 sorry that this looks so messy this is really just me brain dumping here, I just had yap about this movie because it’s just THAT GOOD

Btw if any of you guys wanna recommend me some Transformers comics to start reading, please do I am very much interested in learning more about this lore tyvm!!!

[gretchensinister]

Dark Crystal Vampire AU Part 3: THIS IS FINE

Part 1

Part 2

So, what happens to the skeksis vampires? With the urRu gone who knows where, the skeksis decide that they look close enough like their whole selves to return to their old lives. They publicly recant all their URSKEK beliefs and lie like crazy about whatever they have to in order to start living like regular decadent rich people again. This works, because in addition to the lying, they also retained the crystal knife used in the ceremony that split the URSKEKs. It’s turned a dark purple now, but that’s probably fine. But it works like the missing ingredient in all sorts of alchemical workings, and they really can turn lead into gold which means unlimited money for bribes and privacy and for people to be like, “okay…” when the skeksis say they look different because they had the plague or malaria or whatever, which doesn’t actually explain anything.

What happens to the urRu vampires? When they leave, they make a dangerous journey by a way as deep into the wilderness as they can manage. (Well. It’s not spoken of later but the danger of their journey is primarily towards human beings within scenting distance. This is still a vampire AU, babey!) They’re looking for a place where they feel they can be less of a danger to humans, but still continue their studies, because maybe if they can really help humanity with their wisdom this time it will help atone for the murders, and they still believe that maybe they can get the original ceremony right, eventually. Aren’t they the good parts of the URSKEKs? There has to be a way to stop being vampires and correctly become spiritual beings. They end up settling in a tiny abandoned village near a high valley in the Alps. It was abandoned because it was too high up and the available ground in the valley wasn’t enough to sustain year-round living, and there was a bigger town at a lower elevation nearby, anyway. So they aren’t completely cut off from humans, but it’s a difficult road and the thirst is easier to bear when the winds almost never bring any trace of humans to them.

(An aside on the split: the URSKEKs had two genuine motives for the original ceremony. Self-aggrandizement, proving their own spiritual superiority AND finding true enlightenment that could lead to inner peace and be used to help ease the toil and suffering of the world. These two motives form the fault line of the split. Skeksis from the first, urRu from the second. However, these are just starting points, and they leave a lot of room for personality. Also, there always remains the opportunity to change for the better or the worse, for any of them, because they are still alive.)

After the skeksis and the urRu go their separate ways, they start to diverge more physically and in about a decade they don’t look much like their URSKEKs or each other anymore. The skeksis play this off as aging, the urRu don’t have to play this off to anyone.

Survival: It causes both pain and hunger/thirst to be a half soul. Drinking human blood is the only way the skeksis and the urRu can ease those feelings, since in this AU blood directly from a living human being is like a physical manifestation of the self/soul, and fills the empty/jagged places where the other half of the soul was before the split. Strict blood rules here! Only human blood works because it’s not about calories, it’s about magical significance, and the URSKEKs started out human. The urRu and skeksis have halves of human souls. Animal blood does NOT work. Also, it has to be direct from a living person. It’s essential that the person being drunk from consider the blood part of themselves for the self/soul value to be there. Dead person? Blood not ensouled. Blood collected for donation, person not thinking about it anymore? Not ensouled. You get the idea.

The skeksis mostly drink people to death. Since the ideal victim is very aware of what’s going on, if they were let go, they’d be able to say that the skeksis are vampires, or at least doing some freak shit that maybe even money can’t totally make disappear. But sometimes they like taking risks and having someone out there with a story no one will ever believe. About 4 kills a year is what they need to stay in top condition (which is a LOT when you have 16 vampires in one place, which is one reason they don’t end up all staying in the same place). And of course they don’t limit themselves when they don’t have to.

The urRu have a much more complicated time. They discover that it might be possible to ignore the thirst indefinitely—they don’t die—but after a certain point it leaves them very weak and unable to think about anything else. In that state, if a human gets close enough for an urRu to notice, the urRu doesn’t have the mental strength to decide not to hunt, and they will pursue the human until their thirst is satisfied. This is always a way worse process when the human and urRu are close in strength because of the urRu’s weakness. And the urRu want to be able to go into the town to see if there’s someone they can talk to about getting books/other things so they’re not bored out of their minds. Luckily, they also are able to make a lot of alchemical workings work now (the crystal knife might be a placebo for the skeksis), so they can pay for things. Blood is still a problem though because the non-lethal option is frequent small feeds and the town doesn’t have that many people who are willing to be paid to be bitten, especially when it becomes clear that a) this doesn’t seem to be a sex thing and b) they’re literally drinking a significant amount of blood. It’s the kind of situation that will make the town’s sex workers go to the priest and be like, “hey. Something REALLY WEIRD is going on.” But still, they manage to keep the vampirism pretty much secret (with all of them still way too close to the edge of snapping) until the person they’ve been working with to get books is like “you guys have asked me to get every medical and esoteric text I can find, are you doctors/healers up there?” So how it all shakes out is that in this town and then other neighboring villages the information is quietly put around that if you’re sick and your other doctor can’t help, or if you don’t have money for any other kind of doctor, you can go to this village up in the mountains that these...streghe(?)...live in and a lot of the time they will cure you. But you have to be prepared to not come back, because if you think you have a fatal disease and you’re right, they’ll kill you. (Their way of bloodletting is also unconventional, and they do it no matter what your ailment is, but whatever works.)

It’s one of those situations where everything is very weird and unbelievable and the humans who are involved with them are aware that this has to be kept on the down low. Eventually, even when the Church and/or government goes looking for that village, they’re unable to find it, which is a huge relief and they can all officially say it doesn’t exist.

Blood supply is still uneven, though, and several urRu choose not to stay. The remaining urRu adopt a very slow-paced lifestyle to minimize the energy they expend and therefore their need for blood.

Appearances/The Vampire Rules

I already talked about the blood rules for both urRu and skeksis vampires. Other things: garlic, no effect; silver, no effect; holy water/crosses, no effect (though URSKEK houses tended to have an absence of Christian imagery which people talked about).

Reflections: They don’t have them, which is a good reason to stay away from polished silver, anyway.

Transformation into animals: no, but they can move in animal-like ways if they want to—i.e. SkekMal is definitely climbing down walls lizard fashion

Dirt from home: don’t need it because they’re not undead, they just stayed alive wrong

Running water: no effect

Compelled to count things (this is actually a folklore thing it’s not because of the Count from Sesame Street lol...but then again...muppet-adjacent…) : not specifically but all of them have obsessive tendencies

Sunlight: feels like a Bad Texture; they were never meant to exist in the sun. Doesn’t have fatal/painful effects. Also it’s more difficult to disguise that they’re not human in sunlight.

Strength/speed: a lot stronger and faster than humans—the urRu too. The reason they don’t use this strength/speed is so that they don’t have to feed as often

Senses: Can see in very low light, highly sensitive smell and hearing, touch and taste same as humans

Hypnotism: all of them can do this to some degree, but the urRu had more patience to cultivate this skill and have inherently compelling voices

Other food: Taste and smell still enjoyable, does nothing for the body, mass in = mass out.

Injuries/Death: will heal quickly but not instantly, can die of things that kill them faster than their healing. Also vibes-based. Skeksis and urRu can “accept” an injury like a piercing or tattoo.

Sleep: They can, but then they have troubled dreams of their other halves. Questionable behavior, no?

Both urRu and skeksis are humanoid with a range of heights and body shapes that correspond to their URSKEK origins. The more time passes, the more they diverge from humanity and each other—though they remain more like each other than most of them know.

The skeksis as vampires have eyeshine and skin that tends toward noticeable, unusual cool-color undertones that definitely don’t seem right when they’re among humans. Their nails darken and grow out as claws after the split. Dark circles/shadowed eyes. Right after the split they have noticeable fangs, but as the years pass they come to have entire mouths full of sharp teeth (hot).

The urRu as vampires also have eyeshine. Their skin remains closer in color to their URSKEK origins, but as time passes they develop grooves and spirals over their bodies. Their nails also turn into claws but they mostly file them down. They develop a hunched posture because they’re perpetually in pain/hungry/thirsty—they’d straighten up if they drank more blood. Their teeth look normal, maybe even oddly flat, until it’s time to feed, and then it turns out they have an entire set of sharp teeth hidden behind the others! (hot)

Both skeksis and urRu can open their mouths real wide, like a cat or snake or something.

Naked time: both skeksis and urRu are hermaphrodites because a) the alchemical concept of the rebis (signifies how the URSKEK project almost worked), b) the skeksis’ gender ambiguity is supposed to be unsettling in the movie but I think it should be cool and the urRu obviously need to get in on that too, c) I’m a pervert don’t worry about it.

The skeksis make DAMN sure they are male on paper in this world and present that way in public to a degree that they can’t be questioned. (Normal immortal stuff about “here’s my secret son who looks exactly like me” applies to continuity of property.) The urRu have no paperwork at all and let people just guess their gender if they see them, and go with whatever.

Part 4

[heliads]

everything is blue • conrisa space au • Chapter Nine: Stay Whole

Risa Ward escaped a shuttle destined for her certain, painful death. Connor Lassiter ran away from home before it was too late. Lev Calder was kidnapped. All of them were supposed to be dissected for parts, used to advance a declining galaxy, but as of right now, all of them are whole. Life will not stay the same way forever.

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Connor is used to the routine. It keeps him sane. It keeps him whole. He wakes in the morning and he sleeps in the evening. The schedule may be arbitrary, oriented around a central sun somewhere light years away from him as required by Coreworld standards, but it makes sense. Connor has just enough energy to get through his day without dragging, and when he closes his eyes each night, he’s so exhausted that he can travel through the dark hours in mostly dreamless sleep. The repetition is clinical. It keeps him grounded, or as much as it can when he’s locked in a tin can stuck somewhere in space.

Connor tells himself that having each day be damn near identical is good for him. He believes it at least half the time. When he’s stuck trying and failing to get various ship systems to function properly for the billionth day in a row, the message is a little harder to get across, but it’s better that Connor sees it through than not. He and Risa celebrated one year since their arrival in the Graveyard last week, so it’s not like his blind hatred is really going to do anything to get him out of here any faster.

After all, it may be a little bit mindless, going through the same day over and over again, but at least it’s safe. Out there in the never ending galaxy, there are always new turmoils and bigger troubles. Connor isn’t actively running for his life. Hiding is more efficient, and you die at least twice as infrequently.

At this point, Connor is pretty sure that he could do the whole day in his sleep. He wakes, he eats, he tells Risa to have fun in the med wing so he can see that adorable glare she gives him every time. Connor waits in the crux of the corridor in which they part ways so he can watch her go until she disappears out of sight, and then he turns and goes his own merry way towards the engineering sector. Once there, he’ll toil among stardust or spanner wrenches until the day is done, stopping only for a quick midday meal before throwing himself back into his latest project. 

Finally, Hayden’s voice will sound over the ship intercom system, announcing that the day’s work is over. Then, and only then, can Connor join the teeming mass of other Deadmen to get the final meal of the day. No one likes lingering in their workplace longer than they have to, so the corridors are always a sprawling mess of kids going every direction so long as it’s away. Even still, Connor manages to find Risa in mere moments every time. No matter how many distributes are surrounding them, each and every day Connor turns around to spot her instantly across the crowd. It’s the easiest thing in the worlds, somehow. Finding her. He knows her like he knows himself.

And so Connor has become accustomed to the cycle, the cycle that never ends. He gets up and he gets older. He’s taller, maybe; he’d like to think so, at least. He told Risa that once and she told him he was kidding himself, like she knew better. He’d asked her why she would be such an expert on his appearance and she just blushed and looked away. Connor has hopes as to why that happened. They’re probably not true, of course, but what else are hopes for except to want too much too fast?

The little things, the offhand conversations, make the days better anyway. Connor knows how to fix the parts and walk the halls, but the people change from day to day, they always change. Sometimes for better, sometimes for worse. But they’re always different.

Connor reckons he can tell the good differences from the bad ones. He’d know it in a flash, probably, like a spy from one of those old action movies he used to love as a kid. A man in a dark suit, walking into a room, pausing to whip off his sunglasses and announce ominously:  Someone’s been here. I can feel it.

Connor thinks he feels it now. There’s an unsteady lurch to the recycled air pumping out around him. Connor’s fixed it up enough times to recognize the hum of the beaten motor inside. It’s working fine, though, so that’s not it. Maybe the lights– are some out? No, the glow is steady, if a little dim, but that’s just because they’ve been running on reduced power for a month or so now to try and conserve supplies. Connor thinks, and then– and then he knows.

The Graveyard is quiet, and it is the quiet more than anything that tells Connor it’s finally over. He’s had a long and varied history with trouble, and after several offenses, Connor recognizes the pattern as it repeats itself. It’s quiet first. It’s always quiet first. The quiet makes you let down your guard, and that’s when they strike. Always. Even now, on a cruiser in the outer reaches of space somewhere not even Connor knows. Things will always end the same, and they will always end badly. 

(Later, he will find out that they used signal cloakers, which had the added effect of not only muting their presence to any Graveyard scanners but also beginning the preliminary shutdown of the Graveyard systems themselves. The quiet can be explained scientifically, but that does not change the way it felt, nor the fact that Connor should have known it was coming. There is no hiding from Them. Even if you run from the shuttle destined for a distribution colony, even if you spit in the eye of the Collective with your little contraband radio show, even if you’re the starsforsaken Akron AWOL himself, you’re still a filthy unwind, and that means They’ll always find you. He knows this. He thought he could be the exception anyway. Everyone does.)

The Graveyard is quiet, and the Graveyard is doomed. Connor slinks into the corridor outside, a wrench slack in his hand from where he’d been trying to fix up an old recirculation unit in the back of one of the engine rooms. He wanders aimlessly for a little bit, not sure what he’s looking for, just that he needs to find it. It, which he will recognize when he sees it.

Connor turns a corner and then he knows. He freezes in place in front of a large window. The glass is dingy with the faded dust of asteroids that disintegrated in the empty space around them decades ago, if not centuries, but the panel is still clear enough that Connor can still see through it to the score of warships outside. Their exterior lights aren’t on, not yet, in fact, they’re still pulling off their camouflage settings so they can ripple into view, but Connor has spotted them anyway, and he knows what they are even without the extra identification. This is the Collective. This is the end.

The shout that rises from his throat is louder than anything Connor has heard before, guttural and emanating from deep within him. “They’re here!”

At first, no one responds, and then the first kid pokes his head out a nearby door, looks at Connor then past him through the window, and his eyes bulge like he’s been strangled. “Juveys!” He shouts, and then another kid appears behind him, and another, and another.

The message spreads like wildfire, and then a thousand footsteps echo in the hallway, a swarm of synth-bees leaving a burning nest. Maybe Connor shouldn’t have done it like this, maybe he shouldn’t have caused a mass panic, but he figures everyone should have as much time as they can to put their lives in order and prepare for the worst. If he had kept his mouth shut, someone else would have looked out the window soon enough anyway. It might as well have been him to end their world.

Connor pauses for one last moment, drinking in the sight of his soon-to-be killers, then remembers himself and tears off down the hallway towards the nav center. It’s slow going at first, as he pushes through crowds of terrified distributes, but then they clear up and he can run again, forcing himself to go faster than he ever has before in the name of trying to do something, anything, to delay the inevitable.

The nav kids are pacing back and forth, and they all flinch when Connor throws open the door. One of them starts to ask timidly what the fuss is about, but Connor cuts him off, fighting for breath even as he spits out the words. 

“Juveys outside,” he gasps, “At least a dozen ships. Too many for us to fight. We have to go.” 

Even as he says it, Connor knows it’s pointless. There’s no way in sunfire this ship can move. It’s become bloated with temporary fixes to constant problems, continuously smoothed over just to break back open again. With this many kids on board, with the fact that it hasn’t been used to actually fly in decades, the chance of it moving more than the length of one teenager lying down is abysmal.

The kids exchange nervous glances. They know it too, don’t they? There’s no way any of them are making it out. “This thing hasn’t tried to fly any distance since before we got here,” one of them starts nervously.

“Well, it’s this or distribution,” Connor says, and the color drains from their faces. “Try anyway. We have no other choice.”

They spring to attention, hurrying to the banks of controls in front of them. The oldest, clearly the one in charge, flicks several switches, calling out directions to the others. They all work with urgency, good for them, but even their focus won’t be enough to convince what’s essentially a self-contained colony to make a jump between star systems. Nothing can save them. Not even hope.

After several failed attempts, the leader looks up, shaking his head sorrowfully. “We don’t have enough power from the engines. Nothing we can do.”

Connor lets out a particularly vicious string of swears. “Thanks for trying, though. I mean it.”

The leader takes a hesitant step towards Connor. “What do we do, then? If we can’t move?”

Connor feels sick to his stomach as he takes in the expectation in the faces surrounding him. Even after facing the truth that they cannot fly away, that there are more than a dozen fully stocked warships of Juvey-cops surging ever closer to them, these kids still think that Connor can come up with a master plan to get them all out alive and intact.

“Why do you think I would know?” He asks bitterly.

A girl next to him lifts a shoulder. “You did it before, right? You got away from the cop back in OH-10. You’re the Akron AWOL.”

“That was one guy,” Connor says desperately. “And it’s not– Look, there’s nothing I can do against that many cops. Get as many kids as you can into the escape pods. If they leave before you can get on one, hide. Maybe they’ll pass over you.”

It sounds absurd even as he says it. There are escape pods on the ship, but not enough, not nearly enough, and there’s no way that the Juvey-cops are going to let anyone go. They’ll be scouring this ship for weeks. No kid can hold out that long. They’re just kids. Just kids who wanted to be alive. What a terrible crime indeed.

Connor is saved from the burden of having to watch their expressions crumble when the entire ship shakes. He nearly loses his balance and has to cling onto a nearby table to stabilize himself. Other kids who weren’t as light on their feet go sprawling, joining the debris on nearby desks in an untidy mess on the floor.

There’s a brief hissing from the intercom system, and then a grown man who definitely isn’t Hayden starts to speak. “This is Officer Reed of the Juvenile Authority. On behalf of the Collective, this ship is now under our control. Come out quietly and no further harm will come to you.”

The man’s cool tone does nothing to assuage the fear on the faces of the distributes around Connor, obviously, because despite his promise that none of them will be harmed, they’re still definitely going to get distributed after this. The other kids stare back at him, and Connor takes one last moment to memorize their faces, the way this room looks, because odds are he’s not going to see it again.

“Run,” Connor repeats urgently, and throws himself out the door and into the hallways, which are even more chaotic than before. He’s got to get to Risa, got to find her first. Once they’re together, they can figure something out. They always do.

Connor forces himself through throngs of people. The crowds are becoming unmanageable as so many Deadmen realize that they really are, at last, about to die in every way that a person can die bar one hypothetical exception. His feet are trampled about a dozen times in a second, and when a hatch at the far end of the hall opens up to reveal the silhouettes of rows of Juvey-cops ready to board their shuttle, the insanity only becomes worse. 

Suddenly, everyone’s pushing and shoving each other in an effort to get away. Connor tries to keep his head above the fray, but he’s continuously pushed back and down. He might get pulled underneath if this gets any worse, but just as he has this terrible thought, someone reaches through the crowd and yanks him to the wall of the corridor, out of the way of the main surge.

“Thanks,” Connor gasps.

Glancing up, he realizes that Hayden was the one to save him. He frowns. “What in the worlds are you doing over here? The ComBom is on the other side of the ship.”

Hayden just sighs, gesturing for Connor to keep moving. “I was called away about half a standard hour ago so I could help some of the security kids. They said they picked up some strange readouts overnight and they couldn’t figure out what they were. Someone thought they were from my show, but it wasn’t me. I think someone else sent out a broadcast behind my back, but they weren’t too good at keeping their tracks hidden.”

Connor’s stomach drops. “You think that’s how they found us? Someone tried to reach out a little too far?”

Hayden’s face is ashy even in the weak light of the crowded corridor. “I recognized the signature, Connor. It was from the ComBom. Maybe even from my computer. It wasn’t me, though. I swear it wasn’t me. I’m always careful.”

“I believe you, man,” Connor assures him, but on the inside his mind is abuzz with this new information. 

If not Hayden, then who? None of the kids in the ComBom would be stupid enough to send out any broadcast without thoroughly vetting it to make sure it wouldn’t give them away. It would have to be someone else, someone who was less familiar with the equipment so they wouldn’t know how to keep everyone safe. Someone who maybe didn’t even care about keeping the rest of them safe so long as they could send out their message and really stick it to the man. Someone who would have learned just enough about how to work the radio systems through word of mouth, or, for instance, eavesdropping in a hallway while Hayden talked to Connor and Risa about it.

“Starkey,” Connor gasps out in the midst of a thunderous realization, “It was Starkey. He must have heard us talking. Damned runners are always trying to learn all our secrets. He listened in and thought he could one up your little show with his own message.”

Hayden swears, although half of it is drowned out with the calamitous roar of the warships surrounding them. A kid is screaming somewhere behind them, yelling bloody murder like they’re actually distributing him on the spot. Connor doesn’t dare turn around to check if they are.

“Gotta be him,” Hayden agrees, yanking Connor down a nearby hallway so they can start to shake the crowd, “None of my guys in there would have done something so stupid as that. We always checked what we sent out to make sure it couldn’t get traced back to us. Always.”

Connor risks a glance towards his friend and feels another wave of grief wash over him at the sight of the look in Hayden’s eyes. The blond boy has always been upbeat, always quick to a joke, but right now, he looks totally destroyed. Even if Hayden wasn’t the one to send out the one transmission that led the Juvenile Authority to the Graveyard, it was still done on his machines, in his precious ComBom. It may not have been his hands to reveal them, but it was his fault nonetheless. Months, if not years, of being careful, of never letting the Juveys know where they are, and it’s all over now for Starkey’s one bright, bold moment of fame. What a way to go.

Something rocks the Graveyard again, sending both boys tumbling against the corridor wall. “Must be the nav kids trying to get us moving again,” Connor says, wincing as he prods a quickly forming bruise on his hip. “I told them to run, but there’s nowhere for us to go. They’re doing the best they can.”

“I can help too,” Hayden breaks in. “The ComBom is not far from here, I can get on and try to tell kids what to do.”

Connor shakes his head. “That’s a pointless risk. It’s chaos in here anyway, a few directions won’t save anyone. The soldiers are going to go for the ComBom first, you know that. You’ll get caught in seconds.”

Hayden’s mouth is a thin grim line. Connor wonders how it could have ever smiled before. “I have to, Connor. Let me make this right.”

Connor wants to persuade him otherwise, but he knows it’s a lost cause. Hayden will never forgive himself for letting that one transmission pass by him. If he thinks staying behind will make things right, who is Connor to take that from him?

“Alright,” he says at last, “But stay safe, Hayden. Make it to one of the escape pods. Promise me that. The galaxy needs more Radio Free Hayden.”

“Don’t I know it?” Hayden cracks wryly. A ghost of a grin flickers over his lips, perhaps the last one he’ll ever get, and then he takes off down a nearby hallway and is gone for good. Connor has no idea if he’ll see the blond again. He hopes to the stars themselves he will, and not in parts of someone else.

Having lost Hayden, Connor’s main priority will now be getting to Risa. He runs along, dodging around the madness surrounding them. The nav kids are trying to pull away from the Juvey-cop shuttles, but making the Graveyard move at all is a hopeless cause. Every bit of energy directed to the engines, every inch they crawl along, just serves to tear the cruiser apart from the inside out. The lights are flickering more than ever, and smoke is starting to fissure out of some of the vents as he passes by.

The destruction is only aided by the Juveys. They’ve swarmed into the corridors by now, dragging kids off to their ships. The Deadmen are putting up a fight as best they can, grabbing parts of pipes and wrenches to use as weapons, but there’s nothing they can do against that much firepower. Connor catches a glimpse of one officer aiming a tranq gun at one of the older kids who used to guard the Admiral. The kid dodges and the blast goes into a nearby instrument panel, sending up a shower of sparks.

Each pull of a trigger sends Connor’s heartbeat to new, dizzying levels. When he passes a girl unconscious on the side of the hall, he drags her to safety. He checks her face at least five times to make sure she’s not Risa, but even after he keeps running, Connor is not entirely sure that he hasn’t just abandoned her by accident. The roar of sound around him makes him dizzy, unable to think clearly. He’s going to get himself killed if he doesn’t– if he can’t–

A hand on his arm. Connor whips around, ready to fight off a soldier, but it’s her, it’s Risa, and he can breathe again. Forgetting himself for a moment, Connor clutches her to him, one hand against the back of her head, another pulling her close. For this one brief and glorious instant, he’s got her tucked against him, he can hear her heartbeat, cool as ever, against his own, and he thinks that he might just make it out alive.

A round of gunfire too close to them makes him startle away again. Even still, he can’t stop himself from looking over her constantly to make sure she’s not injured. “You’re alright?” He asks.

Risa nods, although she looks a little shaky. “For now, at least. We have to get out of here, the Juveys are everywhere.”

Connor sees no problem with that. As if he’d just heard them, the intercom system crackles to life above their heads and Hayden’s voice rings out like an avenging angel. “Ladies and gentlemen of the Graveyard, it’s been an honor to live with you. I want to invite you all to get on the escape pods located along the southern and eastern edges of the ship. I hope we see each other again soon, and until then, stay whole. Hayden, signing out.”

He’s gone in another loud rush of static, and thus the Deadmen are abandoned to their fates. “He said it too late,” Risa mutters sadly. “Most of the pods will be gone by now. There aren’t nearly enough for everyone.”

“I know,” Connor says back. It’s all he can do. “Let’s hurry over now, though. Maybe some will still be there when we arrive.”

Distributes are disappearing by the second. Connor yanks kids out of the way of rogue tranq shots as he goes, but he can’t go up against the soldiers teaming up in groups of three or four to pull Deadmen down the corridors and into their awaiting ships. There’s nothing he can do to fix this, but that does not stop the relentless surge of guilt from boiling in his chest.

“Wait,” Connor says, skidding to a stop as a terrible thought occurs to him, “The Admiral. We have to get the Admiral.”

Risa shakes her head sorrowfully. “He’s a traitor to the Collective, Connor. They won’t be giving him a stern talking-to or something like that. We can’t help him any more than he can help us.”

Connor’s mouth feels dry. “That’s why we need to get to him, though.”

Risa looks away. “Connor. It’s too late.”

He follows her gaze back down the corridor to see a squad of Juvey-cops breaking down the door to the Admiral’s office. There are shouts that turn into a terrible, drawn-out scream, and then the resounding bang of one final gunshot and everything turns quiet again. Risa was right. It was too late, and now the Collective has taught a lesson to the Admiral and anyone within their ranks who thinks about trying to save kids from distribution:  take them away from their fates, and they’ll deliver you to yours faster than you expect.

The squad appears in the doorway again, scanning the corridor in an almost mechanical motion, and then one of them spots Connor and Risa and points, “There!”

The cops start to run in their direction, which is all the goading Connor needs to stop wavering and start moving again. He grabs Risa by the hand so they don’t get separated in the chaos and they take off, moving as fast as they can despite the chunks of debris now littering the floor. Everywhere around him, Connor hears terrified yells, the shattering of equipment. It’s carnage out there. No one’s getting killed, but kids are vanishing anyway, dragged into the bowels of the Juvey ships. 

Everyone here thought they could escape distribution, but this is the grim reminder that no one ever can. Some ferals have spent years on this ship. They probably thought they could make it, but no more. Never again will they be stupid enough to dream of survival.

As they draw closer to the eastern edge of the ship, Connor picks up the pace. The number of kids has dramatically increased, and Connor can see fights breaking out not just between distributes and Juveys but among the Deadmen themselves. Kids who used to be best friends are shoving each other to the ground in an effort to make it to the few remaining escape pods.

Even from here, Connor can tell that they’re running out fast. “Down here,” he blurts out, pulling Risa into a side corridor, “We can cut around to the back edge of the sector. Maybe there are still some left.”

They race down the corridor, pausing briefly at the end so Connor can tap into a control panel and check on the status of the escape pods. Judging by the rows of blanks, most are gone, but there’s still two left on the very end, single seaters that have been neglected by the rest of the kids because they’re just far enough out of the main thoroughfare so as to avoid detection by the stampedes of desperate teenagers.

The two of them duck around a corner, rejoining the sector with the pods. Connor can make out the bays for the two remaining pods; they’re hidden in a shadowy crevice of the sector, but still there, and that means there’s still a chance for them to make it out alive.

The rest of the sector is in chaos, but Connor isn’t looking. He’s got tunnel vision now, able to think about two things and two things only:  one, the escape pods, still waiting in their bays, and two, Risa’s hand on his, reminding him that she’s still here, still with him. That’s all he needs. All he’s ever needed. He has lived two lives in the past sixteen years, first a child in a home that was never truly his and then this, now, a runaway distribute with a girl who wanted him like no one ever had. If he wants to survive, he’ll have her. He has to have her.

They skid to a stop in front of the two pods. “You first,” Connor says, opening up one of the pods and helping her inside. 

There’s just enough room for one person to sit, but they’ll be able to follow each other down to the nearest planet surface, plus the comms systems should be functional, so they can talk if something goes wrong. The engineers have ensured that the escape pods work properly, there are mandatory checkups every month, so there’s no issue there. They just need to get in, that’s all, but they’re already here, and no one has noticed them yet, so it should be fine.

Once Risa’s in her pod, Connor reaches in to help fasten her in. She allows him to set up the nav system, but once he tries to do much more than that, she bats his hands away. “I can figure out the rest. Get in,” she tells him.

He manages a half smile. “So bossy.”

She rolls her eyes, but her returning smile is taut with nerves. “I’ll let you complain all you like once we’re out of here.”

Connor nods and pulls away, but before he can access his own escape pod, there’s a loud juddering of machinery and large chunks of the ceiling start to rain down, sending metal panels tumbling to the ground. Connor hits the floor immediately, rolling away just in time to dodge a particularly sharp section. 

The sharp tang of copper fills the air, but other than a few mild scratches, Connor’s not hurt badly. The same cannot be said for everyone here; several of the teenagers who were fighting over the few remaining escape pods earlier are lying motionless on the ground now, crushed beneath chunks of steel. The kids they’d been fighting with stand over their bodies, horrified, then rush back to the pods, now with significantly fewer defenders than there had been just moments before.

Risa cries out in fear, and Connor doggedly pulls himself up. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” he mutters, although from the way his head is ringing, that might not be entirely true.

He’ll have time to sort out his injuries, though. If you’re going to strand yourself in the farthest reaches of the galaxy, it’s not a bad thing to have an expert healer like Risa out there with you. He just has to get into his pod, and then he can slump against the seat and try not to pass out before he lands.

Connor forces himself to his feet, and his vision is so spotty that it takes a few moments for the black dots to clear from his sight, and a few more seconds after that to come to terms with what he’s seeing. Or, more specifically, what he isn’t seeing. Connor had been able to dodge that chunk of the ceiling panel that had come so close to killing him, but the pod hadn’t been able to move, and it had been thoroughly wrecked. 

Escape pods are meant to take a wide variety of blows, all part of space travel, but that’s when they’re sealed off from the elements. This one had been open and awaiting a passenger, but now it’s only host to a smoking pile of metal, which has sliced cleanly through the control panel that controls both nav systems and life support. There’s no way in all the worlds it can fly anymore, which means– which means–

Which means Connor isn’t getting out of here anymore. Risa leaned out of her seat to see what he was looking at, and the second she sees the sparking mess of what was supposed to be Connor’s ticket out of here, her face crumbles to pieces.

She starts trying to stand up and get out, but she’d already fastened the harness, and her hands are shaking so badly that the clasps refuse to undo themselves. “No. No. Connor, get in here. We can both fit. It’ll work out. We can still both make it.”

Connor shakes his head. “They’re designed for one passenger. We’ll run out of air.”

Risa glares at him, but the tear tracks on her face ruin any impression of hostility. “If we suffocate, at least we’ll be together. Don’t you leave me, Connor. Not after everything.” 

Connor doesn’t realize he’s crying until his hand touches his face and comes back wet. “It’s okay, Risa. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” she argues. “None of this is okay. We were supposed to make it out. It was supposed to be us.”

Risa finally manages to get the harness off, but Connor slams his hand onto the control panel outside the pod, locking the door shut. Risa pounds her fist against the glass, but this, unlike the interior of Connor’s escape pod, was designed not to break, and it holds firm.

“Thank you,” he says over the thunder of her fists on the hatch, “Thank you for everything, Risa. Live your life, alright? Make it a good one.”

He presses another button on the escape pod, shutting it off from the ship and beginning exit protocol. Once the pod seals, Connor can’t hear her anymore, can’t tell when her screams turn to a broken, pleading goodbye except by watching her lips. The pod finishes disengaging from the ship and launches itself into space. Connor watches Risa pull away from him, and then she’s gone, and Connor is on his own for the first time in more than a year.

He rocks back on his heels. This is it, then. This is how he goes. He turns to a nearby control panel and repeats what he’d done before to check for any more pods, just in case, but only turns up blanks. All of the escape vehicles have launched, and there are no more shuttles or smaller ships on the cruiser. Everyone left in the Graveyard will die or be distributed. A ghost of a memory in his head, a laughing voice:  which is worse?

Connor still isn’t entirely sure of the answer, but he doesn’t have to decide now, he doesn’t. He can still hide. Connor is great at hiding. He’s done it for the last year, and even if they’ve found the Graveyard, the soldiers won’t know every last nook and cranny, not like he does. They won’t risk blowing the cruiser to pieces either, the explosion would probably incinerate their ships as well. 

An idea is blossoming in Connor’s head, a terrible death wish born of this last twist of fate. Connor begins moving again, walking then running towards the engine room. The ship is tearing itself to pieces at this point, unable to stand against the combined threat of the guns of the Juvey-cop warships outside and the nav kids’ unsuccessful attempts to fly away. Several times, Connor attempts to head down one corridor only to find it blocked off by mountains of rubble. 

He keeps having to dodge Juveys, but they’re easy enough to shake. The cops are moving slower now, taking their time. They know there’s nowhere any of them can go. It’s like trapping synth-rats in a rotting house. The floorboards can be burned away, the carcass of their hideaway ripped to pieces. The vermin will always be found.

The engine room is worse off than anywhere else in the Graveyard. Connor has to fling an arm over his mouth, instantly doubled over and coughing on the fumes. Something’s leaking, maybe fuell, which doesn’t bode well. Connor is here to hide, but his hiding space shouldn’t kill him, too. 

No Juveys linger in the engine room. They’re cocky, but not that stupid. The whole ship is tearing itself to pieces, the last place anyone rational would go is the room with the power sources. If the engines were to stall and implode, the subsequent reaction wouldn’t just tear the Graveyard to bits, it would take out those warships, too, and every soldier of the Juvenile Authority on board. No one wants to mess around here, which makes it perfect. All Connor has to do is lie low long enough to wait out the cops, even if it takes days, and then crawl out long enough to send a distress signal. He can figure this out. He can still make it.

Pulling the neck of his shirt over his nose and mouth to avoid the bite of the fumes, Connor plunges further into the engine room. All of the overhead lights are out, leaving only the beeping pinpricks of the panels near the engines themselves. The machinery in here is massive, practically the entire height of the cruiser. Connor climbs up the precarious structures in search of a spot no one will look at. At least if Juveys come in here, he can see them coming and try to avoid their gaze.

Just as he has this thought, a silhouette appears in the doorway. In the darkness of the engine room, Connor can’t make out if they’re a kid or a cop. If it’s a Juvey, Connor can probably run before the soldier drags him off. There’s no chance of remaining hidden since the guy obviously followed him in, but Connor might be able to give him the slip in these shadows.

“Just a moment, officer,” Connor shouts, still squinting to make out details on the guy’s face, “I don’t want to be locked away quite yet. Give a guy a few more minutes of freedom, will you?”

“I’m not a cop,” the stranger chides, and Connor feels his body start to lock up.

The boy stalking into the room certainly isn’t a cop, he’s Roland. Somehow, some of the last few Deadmen left alive on the cruiser include himself and Roland, and of course the older boy has taken it upon himself to track down Connor. What a great use of his last moments whole.

“What do you want? A friendly conversation before we’re both dismembered?” Connor asks, moving even more frantically than before.

“I don’t want to talk,” Roland drawls, and Connor swears he’s halved the distance between them in the time it took to blink. Connor can barely hear the guy moving over the clanging of the machinery behind him, which isn’t good.

He peers over the lip of the structure he’s on and sees Roland clambering up the machinery after him, eyes locked in blind hatred on Connor’s form. “What’s your plan, Connor?” Roland shouts up. “Going to hide until they went away? Like that’ll work.”

“It’s this or distribution, you tell me which is worse. I can pull this off, have some faith.” Connor calls back, but his voice wavers.

Roland cackles, sensing the hesitation in his voice. “Are you sure? Do you really think you can outsmart an entire army of Juvey-cops? And either way, are you just going to ignore every other kid they’re dragging off out there? I thought you really cared.”

Connor scoffs, still backing away down the narrow walkway surrounding the machinery. He swears the thunder of noise from the hall outside is getting louder, but maybe that’s just the panic setting in. “It’s sweet of you to care about my conscience. What, do you want to team up and stop all of our little friends from dying?”

“I’m not interested in their deaths,” Roland spits, “Just yours.”

Connor wheels around again, panicked, just in time for Roland to strike him across the face. Connor slams against the control panel, which probably does more to sabotage the ship than any of the chaos from before.

Roland’s face is barely recognizable in the dark. Connor can only make out harsh planes of his countenance as Roland looms over him. “This is our last shot, Connor. I’m taking you out before I go. Consider it revenge.”

Oh, this is bad. This is bad. Connor flees, but already reeling from the collapsing ceiling in the eastern sector, plus the punch, plus the darkness, he trips almost immediately on the thin railing of the walkway and bites it. 

Roland laughs somewhere above him. “On the ground already? And here I thought you were a fighter.”

“Stop talking,” Connor grimaces, one hand rising to clutch at his aching head while the other helps push him up and off of the floor.

Roland, surprisingly, does as told, and the walkway rattles as he heads towards Connor again. The older boy swings again, but Connor manages to duck this time, and he hears the whoosh of air moving as Roland’s fist glides through empty air.

It occurs to Connor now that Roland is just as blind as he is. Neither of their eyes have adjusted yet, so even though Connor is struggling to see a thing, Roland is no better off. He surges forward, knocking into Roland, and manages to drive a fist against his nose.

Roland yells, crashing backwards into the railing. Connor can taste blood in the air again, so it must have been a good hit. When Roland speaks again, his voice is funny, so maybe he even managed to break a bone. “Oh, you’ll pay for that, starspawn.”

Connor readies himself for another blow, but instead of aiming another punch at Connor’s shifting silhouette, Roland grabs something from his belt. The faint light from the beeping buttons on a nearby instrument panel casts just enough light that Connor can see the glint of a metal barrel in his hand and he realizes with a sickening lurch that Roland is holding a gun.

“Now you’re not the only one to have shot a Juvey with his own tranq,” Roland hisses. “I grabbed a souvenir too. Only, this one isn’t a tranq. I got the real deal.”

Connor’s eyes widen in the dark of the engine room. He had wondered if Roland would have the stomach to actually kill him, but a shot in the dark wouldn’t take as much guts. All this kill would require is the pull of a trigger, and anyone with flighty reflexes can do that.

Connor flings himself backwards, scurrying further into the darkness. If he could just shake Roland long enough to get away, if he could just get out of range of that awful gun– The weapon goes off, sending a bullet flying off the walkway and into the endless shadow below them.

“Careful with that,” Connor scolds, “These engines are on the verge of blowing up anyway. One bad shot and you’ll kill us all.”

“I’ll hit you next, not the engines,” Roland threatens, and gives chase once more.

Connor peers back over his shoulder when the footsteps on metal stops, and it registers that Roland can’t run and fire the gun at the same time. If he pauses, it means he’s readying to shoot again. Connor flings himself down, feeling the smooth chill of the metal walkway against his cheek. Seconds later, another bullet flies overhead, but this one doesn’t go off towards the ground. Instead, it whistles towards the overheating engines, punching a hole in several of the connective pipes as it goes.

“You idiot, you’re going to blow this place up,” Connor yells.

This only serves to give Roland a better idea of where he is in the shifting blackness, and another round shoots by, even closer than before. This one doesn’t just strike pipes, though, it goes directly into the roaring machinery itself. This one is bad.

Connor has about half a second to understand just how bad it is before the explosion begins. It’s that one moment of silence, again, in which it all ends. Connor has just enough time to wonder how he keeps getting so close to finding his way out just for another sour twist of fate to take it all away, and then the engine behind him ruptures and Connor loses track of the walkway beneath him. All is open air. 

Roland is falling too, he thinks. They collide midway through the descent. Roland’s grip on him is heavy, impossible to escape. A voice by his ear, hot and guttural:  “If I die, you’re dying with me,” and then the explosion consumes them both and Connor can’t think about anything else.

The engines of the Graveyard are unusual. The Deadmen in charge of maintenance have taken to outsourcing power as much as they can in an effort to maintain the central engine system as long as possible. Some power comes from solar panels, others from various electrical and chemical systems throughout the ship. The engines, though, make up most of it. Derived from hugely capable power cores, they keep a behemoth like the Graveyard functional even decades after it was initially created.

They’ve also been suffering from extreme wear for far too long. This means that bullets shot through the regulators will finally allow the pent up energy to expand quite rapidly, triggering a reaction that could consume the entire engine room in seconds flat. It wouldn’t just be a typical fiery explosion, it would be laced with nuclear remnants and quantum particles. It would melt the very divisions between elements. In the case of two boys falling together, some of their limbs and organs would separate during the first onslaught of radiation and then reattach almost instantaneously. Most of that would be done correctly, but mistakes might be made here or there.

Mistakes, for instance, like a genetic mutation, an arm recoupling with the wrong person. A boy loses a shark tattoo and another gains it. An arm for an arm, a life for a life. When they collide with the ground, one dies on impact and the other survives. Some time later, when the radiation has sufficiently cleared away and soldiers can be sent out from scout ships to survey the wreckage and collect bodies, they’ll find that the boy they were looking for, the one they were specifically directed to collect, somehow stayed alive. The very explosion that destroyed the Graveyard has used the other boy’s life force to keep this one alive. 

They pull him out and put him in a medical cubicle to heal quickly. Even still, they won’t be able to solve the mystery of why Connor Lassiter’s right arm is no longer his, but of all the worlds to struggle with someone having pieces that aren’t theirs by birth, this is the most welcoming. If you think about it, it’s kind of like the universe decided to distribute Roland’s arm to Connor during the supernova of the exploding power core. Someone bigger than any of them out there in the galaxy knew that it would be more important that one of them stay alive, that Connor keep that piece of Roland. Something knew that the reshuffling of body parts would be necessary. Isn’t that what Connor has been fighting all along?

Ah, well. He’ll have plenty of time to grapple with that when he wakes up. If, of course, he does.

a/n: sorry for the delay, i have been super stressed with the engineering workload. technically, this is posted at 11:45 pm so it's still thursday right haha? anyway i hope you enjoyed and none of you are worried about our guys!!

unwind tag list: @schroedingers-kater, @sirofreak, @locke-writes

all tags list: @wordsarelife

[least-sexy-man-competition]

anyway. iterators, first we must talk about the world itself

death is not real. as moon puts it, death like sleep. no one really dies, they just wake up again. this process is referred to as the cycle

the ancients. they were a species that seeked to escape the cycle, they believed in the karma system. in which if someone is sufficiently detached from the mortal coil, by suppressing the natural urges(thus achieving high karma) they could ascend and die for realsies. they essentially lived like monks. and ate gravel. because of the urge of gluttony. it never worked

but then, while digging down for unknown reasons, they found void fluid, a highly corrosive substance which brought a technological revolution! but also...

living beings that dove into the fluid, didnt come back. ever

they did it! so there was a rush for death, people were even taking void death baths in the comfort of their own homes!

but not everyone went through, some became ECHOES

not quite dead. not quite alive either.

due to their connection to life, be it from their own ego or simply enjoying the sunset, they stayed behind

and so the ancients made the iterators to find an alternative to the void, deeming it too risky, this being know as the great problem. thousands of them, like moon and 5pebbles

they waited for a long time, but the solution was never found for "the great problem" so one by one the ancients all ascended or became echoes of their former selves.

the iterators still toil away at the problem, since they have nothing better to do, they try to find a solution for no one.

this is what drove pebbles to ascencion

extra: the ancients created purposed organisms to do pretty much everything. even the slugcats are implied to be descendants of slugs created to clean pipes. here is what moon has to say on purposed organisms

"It is the genome for a purposed organism. A small slug to clean the insides of pipes.

Do you know what a purposed organism is? Actually you are talking to one right now!

Although, a small fraction of one. Nowadays I am mostly just my puppet. The bulk of me is in these walls but I am disconnected from those parts, to a degree where I am only vaguely aware of how bad their condition is.

Most purposed organisms were considerably smaller than me, and most barely looked like organisms at all. More like tubes in metal boxes, where something went in one end and something else came out the other.

There were of course those that were purposed for spectacle rather than industry - they enjoyed the privilege of glass boxes.

When I came into this world there was very little primal fauna left. So it's highly likely that you are the descendant of a purposed organism yourself"

next, do you want me to tell you about how moon was awoken again?

ohhh tyhe art in this is so nice. i feel like nows a good time to note the reason for taking away 5p's s in the original bracket announcement was that the people who submitted him BOTH CALLED HIM FIVE PEBBLE. and sure!

[thatdesklamp]

WAIT OMG-

been reading intrinsic warmth for a WHILE and your writing is top tier!! i always wondered to myself every time i’d read a chapter why the writing just STICKS, yk? i’m a MAJOR book girlie, i read 24/7.

AND THEN IMAGINE MY SURPRISE WHEN I READ ONE OF YOUR TAGS THAT YOU PUT UP ON ONE OF YOUR POSTS WHERE YOU WERE ANSWERING A QUESTION FROM ANOTHER LOVELY READER AND I SEE THAT YOU TOOK AN ENGLISH A LEVEL?

first of all (not 100% sure on this) but i’m pretty sure only british ppl take gcses, a levels, etc. YOU’RE BRITISH?

i feel like i’ve met my other half rn over something so tiny but yeah. IT LITERALLY EXPLAINS WHY YOUR WRITING IS SO GOOD:

i could point out the NUMBER of times i’ve seen juxtaposition, symbolism, foreshadowing in your fic to someone if they’d asked me to point it out for them. at first i thought you might’ve done it unknowingly, and then i decided that nope, bc foreshadowing is such a BIG writing technique that it simply couldn’t have been by accident.

it’s one thing to know about a writing technique and another to actually be able to SUCCESSFULLY incorporate it into your writing. if it isn’t clear enough, i’m saying that you did it AMAZINGLY. you’ve got a natural talent and i’m envioussss (in a supporting way ofc 😭).

you should really look into making your own book, and i think you EXCEL at the supernatural aspect of plot in stories. your writing is so unique and different yet so warm, it reminds me of autumn (my favourite season).

idk how to end such a long message, ultimately i don’t have a reason for typing this up and shit. ik you have tons of people probably saying the same thing and it might just get repetitive for you, but i wouldn’t feel comfortable not being part of said bunch-of-ppl-probably-saying-the-same-thing.

oh! and take your SWEET TIME updating. it’s your story, your fic, your writing. the ONLY thing we readers can give you as a payback and thanks is time, patience, and understanding <3333

RAHHH BRITTANIA 💪💪💪💪

Agh. Yes—I’m British (English to be precise, sweet sweet caroline etc), hence the use of ‘u’s in words like ‘colour’ and ‘humour’, and also why everyone’s parents are their ‘father’ or ‘mother’ and not mum/dad. ‘Mom’ feels too American but ‘mum’ feels too rah engerland, yk? I’ve mentioned previously that I’m looking forward to writing fics where the characters are actually from England and where I’m actually allowed to write them the way I talk, mostly. Good lord am I excited.

And yes lol I took English for an A-Level. Bloody smashed it too, if I get to brag, mwahaha. Didn’t take it any further (I’ve also previously said that I’m a # woman in stem uni student, which is true), but I still write a killer essay imo. Give me 10 minutes to do a refresher on ‘Othello’ (it’s been a while okay) and I can talk for donkeys about his tragic fall and how much of a wanker he is. Which he is! I’m a Desdemona defender for life.

You say ‘natural talent’. PLS. No!! God no. Not at all. I wish—that would’ve made it a lot easier, but whatever I can do rn is down to bloody years of toiling away on my shitty little laptop, I promise. I’ve got another anon ask that asked about some writing tips so I’ll do the bulk of them there but my number 1 will always and forever be to practise. Whatever skill I have now has been earned over the many years. You don’t even want to see some of the stuff that will never grace my ao3 page (atla had me in a chokehold through covid and I have never been the same).

But you are genuinely so complimentary: this is so so lovely of you. Thank you?? It’s really weird being someone who writes and also someone who enjoys analysing literature; you’re right, half of the ‘techniques’ are intentional (the number of times I’ve flicked through some chapters’ drafts and thought, ‘fucks sake none of this makes sense, I need to add some decent foreshadowing or none of this will make sense in two chapters’), but also so much of my writing is just thinking, ‘hmm, this doesn’t really feel right. No no, I don’t like the vibe of this. I want this to feel more GRAAHHH and less lalalala. Lemme change this up a bit’. Whether that leads to the whole, short sentences->speeds up the pace of the reader when reading the section->increased tension, mimics actual fight encounter, etc etc (all the stuff you blag on about in eng lit), then maybe that counts as intentional? And maybe not.

Making my own book? That’s lovely of you to say but I also really don’t have any ideas for anything non-fanfic’y! Lol. I love a good bit of canon compliance, that’s my issue. That being said—hey, another eng a level reference—I’ve made multiple references here to being the world’s #1 ‘Atonement’ hater. Unfortunately, it also lives damn rent free in my head and I’ve got the bare bones of a WW2-era, perhaps epistolary, longform fic buzzing around. (Fandom: Marauders. I’m a disgrace but here we go). I’ve written nothing for it and maybe I never will, but that’s one of the only things I can see as being more standalone from original canon. Anyway: it’s the fanfic life for me. Ali Hazelwood’s life is but a distant dream.

But anyway! Thank you again for your lovely words. The next IW chapter will take a very long time, I have to be frank, so thank you for the reassurance that that’s not absolutely disgraceful lmao T_T Thanks again!! <3

[agooberscast]

Nichijou no HEARTLESS: Entire Season 1 Synopsis

OP1:

ED1:

Episode 1: Nichijou no Heartless/Cherry Bomb!

A quiet day at home leads Freia to checking in on her family to see how they’re handling the boredom!/Freia’s cherry gumdrop stash has mysteriously vanished! It’s up to her and Melissa to find out where it went as Freia does her best to not cave into her heart-cravings!

Episode 2: There’s No Place like Home/Oh, There’s Two of Them!

A long day out running errands is proving to wear out Freia to where she’s hoping for home!/From one manor and right into another, Freia and her family go over to visit her bestie, Erin, at her manor with her family!

Episode 3: Honeypot Honey/The Cool Aunt

The Spring thaw really wires up Melissa! Freia must make it through the day as she is ambushed at every corner for her honeybee’s libido!/Freia is asked to babysit for her bestie and the kiddos are alright! Well, mostly. They’re definitely a handful or two!

Episode 4: Bubble Bubble/Movie Magic

Freia dips a day into her side-hustle, for fun, and decides to fill out a few alchemical requests from the locals./Freia is pulled aside by her niece, Mallow, to help her film a home movie! They have to fill their cast and proceed to lights, camera and action!

Episode 5: The Frog Prince...ss?/Stop and Smell the Roses

Freia decides to hit up an old friend of Erin and hers, Kero, and the three of them have an interesting day out together./A day in after their day out, they all get to spend some personal time with Kero and her family, being her husband, Axl, and their daughter, Amaya.

Episode 6: Once Upon a Time Part 1/Once Upon a Time Part 2

After a movie marathon night with the family, Freia turns in for the night and has a fantastical dream that seems to have and her family fill the roles of some of the movies they saw that night!/Soon enough the dream of Freia’s daughter, Jackie, wanting to explore the world around her comes into view. A parallel of a movie where parents should talk with their children about serious enough topics and trusting them to do so alone while making sound decisions.

Episode 7: Slime Time/Which Witch?

Freia decides that is a goopy kind of day and it’s time to be a slime!/Halloween time! Freia and the fellow older ladies of the two houses have a mean trick to show bullies who have ruined the kiddos’ holiday.

Episode 8: That Magic Number/Two Can be as Bad as One

The summer heat is intense, so Freia needs to do her best to last the whole day as others try their best to steal her away for cooling them off for the day./Freia decides to spend the day with her bestie, Erin, and they make it everyone else’s problem.

Episode 9: Pornucopia/Toil and Trouble

Freia decides today is a good day to have a revolving door of lovely ladies in and out of her home for some good times!/Freia tries her hand at a new recipe in her alchemy list, leading to surprising results!

Episode 10: Jackie of All Trades/It’s Not a Family Without You...

Freia and Melissa reflect on the time spent together that led to Jackie’s conception and eventual birth, as well as the early days of motherhood./The other daughters of Freia and Melissa share stories with Jackie about how their mothers found and adopted them.

Episode 11: Loungin’ Lady/Snow Day!

Freia decides she wants a hobby that gets her out of the house more, so she heads to town and tries out a few jobs and hobbies for the perfect fit!/It’s Christmas time! However, it’s an unusually warm day. Freia and her friends decide to improvise their White Christmas!

Episode 12: Surprise!

Freia’s friends and family are throwing a surprise party for her! It is Melissa and Jackie’s job to keep her preoccupied until everything is ready! However, Freia also has a surprise she’s ready to share with them all, as well...

-------

I did it! I made the fake synopsis for the fake first season of the fake anime! But my aches and pains in my fingers are very, very real. It was good fun and maybe I’ll do Season 2 before the end of the year. For now, I’m gonna let this chill through the weekend and let Taylor boost the hell out of it on her blogs.

Oy...

[caffedrine]

Keith Howell - Chapter 21 Romantic - Summary

I pretty much have no idea what I’m doing. I don’t trust me, and you shouldn’t either. This summary is not guaranteed to be accurate, it’s mostly written for myself to follow along with the route.

Emma wakes up in a room she’s never seen before. She vaguely remembers trying to find Keith in his room, but it never looked like this. Going through her memories, she remembers going to Keith’s room, before she was grabbed and went unconscious. She realizes that she’s been kidnapped and transported to an unknown place.

Why was she kidnapped? Because she’s Belle?

Looking around the room, Emma doesn’t see anyone else in it. She’s not restrained either, so she decides to use this opportunity to escape.

Unfortunately, the door is locked from the outside. Changing tactics, Emma runs over to the window, only to find that she was so high up from the ground. Even if she stripped the bed and everything else of its linens, she would never be able to make a rope long enough to reach the ground. The lack of restraint isn’t an oversight, it’s that her kidnappers know that she has no chance of escape.

Emma’s hands tremble, and she wonders what she should do next. However, the sound of footsteps outside the door interrupts her thoughts. She retreats to a corner in the room, waiting for the inevitable.

The door bursts open and admits Rio to Sariel’s office. He reports to Sariel and Leon that Emma is nowhere to be found. Sariel has a bad feeling about this; even if they deploy every knight and servant in the castle to search for Emma, he doubts she will be found.

Leon asks if there’s something wrong with the castle security, and Sariel admits to looking into it. It would be a big deal for any member of the court to be kidnapped in the middle of the day, right inside the castle.

Rio asks if they think it’s related to Emma’s carriage attack incident when she was with Keith. Leon admits that he doesn’t know enough to say yes or no to that question, the perpetrators of that incident had committed mass suicide. Then again, there was something Keith had said that still bothered Leon; when Keith had told him that the reasons people would have to attack him are as numerous as the pebbles by the roadside. He asks Rio to look into Jade.

Just as Rio is about to leave, the door swings open to admit Keith himself. He apologizes for interrupting them and asks if Emma is missing. He had a bad feeling; one of the messengers from Jade is missing. They had soiled their uniform and ‘borrowed’ a Rhodolite servant’s uniform while they waited for their normal clothes to be laundered, just a few hours ago.

Rio surmises that the missing messenger masqueraded as a Rhodolite servant, kidnapped Emma, and smuggled her out disguised as luggage. Of course, Rio now has to kill that man.

(No one disagrees with this)

Leon asks why Jade forces would target Emma in particular. Keith points out that they already mostly know the reason. Jade plans on using Emma as a hostage to ensure Keith’s cooperation during the trial.

The King of Jade’s younger brother, Fernand, has always been looking for a way to get rid of Keith. The failure prince is a wall preventing him from being crowned as King of Jade.

Meanwhile, Fernand has taken a comfortable seat and is currently griping to Emma on how he will never become king, not as long as the failure stands in his way. The worst part is, Keith is a genuine failure as a prince who will botch everything; meanwhile, Fernand, who has been toiling for the country, deserves the throne way more.

Emma recalls a conversation she recently had with Keith. He had told her that his father had suspected him of murdering his younger brother, but Keith’s investigation led to circumstantial evidence that it was Fernand, the man before her, who had masterminded the plot.

Emma considers this, standing on guard as far away from Fernand as the room would allow her. However, it is quickly becoming unbearable for her to listen to the slander against Keith.

Headless of Emma, Fernand continues. His achievements and reputation are way better than Keith’s, but the King of Jade refuses to name him as the successor. Even though the King of Jade himself has called Keith a failure, he has named Keith his successor by reason of bloodline alone. Fernand asks Emma if she agrees the King of Jade is absolutely unreasonable for letting this mistake of a human ascend the throne.

Emma asks what Fernand means by ‘mistake of a human’. Everyone has a right to live, there is nothing wrong with being born.

Thanks to Fernand’s prolonged rant, Emma has a decent grasp of the situation. The reason she was kidnapped was to control Keith. Just as she thought, he had not attempted to kill his own father, so now Fernand needs her to ensure the trial goes the way he wants it to. Sariel was right, Fernand is attempting to ursurp the throne by framing Keith.

Emma tells Fernand that unlike him, Keith has the qualities to become a good king. Fernand is somewhat amused and asks her to elaborate.

What a king needs is generosity, decisiveness, and determination. He also needs to be flexible, and willing to listen to people from all walks of life. Someone who wants to improve the well-being and lives of those around him. Keith would be a great king.

Yeah, all that time spent with Keith helped Emma come to her decision as Belle on who the Rhodolite King should be.

Emma goes on to explain that maybe the King of Jade saw and recognized those qualities in Keith as well, which is why he continues to have Keith as his heir. Maybe the king is not taking bloodlines and traditional succession into account, and honestly thinks that Keith would be a great king.

This upsets Fernand, and he kicks over the table, standing up. He approaches Emma and roughly knocks her to the floor. Standing over her, he grabs her hair to haul her back up. It appears he has to ‘educate’ Emma until she can understand that Fernand is the one who is worthy of becoming king.

Back in Rhodolite, Keith has an unusually angry and helpless expression, the likes of which few people have seen. He tells Liam that this whole situation is his fault, because of him, Emma . . . If she is hurt . . .

He’s going to kill Fernand.

Keith’s butler Liam, who is patiently waiting in the room, ignoring the bloodlust emanating from Keith and tries to calm him down. It’s Dill, flapping frantically in the birdcage that makes Keith take a deep breath and calm himself down. He apologizes to Liam and Dill.

Liam assures him that he understands how Keith feels, but Keith tells him he’s wrong. This isn’t a joke. Liam assures him that he’ll clean up any mess Keith leaves behind. He gets a weak smile from Keith in return.

 Keith summarizes the remainder of the meeting he had with Sariel and Leon. He will work with Rhodolite to ensure Emma’s safe return. Unfortunately, Keith can’t go running off on his own; if the suspect of the King of Jade’s assassination were to suddenly go missing after Rhodolite was notified, it would cause an international incident between the countries.

But things would be different if Keith was handed over to the Jade messengers and escaped after crossing the border. Liam asks if Keith already knows where Emma is.

She’s probably already in Jade by now. The border checkpoints wouldn’t check the baggage belonging to a royal messenger and sealed with the Jade Royal Family’s coat of arms. Not far from the nearest border checkpoint is a mansion owned by one of Fernand’s most fervent supporters. He imagines Emma would be held there.

Liam prepares to go ahead to handle it, but Keith stops him. There’s another task he needs Liam to handle. Liam’s eyes widen at the orders, but his expression quickly returns to normal, and he praises Keith for his unusually bold decisions. Keith thanks him; neither of them can afford to fail.

After Liam leaves, the only sound in the room is the fluttering of Dill’s wings. Keith turns to the mirror and looks at his reflections. He asks if he feels the same way. He wants to help Emma, but this time . . . he needs help. They need to talk.

In Jade, just as Fernand raises his hand, someone interrupts Fernand, begging him to stop. Emma is surprised, she didn’t even notice the man enter the room. However, she recognizes him; during Sonia’s party, so many nobles looked upset and disgusted with Keith. This one, however, had left the moment he saw Keith. Since he’s here, she guesses he must be one of Fernand’s supporters. But why would he stop Fernand and protect her?

The man continues; if Fernand were to beat Emma, there is a high chance she would die, like what happened last time with the servant. And they can’t exactly use her corpse as a hostage to ensure Keith’s cooperation.

Fernand agrees, he hadn’t thought that he had beaten the servant hard enough to kill him, but he had still died all the same. Though it was probably for the best he died, he would have had a miserable life if he had survived Fernand. Emma almost groans, with Fernand as the King, Jade would have a grim future.

Fernand decides it’s fine to not beat Emma to death. He’ll just keep her around as insurance. Though she is somewhat pretty, he doesn’t mind keeping her as his mistress as well. She has some interesting reactions, he’s certain it would be worth it.

Emma wonders how this man and Keith came from the same family. She must have been showing what she was thinking on her face; Fernand violently shoved her away.

Fernand notes that by now, the failure must have reached the border. He asks if the man has received a report.

It’s a very strange report. Upon crossing the border, Keith escaped his escort and went missing. Fernand complains that Keith looks like he’s struggling to decide what to do. The more he delays, the worse Emma’s health will be. Does he not have enough of a brain to understand that?

Fernand orders for more soldiers to be dispatched to find the escaped prince. He doesn’t necessarily need Keith to be alive.

Apparently losing interest in Emma, Fernand, and the man leave without looking back.

Emma takes into stock the new information. If Keith ran away, he must know that she’s been kidnapped and is trying to help her at risk to himself.

This is bad. The longer Emma stays here, the worse she will drag Keith down.

At the border between Rhodolite and Jade, Leon is apologizing for the situation they have found themselves in. He never imagined that Keith would escape and run away the moment they handed him over, coincidentally absolving Rhodolite of any wrongdoing.

The usually peaceful border crossing checkpoint is in turmoil. There had been extra security and guards since Rhodolite was handing over someone accused of assassinating the king. However, like a beast, after crossing the border Keith mowed down his escort and escaped into the forest.

Leon feels somewhat responsible for the situation and offers his and Licht’s services. Without waiting for a response, he and Licht cross the border, running towards the forest. The border guards protest, but Leon calls back that he has a crossing permit issued by the First Prince of Jade himself, so it’s all legal. They ignore the sounds of protest as they run.

Leon notes that the forest is interesting, just like Keith had warned them, there were dangerous ‘beasts’ roaming it. Licht asks if this is the reason he was brought along.

Leon comes to a stop, pulling out a dagger and throwing it into the shade of a nearby bush. It hits its mark and someone hiding in the shrubbery falls out groaning in pain. At a glance, the man was dressed to look like a bandit. An arrow is slashed out of the air by Leon.

Licht notes that even as private security goes, this is a bit much. Leon imagines that this was a backup plan if Keith were to escape. It certainly is risky of them to poke their noses into the internal affairs of another country. Leon thanks Licht for helping him and tells him that this isn’t an excuse to get hurt. After a long silence from Licht, Leon prompts him to reply. Licht finally agrees.

Meanwhile, the ‘beasts’ hiding in the forest were also pointing their fangs at Keith. He laments that his uncle is serious as he swings his sword, timing it to hit two ‘beasts’ at the same time. No one noticed or cared that the flowers were stained with blood, or that the air had a distinct iron smell.

(No one can stop him now)

Keith apologizes to the ‘beasts’ telling them to please get out of his way. He just can’t seem to hold back and stop himself from killing them.

[whyyouacknsocraycray]

fanfiction about me tag meme!!

I was tagged by @princeparakeet, thank you!!!

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

36 fics! 35 are complete, and one is on hiatus. Currently, they are locked to users with an account.

2. What is your AO3 wordcount?

692,264 words

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Right now, I am focused on RDR2 and Sekiro

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Naturally, it is my longest fics, and all RDR2 fics haha!

Rearrange the Stars - Isaac lives AU, Charthur

One Last Time - sort of has a Sadithur implied ending but mostly gen

Toil and Trouble - 2AM (Albert/Arthur)

The Morgan Family - Arthur Morgan/Mary Gillis

Freedom on the Canvas (ON HIATUS) - Charthur

5. Do you respond to comments?

Yes! I try to respond to every one, though some slip through the cracks.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Probably either Collapse (RDR2) or When the Time Comes (RDR2). Both are rough for Arthur emotionally.

7. What is the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Most of them have happy endings haha! Probably Rearrange the Stars, though.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Not on AO3. I have received nasty comments on FFN, though. That's part of the reason I don't post there anymore. The other reason is that FFN's user design is awful.

9. Do you write smut? If so, which kind?

No, unfortunately, I never like how it turns out. Implied sex only over here.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest crossover you’ve ever written?

No, but I've thought about it.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know about.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Also not that I know about.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

No, but I've done mini-bangs where I've written fic based on an art piece. So co-created, I guess.

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

Oh gosh... for RDR2, I do like Charthur a lot, but lately I've been thinking more and more about Albert/Arthur. And I like Genikiro for Sekiro. I'm not sure which is my favorite.

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

Freedom on the Canvas. To finish it, I would have to rewrite large chunks of it, so who knows if that will happen.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Outlining, believe it or not! I can usually create the main plot path of a fic fairly well in advance of actually writing. Details end up changing, of course, but usually the main plot stays the same.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Long descriptions and metaphors. I know I don't neeeeeeed to have a lot of those, but sometimes I read fics with amazing, detailed descriptions of the environment and I want to work on my own.

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

Hmmmm it depends on a lot of different things. How much dialogue, is there an easy way to translate it for the reader, does current narrating character understand the language of the dialogue? It's very situational. Usually, if the character understands the other language but the reader likely doesn't, I put English in italics with a dialogue tag for which language it is. I did do romanized Korean for one fic because the narrating character didn't quite understand it, and that way readers could also try sounding it out.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Ah, it was for a TV show called Person of Interest.

20. Favorite fic you’ve written?

How am I supposed to pick???? For Sekiro, it would definitely be Tea House. I'm not sure which of my RDR2 fics is my favorite.

I'm tagging @pipdepop @sentanixiv @emmithar-blog @altairattorney if you are interested! No pressure, of course!