#edited to fix some typos and make this shorter

[hpowellsmith]

Honor Bound Chapter 7 Update!

I’m delighted to share Honor Bound Chapter 7 on Dashingdon and itch! You can skip any number of chapters to start at the chapter of your choice, or you can play through the whole thing. You can try loading a save you made before this update, but you will probably need to start a fresh one. If you encounter a bug when using a loaded save, please try replaying through the whole thing or using the chapter-skip to replay the chapter in which you found the problem - in some cases this will fix it!

If you have a minute, I’d love to hear your feedback! As before, there is some feedback that I’m waiting until later to implement, and a minor character who hasn’t been added in yet, but I always pay attention to all feedback being sent in.

This new demo is around 306,000 words, with Chapter 7 and various edits adding around 43,000 words to the whole thing!

This is going to be the last chapter that I put up publicly before the beta testing begins. I may put up edits to Chapters 1-7 before then, and will implement bugfixes, but we’re getting towards the home stretch now and I’d like playtesters to have the experience of playing all the later chapters so they can have a big-picture perspective on how the branches can go.

In this chapter you will encounter:

a lot of bad things (more detailed content notes below)

As well as the new chapter, I’ve made some significant edits to earlier chapters in response to player feedback - more about that below too.

Many thanks to everyone for their feedback - it’s been so helpful! Thanks especially to an anonymous Patreon subscriber who gave some really useful comments about some Chapter 7 one-on-one scenes which inspired me to expand on them and include some extra characterful moments.

Read more about Honor Bound on the forum thread

Play the Honor Bound demo on dashingdon and itch

Give feedback

Wishlist on Steam

Revisions:

Overall:

More references to trauma responses when PC’s health is low, more reference to cane use, a bit more flavour text about the injury, more flavour text referring to health improvements to reflect the PC looking after themself

Chapters 5 and 6: added talk with Denario about the PC being trans if it didn’t happen in Chapter 3

General typo fixes

Chapter 4

expanded a branch of the late-chapter Korzha scene for more breathing room

Chapter 5

added option to medically assess Korzha when they look sick

minor expansion of conversation with Catarina about what she thinks about the trip

minor expansion of letter-writing with Fiore

Chapter 6

tweaked Alva’s assignment offer, with clearer information and potential disadvantages of taking it

expanded end of Savarel’s one-on-one scene

fixed an error making end of Korzha’s goodnight scene shorter than intended

added a choice to enable an amorous PC and Raffi to hide what’s going on from Simone

added optional one-on-one Denario scene, including optional sex scene

Chapter 7 content notes: earthquake, quicksand, fire, building collapse, potential severe injuries to the PC and others​

[yanderedrabbles]

congrats! Ur work has rlly paid off

If ur not uncomfortable(if u r pls ignore), how'd u do it? I've started out at the same time and dont even have quarter the amount u have which rlly bums me out and makes me want to stop posting

One totally simple secret- I post a TON. Like almost every day.

The only month I didn't post almost every day was January, and while I don't have a screenshot of my activity, my notes absolutely plummeted. From about 2000/day to about 400/day. It took the whole of February and most of March to get them back to my pre-hiatus levels.

Let's look at the stats:

I didn't post a new fic yesterday or today and you can see how my notes tanked from around 2000 to about 1000 in just a day.

POSTING FREQUENTLY IS THE BEST WAY TO GROW!

I'm sorry to yell at you gorgeous, but it's true. While I put a ton of work into variety and into improving my craft, the biggest factor has been posting frequency. It keeps me on top of common tags and recommendations, so new readers are a lot more likely to stumble on my stuff. It keeps my current readers engaged. It's the main way I've gained followers.

Okay, we got that out of the way? Let's get into some of the more nuanced practices that boost reach.

You can see that my fic length varies a lot. There are plenty of posts under a thousand words, but also a few topping ten thousand.

I think that having variety keeps things interesting for my readers. Most of us don't have time to sit down and read a 10k word fic every day, but we still want to have our yandere fix. That's where my shorter stuff comes in.

I think having variety in length also draws in new readers. You might be skeptical about reading a 12k word smut if it pops up on your dash and you have no clue who the author is, but you're probably down to read the quick 600 to a 1000 word drabble. And if you like it, you might just check out more of my stuff! Yippee!

I also aim for variety in style. Let's look at some of my more popular posts:

Yandere Best Friend

Yandere Greek Champion

Yandere Yakuza

Yandere Fairytale

Did ya notice anything? All four are pretty popular fics on my blog, and they're all VERY different. In length, in formatting, in the approach to storytelling.

Variety is the spice of life! Have fun with your writing, experiment, take risks. If it doesn't work, then at least you took the chance and learnt something. Your readers are not going to complain, I promise.

Editing is also a must. You're almost always going to miss a typo or two - they're like mosquitoes in summer, they somehow always manage to slip through the cracks - but a fic should be pleasant to read. If I see five typos in the first paragraph, it's a bit of a turn-off. Most apps have a built-in spell check, and I've recently been experimenting with Grammarly. Even just doing a final comb-over before you post makes a huge difference.

Tag your stuff too! I have my go-to set of tags that I usually use on my posts, but I'm always on the lookout for new tags that are applicable to my posts. How else are people going to see your stuff? How else will Tumblr know to recommend you? Use tags babe, I promise they don't bite.

Oh, and don't forget to ask for feedback either. Beta readers and writing groups are the backbone behind so many famous real-world authors. Your Tumblr moots will be happy to skim over your stuff and give you some pointers. We're all in this together, and that means striving to get better together.

And finally, I'm always trying to learn more about writing. All the tips and tricks behind it. All the ways I can make my stuff just a little better - my dialogue a bit more snappy, my prose a bit easier to read.

My go-to writing guy is James Scott Bell. Especially Voice - the secret power behind great writing. James is funny and easy to read, so I HIGHLY recommend his books on writing. Currently, I'm reading How to Write Pulp Fiction and it's soooo helpful. Am I actually getting better as a writer? That's debatable, but I'm constantly putting in the effort and I think my readers can sense that.

"But Val, I can't write every day! I've got obligations, work, school, a hundred different things to get done! Hitting 2k words daily just isn't possible for me!"

I hear ya kid. But guess what? I couldn't clock 2000 words a day at the beginning either. But I forced myself to sit down and write as much as I could between all my other obligations. Over time, you'll learn to write faster. You'll learn to push through all the small worries holding you back. You'll learn to optimise your workflow so that you clock an easy 1k in an hour.

Every little bit counts. Even if all you can spare is 300 words a day or half an hour of editing, it adds up. By the end of the week, that's already a 2.1k fic ready to go.

I used to think writers were just insanely talented and naturally creative. And I have no doubt so many are. But it takes practice and patience to improve.

We all get those moments when we ask ourselves if we should even bother. What if I'm a total hack? What if I'm the worst person to put paper to pen since the author of My Immortal? What if what if what if -

Stop. Just keep writing.

Don't listen to those voices. If you do, you won't write anything at all, and how are supposed to improve if there's nothing to improve upon?

Sometimes, it's like a kick to the jaw to see another writer doing well. Why isn't that me? What are they doing that I'm not? I deserve it just as much as they do, so why am I not getting the same amount of notes?

Don't even bother entertaining thoughts like those. Take a deep breath and then keep writing. You have your own voice and style that your fans love. Your only competition is with yourself.

There you have it. Simple as it gets.

I promise you, you're an author worth reading. You have fans who love you, who can't help but scream when you post a new fic. Just keep putting in the hours and it WILL pay off.

[xticklemeemox]

The Love You Want: III, Part Eighteen

Word count: 18,484

fun fact this would have been uhhhh 27,424 if i didnt cut out like three scenes and the smut that's probably happening next chapter (probably. we'll see.)

notice anything weird or a half finished sentence, PLEASE let me know and i will go to fix it as soon as i can. long chapters are hard to keep organized and edit ;-; I also don't really read back through the whole thing so i miss typos and inconsistencies sometimes.

Ao3

Masterlist

Previous Chapter

The vessels leave with Terzo and Omega the next morning, the Papa offering to drive them home. Vessel silently frets that it will be out of the way for them, but II accepts the offer easily enough. Omega stuffs his large frame into the driver's seat, Terzo slipping on a pair of sunglasses as he rolls his eyes and urges Cardinal Copia to return back to the main branch and inform Sister Imperator that, and Vessel quotes, "We'll be home within a day or so, she needs to untwist her undergarments and remove the stick from her ass."

III laughs into a closed fist when Copia flounders for a response, only quieting when II jabs him in the side, letting out a harsh 'oof!'.

Cetus, Nova, and Orion all see them off, all six of them, vessel and ghoul, masked. Orion remains a bit away, sparing only a sharp nod in Vessel's direction as they leave. Somehow, Vessel feels as if they've become acquaintances, at least, though he's sure Orion must still greatly dislike him. Vessel waves, a little meek, but trying to carry himself with the decorum Terzo seems to think he is capable of. Nova jabs Orion in the side, and he reluctantly waves back. Vessel smiles underneath his mask, then, leaning onto III where they're all shoved into the backseat, Vessel behind Omega, then III, and finally II behind Terzo. II had tried to sit in the middle, but Vessel had quickly moved to one corner so as to avoid touching II more than Vessel deemed allowed.

Their belongings are all shoved into the trunk, though they had little with them to begin with. Their clothes had long since been worn and traded out for spares, only for those to have needed washed and switched out for their original outfits. Cetus had seen to their washing, never once complaining or accepting the help Vessel quietly offered every time. It had been just another kindness afforded to them.

The car speakers play ABBA's discography at a moderately acceptable level the entire drive, Terzo and Omega both faintly humming along. II perks up when Voulez-Vous begins playing as they roll onto the gravel driveway of the Ministry branch, tapping out the beat on his thigh with one hand and holding III's hand with the other. It isn't long into the drive before II falls asleep, Slipping Through My Fingers being sung quietly by Terzo from the front seat. Vessel wants to ask him about the music Ghost makes, and resolves to pose the question to III at some point, leaning his head onto the blonde's shoulder. It's a bit of an uncomfortable stretch for his neck, but Vessel doesn't mind, not when III hums the songs into his hair between gentle kisses, more of a pressing of fabric to soft strands than actual kisses. Vessel sinks into the heady warmth of affection III's attention causes, gently pushing his love down the bond so as to not wake II by drowning him with it. The drive is long, and its glaringly obvious it's out of the way as the hours pass by and Omega asks for directions more and more, as things become unfamiliar to him.

With time, II's sleeping form starts sliding down, the movement bringing a spark of pain to the bond. It wakes him up, once or twice, sleepy eyes a bit unfocused from exhaustion. When Omega stops to get gas, III and II switch places. Even as a fully grown man, despite his shorter than average stature, II manages to curl up in the backseat with some difficulty, feet and legs bunched up on III's lap while his head and some of his torso are in Vessel's. Slipping off his hoodie is done without much thought, folding it up for II to use as a pillow. He falls asleep again before Omega gets back into the car, Terzo watching through the rearview mirror with fondness hidden beneath his sunglasses. Gnawing at his lip nervously, fearing for his secret or fearing II's closeness after Vessel hurt him, he rests an arm around II's frame, thumb stroking over a palm as he holds II's hand. III snapping a picture from the opposite end of the car goes unnoticed, one hand moving back to hold II's ankle.

The trees part for the Ministry car at Vessel's will, but they don't get far onto the dirt road before Omega is forced to stop. The rotting stag stands at the side of the road, large frame stagnant and head tilted curiously. Vessel rolls down the window, motioning the stag forward. Sleep's presence can be felt faintly, curiously poking at the edges of their awareness as if to make sure they're all alright. He doesn't speak, magic feeling sluggish and faint, but relieved perhaps, guilty if Vessel dared to think about it any further.

"It's here again!" III whispers, leaning over II slightly to get a better view of the stag.

"Mm. I don't think it likes visitors, or for us to leave for long periods." Vessel replies softly, letting the stag sniff at his fingers.

He must smell different after so long in another God's domain, not to mention he is still glamored. The stag reaches down to nibble at a coin on his necklace, antlers keeping it from moving it's head too far into the car. Sensing what it wants, Vessel glances up towards the front seat before slipping his necklace off. His mask is still on, thankfully, but the rest of him can be seen. Pitch black arms, golden cracks almost like veins, marred only by grey scarring just a few shades lighter than the black of his skin, the ink reaching up towards his shoulder where hints of an apple tree's blossoms peek over. He truly looks like a vessel for a God, Sleep's marks seen by so few.

The red sigil on the hollow of his throat, bared by the stretched out collar of his t-shirt, is in full view. Secretly, III longs to reach out and run a thumb over it, to see how Vessel reacts. II shuffles, beginning to wake, and III focuses on very quietly informing him of the situation as he sits up carefully. Whether knowing or unknowingly, he takes Vessel's hoodie with him, face half buried into the soft material, breathing in deeply with sleepiness like a loose net over the bond. He slumps over into III, wincing at the movement but uncaring so long as he can cuddle up to his lover. For the time being, II is uncaring of the displays of affection. It is only the vessels here, well, and Omega and Terzo. II doesn't think they would say anything rude though, observant eyes and a keen mind putting things together not long after he'd awoken from his long rest. One day, II hopes they can love each other freely.

The stag - and they really should come up with a name for it - turns it's head to level an empty stare at Omega, stomping it's foot and dragging it across the ground. Vessel knows what it wants immediately. He looks between the stag and Omega, nervously weighing his options. Ultimately, he decides to just ask. Omega can always just... tell him no, right? He thinks that would be II's opinion on the matter.

"Your glamor, Omega... the stag needs to see you as you truly are." Vessel speaks up, voice breaking with his nerves, only one pair of eyes blinks, the others closed more out of uncertainty than anything else.

Omega turns to share a loaded look with Terzo before the Papa gives the go-ahead, quiet and encouraging, "You can remove your mask, and let your glamor go. This is nowhere near the ministry."

Omega's voice is a low rumble, a trace of fear, of hesitancy within, "Are you sure, Papa? I will not be the only one affected should Sister Imperator find out about... well, any of this. About us. She hates you and we both have rules we must follow."

"Sister Imperator is not here, my dear, there is no one who knows her, nor will tell her if we asked them not to, right boys?" Terzo's voice is loving, metaphorical mask slipping off easily once he receives a quiet chorus of agreements.

Taking a moment to contemplate, Omega eventually reaches one hand up to slip his mask off his face, simultaneously letting his glamor fall away in a soft shower of glittering purple magic. He hunches over further so the sharp point of his horns, that start at his skull and begin sweeping back before jutting up into points aimed at the heavens, do not tear into the fabric over the ceiling of the car. After a moment, they disappear again out of necessity, but the way the rich purple color, almost as dark as his hair, had glittered with tiny amethyst-like cracks and sparkles, was captivating. His skin was a cloudy grey color, and where a human would be colored pink with a blush or naturally warmer tones, his skin was a murky purple, as though fading berry stains lay upon his flesh.

He was a magnificent creature, something clearly God-made as the vessels were, but with Lucifer as his maker. There were similarities, though, like the black sclera and, painted claws that were more impressive than Vessel's own.

"There you are, my love." Terzo murmurs, open affection being shown as he takes the dull silver mask from Omega's hands, setting it in his own lap.

Omega's tail slowly slithers through the air to wrap over the top of Terzo's thigh in lieu of an answer, resting there, spade end flicking now and again in a very cat-like manner. It makes Vessel miss Elvira, greatly. He cannot wait to be home, to see her.

Turning away from them to give them some amount of privacy, Vessel sets his attention back onto the stag.

"Have things been well while we were gone?" Vessel asks quietly, the stag snorting in response, air leaving the bones as if it were a creature not rotted beyond being able to perform that action.

"I choose to be optimistic and consider that a yes!" III chirps, smiling as they reach a long arm out.

The stag sticks its large snout into the car window as far as it can go, rubbing hard bone against soft flesh, III's smile contagious. He goes back to leaning against the car seat, patting the side of the stag's jaw once in farewell. The harsh scraping of antler against the metal of the car's exterior was not easy on their sensitive ears, after all.

"Drive slow, but don't linger in one place too long. It doesn't trust you and I don't think your Sister Imperator would be pleased if this car ends up with a dent." Vessel suggests, petting the stag's hard snout one last time, letting his hand fall back into his lap.

Terzo laughs, Omega huffing lowly as the stag backs away a few feet. Vessel tilts his head just slightly, confused. He hadn't been trying to tell a joke.

When Omega slowly begins driving again, the stag follows beside the car, easily keeping up. Terzo watches the stag curiously, turned in his seat to observe it, unbothered by the gore. He glances in the rearview mirror at Vessel every once in a while as if comparing them, sunglasses pushed up into his hair and exposing green and white eyes.

Omega stops the car not far from the house, letting the vessels get out and grab their meager belongings from the trunk.

"Would you two like to come in?" II offers, slightly breathless from the ache in his side, breathing in deeply and feeling the twinge of Sleep's - and Vessel's - presence in the air, their magic strong and ingrained into every inch of this forest.

"No, not this time, Two. Perhaps another time, when your God is not so eager to reunite with you and you're not injured. Go inside, rest, heal." Terzo declines, smile kind.

II nods, accepting the answer for what it is. Terzo reaches a hand out in offering, and II stares at it in confusion, exhausted brain lagging behind. After a moment, something seems to click and he reaches out to take Terzo's hand. He starts to shake it, but Terzo merely places his own hand overtop of II's, patting gently, a fatherly motion.

"May the Eye of the Evil One shine upon you." Terzo utters, something other in his voice as his eye glows.

II would compare it to wishing Sleep's own gaze be cast upon someone with good intentions in mind, a warmth settling at the base of his neck. Terzo releases II's hand and then beckons III forward, who is grinning.

"Three, my boy, I hope your time spent learning our ways was fruitful."

"It was, Terzo! It was a pleasure to meet you properly, despite the situation. Your religion is so interesting and rich in history. I've never had the chance to see the opposing viewpoint before. Not to mention all the different botanical and floriculture books stored there! I've learned of so many new flower species I'd never heard of before!"

"I'm glad it was a learning experience for you. If I come across any botany books, I will send them your way, if possible. My eldest brother Primo has always had a similar fascination. You and he would get along well." III is nodding eagerly, a teethy smile pulling uncomfortably at their cheeks.

"I would love that. Thank you! For everything, really."

Terzo repeats the prayer he said for II, and III's smile widens impossibly at the warmth traveling down his spine, an unfamiliar heat, "We don't really have any prayers or phrases. But... hm, worship. We all worship."

Terzo's grin matches the liveliness in III's eyes, "You're right, my boy, we both worship though our gods differ."

III pulls Terzo into a hug, tall frame leaned over into the car and wrapped around Terzo's similar build. From over III's shoulder, Terzo watches Vessel, brow furrowing as if in thought. Vessel wonders if he has noticed how Vessel never hugs his lovers. He hopes he doesn't ask.

When III pulls away, heading back to II's side and taking their bags from his capable but shaking hands, Terzo beckons Vessel forward. Afraid he is going to be pulled into a hug in front of his partners, Vessel goes slowly, unsure. Terzo only smiles encouragingly, a gloved hand taking Vessel's own. "You have come far from your rebirth, haven't you, Vessel? I'm proud of you for growing beyond the rot, for letting fragile life bloom within. You are a good man, as I've said, and in time, you will find that which you have sought, and it will be eternal."

Vessel's crimson eyes widen behind his mask, all six welling up with tears. Terzo seems so assured that Vessel will be happy ifgiven time for him to grow further.His selfish desire is to attain happiness, to keep it for eternity. To hoard the love granted to him like a possessive dragon with it's amassment of treasures, shove it into the empty cavity of his chest as a replacement for what he gave away to attain it. He's so tired of denying himself these things that he desires, and tired of watering the seeds of hope that his lovers have sown within him with gentle hands and kinder words.

He cannot deny that he has... changed, grown, since II's arrival, then III's. Sometimes, he doesn't recognize himself in the mirror when he can bring himself to gaze into it. Sleep has changed him, and he has changed himself further for the sake of his lovers, but his evolution is more than just physical. Vessel has always been afraid. To fear is such a human thing. Everyone is afraid. Though, with time, with their love, Vessel is finding some things to be less terrifying. For every step forward, it often feels like outside forces and his own mind drag him two steps back. But he is trying, he is trying so hard. He wants to be worthy of the love he receives.

"You are so kind to me, when I have done nothing to deserve it." Vessel whispers, blushing up to his ears when one pair of eyes glances over to find Omega smiling at him with no small amount of fondness.

What has he done to deserve these people smiling upon him so kindly? What has he ever done to deserve all of this? Not just this kindness, but II and III's? What did he do to deserve his God choosing him out of the entirety of the human race to be His First Vessel? He feels so unworthy of it all, but is too selfish to let any of it go.

"Kindness is a gift given regardless of merit. If I want to be kind to someone, then I will be. You do not need to be worthy of something like that, Vessel. It is okay to just give and receive kindness. The world is not an entirely cruel place. The worst people just so happen to have the loudest voices or the most money. You'll try to take this advice to heart, yes?" Terzo implores, careful of Vessel's claws as he still holds his hands.

The surge of emotions over the bond was unexpected, a rush of respect, of affection. Terzo reminds Vessel of what a father figure should be like. He doesn't know what to do with that realization. All he knows is that he wants to soak up the feeling like a sponge, bask in what he knows he was rarely given by his own parents. They did not respect him, barely even paid him any mind lest it was to make sure he stayed trapped in that house like a prisoner. The only thing they ever gave him was music, the ability to understand it, play it, to sing to his fullest potential. He thinks that gift was due to how it kept him at home when he wasn't being taught by differing instrumental teachers, absorbed in this new world music offered him. His parents were never proud of him, but it felt like the closest thing to it and so Vessel had grasped onto their not-approval tight with bloody, callousing fingers and a heart made for music.

It's a cluster of good memories Sleep brought to the surface after being remade, to rekindle his love for music, since their worship was music based.

"Yes, sir. I will." Vessel agrees, willing to try, if only so he can feel this rush again.

"Good, my boy." Terzo smiles, squeezing Vessel's hands with gentleness that has only ever been afforded to him by II and III.

When he repeats the same prayer of Lucifer's blessing unto Vessel, he tries his best to murmur along, following III's lead and adding on his own, "Worship."

The word feels weighted, almost like a proper prayer. A touch of Sleep lies within it, and Vessel thinks it could very well become a prayer for the vessels. What matters is intent, anyways. The surprisingly tender moment comes and goes with the passing of time, and soon enough, Terzo is seated properly in the car again, one hand wrapped tightly in Omega's. Vessel's hands have the faintest tingle of warmth, likely his mind tricking him into thinking some of Terzo's heat seeped through his gloves into Vessel's cold flesh again.

"Thank you for trusting us with your true self, Omega. I know it was not an easy decision." Vessel stresses, reaching up and removing his own mask with a bit of thought and a splash of magic.

Six eyes blink unsurely, fearing that even to a creature of Hell he is ugly, but Omega merely reiterates the sentiment back at Vessel with nothing but kindness and acceptance. A mimicry of warmth settles into Vessel's bones, spreading through him like heat from an open fire, settling there in the empty cavity of his chest. He smiles, vision going a little fuzzy as his bottom eyes scrunch with the movement of his cheeks. His empty chest, filled with vines and thorns left behind by those who hurt him, feels a little less heavy, like some of the vines have been clipped or rotted away. No, maybe not the vines themselves, but the thorns attached that have dug in, sliced him up from the inside out for as long as Vessel can remember.

Soon enough, Omega is pulling away when II waves them off with a heartfelt thank you and instructions not to stop until they're out of the territory. Terzo calls out through the open window as they drive off, instructing Vessel to keep in touch, slipping his sunglasses back over his eyes leisurely. His skull paint remains immaculate, head tilted towards the window to follow the stag as it, too, begins to walk along the road. It will be seeing them out, it seems. III helps II inside, nervous hands fluttering about as if to catch II should he stumble or fall, though II only spares him a fond, bemused sigh as he tells Vessel to go on to bed. Despite the injury still causing pain, II is able to walk without much difficulty, beelining for the kitchen to make a mug of tea, grumbling about the mess everywhere. III follows, and Vessel longs to do the same. He doesn't deserve to be near them, though, not after the mess he caused. He turns away from them once they're out of his direct line of sight.

"Three?" II asks quietly once he's sure Vessel is out of earshot, carefully setting his favorite mug down onto the counter with shaking hands.

"Yes, Doll?" III hums, busying himself with sweeping up the shattered remains of some of their spare mugs.

"The knives in the sink-" II starts, voice faint, and III turns quickly.

They'd forgotten-

"He didn't hurt himself!" III rushes out, widened eyes almost begging II to remain calm and not jump to conclusions, "He used them to kill Hate and it's minions. The blood isn't his, the creatures just... kept reforming."

II leans over onto the counter, cradling his head in his hands and sucking in deep, relieved breaths through the pain. "Okay. Okay, I trust you and what you say. I just- I saw them and thought-"

"You thought he'd hurt himself again, I know. I thought the same when I saw the knife block was empty. He used his telekinesis to float them back in from the living room. He's been doing well, aside from some hiccups when you got hurt." III explains, understanding thrumming gently down the bond, going back to sweeping.

He's only at it long enough to sweep up a small pile before a pained whine has him turning around, panicked.

"Can you- I can't reach my jar of apple tea leaves..." II laments, head pillowed in his arms on the counter.

"I'll get it! I'm sorry, I didn't even think-" III is nodding before II has even finished speaking, setting the broom aside to make his way to II.

As they're pulling the labeled jar of tea from one of the higher shelves of the cupboard above the counter, II snaps, ashamed, "Don't you dare apologize."

He finally lifts his head as III sets the jar on the counter, righting his position slowly and then turning to pull III into a hug. He tries first to hug as he always does, arms around shoulders, balanced on his tippy toes to reach properly so he can thread a hand into III's hair or cup his nape, caress a hand down their spine. The movement of lifting his arms sends pain through his system, just like mere moments ago, pulling a gasping moan of frustration. His hands fist into the back of III's shirt, clutching at them desperately as II gives in to his body's protests and just wraps his arms around III's middle. Frustration bleeds freely throughout their bond, relief and fear alongside it. II melts into the hug when III wraps their arms around him with no hesitation, pulling him tightly to their body so there is little space between them.

"I do not like feeling weak, and ever since Hate invaded our home, it is all I have felt. Waking up after all of that, knowing when I lost consciousness that you both were safe but it wasn't because of anything I'd done... knowing how scared you both must have been because I could not-"

"What, II? Fight off a God? One intent on playing with us like we were nothing more than insects. Having it's freaky little minions attack us and reform, over and over and over again? Hate wore you down and only then did it actually come after you, only then did it take you down. You fought hard, you held your own." III rests his head overtop II's, pushing love and reassurance down the bond, "It wanted us to devote ourselves to it, and when we wouldn't, it went for Ves. What a foolish God, to think they could sway Vessel from Sleep. Or us from Vessel."

"You're right. I know you're right, I just- Knowing something and accepting it when it hurts is difficult. Shit, Three, I haven't been awake with this injury more than a couple days and already I am sick and tired of how it hinders me. I can't even pull my fucking tea jars off the shelf. Every movement hurts, pulls on my side and sends... fire through my veins." II explains, something fragile in his voice that III has never heard before.

"I- I still remember the heat, the way I burned." It is an admission that sends ice through III's heart, cradling II to their chest as though the smaller man will splinter apart and shatter completely.

III knows II won't, far too strong willed to ever truly break apart, but the fear of it and the willingness to hold him together has III trying to pull him impossibly closer anyways. A small wet spot grows on their shirt, a faint sniffle from II follows what III says next, "You don't have to be strong all of the time, Doll. I'll love you either way, and so will Vessel. I want you to rely on me as much as we rely on you."

II doesn't say anything in response, knowing and hating that he can't promise such a simple thing. To even have admitted this much is instilling a sense of wrongness within him. He needs to be able to take care of the others and if he can't do that, then what use will Sleep have of him?

II knows well of his God's dislike for him. The love is there, but to a God, is that even a blip on His radar in comparison to His desires? III had gotten away with reprimanding Sleep for keeping Vessel awake for so long and then demanding He fix it, but they were still punished. If II were to say everything he wanted to, demand answers to every question that festered in his mind, what would Sleep do? Erase him, no doubt. And II doesn't want to leave III and Vessel. So he toes the line of insubordination, but does not cross it entirely for fear of the repercussions.

"Let's get your tea made, hm?" III offers, reaching up for a mug from within one of the lower cabinets.

II remains pressed to his side, surely making movement more difficult for III but neither one release each other. It makes II ache for Vessel, though, suddenly missing how Vessel follows him around in the kitchen like a particularly clingy puppy. It takes a bit more time than normal, but eventually II has a steaming mug of apple tea being pressed into his hands, III smiling gently. The heat startles him, staring into the steaming liquid as if it will jump out and burn his face. It's a ridiculous thought but II...

"Do we have any ice?" II asks quietly, unable to look up and meet III's searching gaze, setting the mug back on the counter with hands that tremble faintly.

"Yeah, we should, Doll." III comments, already turning towards their fridge and its connected freezer.

II is thankful III doesn't ask, he's not sure he could answer with a level voice. III plops a few pieces of ice cubes into the mug, sticking it in the fridge for a few minutes to speed along the cool down process. As they wait, III pulls II into another hug, leaning their weight down onto II and humming into his hair. II closes his eyes, arms around III's waist and head leant against his chest, listening to the comforting thump!thump!thump of their heart in his ear. III leaves long enough to grab the mug from the fridge once a decent amount of time has passed, handing the mug to II who takes it with shaking hands. The tea is cold when II takes a sip, and at first, his face scrunches up. It is not exactly displeasure that shivers down his spine, but the taste of cold tea is definitely something he will have to get used to. III holds him from behind after that, broom forgotten as II slowly sips at his tea and focuses on calming down the tremors wracking through his frame. III is warm behind him, arms wrapped loosely around II's waist with his cheek smushed against the top of II's head. It makes II feel small, in a good way. Protected instead of ruled over.

Sometime soon they will have to speak about the form III had taken, but for now II just wants to enjoy this. Enjoy being home in their ransacked house, with the ivy creeping along the walls, and III's garden outside. Where they are safe, as safe as they can be as vessels of a God.

Vessel's feet weigh him down as he climbs the staircase and enters his room, Elvira meowing happily as she shadows him. When II's panic lances down the bond, Vessel turns back, nearly back on the landing between the first and second floor when III shoves reassurance down the bond. Vessel hesitates on the first step down the landing, vines brushing gently along his arm in greeting, straining his ears to hear what II and III are speaking about quietly in the kitchen. After a moment, he decides that things truly are under control and starts towards his room again. He forgets to close the door (he should have closed the door- why didn't he-) as he crawls into bed in the middle of the day, not even bothering to change into pajamas. He closes his eyes after setting his mask on his nightstand, shivering underneath a blanket he pulls over himself. Elvira curls up at his head in a little ball, big eyes staring up at him. Vessel feels a swell of affection for her, so happy to see her again, and yet...

He is cold.

Vessel rises, grabs another blanket to cover himself in, and lays back down. Elvira meows, batting at his hair with soft paws. Petting her is done with shaking hands, little mrrphs and purrs rumbling through her chest that causes Vessel's lips to twitch up into a weak smile.

He is still cold.

Does he even remember what it was like to be warm? Truly warm?

Terzo immediately comes to mind, the warmth of his hands holding Vessel's, the way his arms wrapped around him and kept him close. Vessel wants that with II and III, he wants to be warmed by their natural body heat, to feel their hearts beat against his own still chest. He does not want the warmth of heavy fabric, he wants the warmth of a gentle touch. Vessel wants to be held, craves it desperately. He has seen II and III hug, how tightly III wraps II up in their arms, sometimes lifting him off his feet just to get a playful scowl in return. How II would move his arms from around III's shoulders, grab him by the waist, and swing him around as if III was as light as a feather, always so gentle when placing them back on their feet. Vessel... he wanted that. He wanted them to hold him in their own special ways. Would III try to lift him off his feet? Would they pull him close, press kisses into Vessel's hair? Would II get up on his toes so the angle isn't so awkward as he hugs Vessel around his shoulders? Pull him down into a kiss that sends a thread of adoration down the bond, warm like the gentle rays of the sun on a spring day?

Vessel runs a thumb under his eyes, swiping away gathered tears as they start to slip down his cheeks and into his hair. He wants that. He wants to be held.

Would Terzo let Vessel hug him next time they meet? Would that be an acceptable greeting as acquaintances?

He gets up again, grabbing a third blanket from over his desk chair, a thick blue one with simple white fish on it. The blankets are heavy when he spreads them over himself, curling around Elvira when she decides she has had enough of him moving around and lays half stretched out over his side in an unusual position. Still, he shivers and shakes, hands shoved under the pillow his head lays upon in some attempt to warm them.

Sleep claims him slowly with heavy eyes and then all at once while Elvira purrs cuddled up to his chest. He opens six eyes to Sleep's forest.

He's running, stumbling over roots and shoving past low hanging branches that scratch against the soft skin of his face. Bare feet squish into mud that slows him down as Vessel frantically follows the whispers of the trees around him, leading him to his lovers with a phantom hand pulling tight on the bond they share.

He has to find II and III, quickly.

A root lifts, and Vessel trips. He goes rolling as his forward momentum works against him. It should hurt, and his mind registers pain, but his body doesn't feel it. That should have indicated something was off, but Vessel can't think straight. Not when II and III are in danger, they're hurt, they're going to die- leave him all alone- please-

A quiet whimper of pain falls on Vessel's pointed ears, and he looks up, hunched over form bent into itself.

II lays a few feet away, weak hands struggling to free himself from where he is pinned to the forest floor. Vessel cries out, but no sound leaves him. Crawling desperately to his side, Vessel takes II's hands in his, pulling them from the solidified blood in his side almost too roughly. II screams, the sound echoing in Vessel's ears and II tries to wiggle away.

'Don't.' Vessel mouths, 'You'll bleed out.'

"You didn't come back for me? Why Ves? Why didn't you come back for me?" No more than a whimper of pain, II's words send a dagger through Vessel's empty chest.

'I tried! I tried, I swear!' Vessel wants to shout, wants to beg II to understand. 'Sleep took then kept me. I couldn't. I tried, Two, I tried. I'm so sorry-'

"You left us to die." II accuses, bloody lip curling up into a sneer as he coughs weakly.

Vessel sobs, shaking his head, cradling II's face ever so gently in his large hands.

'I would never.' Vessel mouths, hoping II will understand him. If the only limb Vessel had left were his arms, he'd still find his way back to them, digging broken, bloody nails into the ground and pulling a mangled body behind. If he had no eyes, he would still know each of their breathing, the sound of their steps, the exact cadence of their voices. Were he deaf, Vessel would know the feeling of their skin on his, their lips against his own. He would remember it all, in every lifetime, and no God would ever tear those memories from him.

Something tickles the back of his mind, like a realization, or the lead up to one, something right on the edge of his awareness, but it is plucked out before he can grasp ahold of it.

Vessel moves to try and lift II, but his hands go right through. II remains pinned, no matter where Vessel tries to lift him, and he lets out a weak cry of frustration, fresh tears bubbling over as he returns his hands to II's face, tracing over pale cheeks tenderly. He can touch him, hold him, but he cannot lift him. Cannot save him.

Vessel is forced to watch, to wait, to listen as II's life slips through his fingers, as black blood boils him from the inside and the god of Hate takes the first of the two most important people in Vessel's life. Time passes at once slowly, and so fast he cannot keep track of it. It could be hours, seconds, and Vessel would still only know the time through each breath that II takes, slower and slower, gasping, weak.

"You don't really love, Vessel, you just hate to be alone." II murmurs, icy blue eyes, once so warm with his love, beginning to crack into shards, freezing Vessel from within as he is trapped in his gaze.

The lyric, a truth, a fear close to Vessel's heart and soul, uttered by someone Vessel adores with every inch of his being, is like ripping his heart out all over again. To have it spit back in his face like this is a pain he would wish on no one, yet feels as if he deserves.

As II's breathing slows, stuttering in his chest, Vessel watches the light slowly leave his eyes, frozen in place and helpless. He waits, dead eyes boring into II's pretty blues, filled with ice, for death to claim his lover so that he can follow. There is only one final thing II can manage to utter, leaving Vessel feeling as if his world has fallen apart around him, burying him beneath rubble and shattering his bones, his soul.

"You should have let Hate kill you." The light starts to leave his eyes, and before that final star winks out, Vessel wakes, choking on a sob.

He trembles, struggling to escape from whatever is holding him down. Scrambling out of bed and hitting his floor, Vessel whines, partially at the pain, and partially at the dream he can't get out of his head. He crawls away, frantic, curling into himself against his nightstand that he slams into. The lamp rattles, but doesn't tip over as he paws blindly at the surface of the nightstand for his mask. He knocks it off instead of grabbing it, coordination off as he panics. It thuds against the floor, the bone white material making a loud clattering sound. Vessel doesn't even notice, giving up on that endeavor quickly. The confusion, the terror, the panic, causes Vessel to instinctually shut his part of the bond off.

The noise wakes II, the pain of his healing injury leaving him sleeping lighter than he is used to. He and III had crawled into bed with Vessel quietly, carefully, III bringing their own blanket and covering both he and II up with it after they squeezed in to the other side of the bed beside Vessel. The First did not stir, barely even moved as II and III got situated. His door was left cracked, an open invitation, and so they took it. Why wouldn't they have?

The immediate feeling of emptiness in the bond has II sitting up hastily in concern, knocking the breath out of his lungs as a pained whimper follows. For a few tense seconds, II has to struggle to catch his breath, still not quite sure what's going on. Sensitive ears soon catch the faint sound of sniffling and heavy breaths, tired eyes finding Vessel quickly.

Vessel is curled up into himself, leaned against his nightstand and facing away from the bed. His clothed shoulders shake, crying silently. Claws flex against his side, desperate to dig in, to rip and tear and maim-

"Ves, love, are you okay?" II asks, slipping out of bed carefully, shoving aside the minor pain the action still causes.

"Ves?" II tries again when he receives no answer but a shaky sob, the tail end silenced quickly.

"Don't touch me. Don't- I don't deserve your comfort-! It's all my fault. Almost killed you. Almost lost you. Almost lost you." Familiar with how Vessel falls into repeating phrases when he's upset, II kneels next to him, a hand hanging midair from where II automatically obeyed Vessel's command.

"Sweetheart, it wasn't your fault. We knew a god could attack at any time, we just weren't prepared." II reassures, frowning when Vessel only shakes his head in dismissal, still turned away.

The bond is not as devoid of life as II thought, but it's nearly completely hidden away. Vessel is keeping to his promise by a hair's breadth.

"No, no, no- You hate me. You hate me. Its all my fault, and neither of you will tell me so."

"I don't hate you, Vessel." II shoves as much love and devotion into his words as he can, but knows by the way Vessel's bond grows clearer, but only with more distress, that nothing he says will get through to him.

"Don't lie to me!" Vessel snaps, turning his head so II can finally see him, hands coming up to claw at his own face as he tries to hide behind his hands, "Don't you lie to me!"

There's a faint glow to his pupiless, red eyes, making it obvious that magic is at work here. Whether Vessel has any control over it is unclear.

"I am not lying." II almost snaps back in his sudden influx of worry, afraid Vessel will hurt himself, only iron will and his complete adoration of Vessel leaves his words softened.

Vessel flinches back anyways, dragging his nails down and leaving the faintest of red lines down his cheeks. He barely misses his bottom pair of eyes, but doesn't seem to care. Tiny droplets of red and black bead at the lines he's created, sliding slowly down his cheeks. II wants to reach out and wipe them away, tear Vessel's claws away from his face. He knows the action is likely to do more harm than good despite his best intentions and so he tries to calm him, think rationally about this. Vessel trembles, and not just with the cries he keeps quiet. II grabs the blue blanket from the pile spilling over the side of the bed, clearly having gone down with Vessel. It strikes him as odd. Vessel usually wears a shirt, yes, or even his hoodie, and while he runs cold, there is never any indication that he really was, no shiver down his spine, no chatter to his teeth. He has always explained the clothes as more of a comfort than a need due to a lower temperature. How cold was Vessel to have piled at least three or four blankets on himself?

"I should have let Hate do what it was here for. You were right. I- I shouldn't be-" Vessel mumbles, eyes a bit unfocused, like he's still caught in his nightmare, a fly in a web waiting for death to claim him.

Not letting his confusion at Vessel's words shine through his expression, II tries to slowly inch his way closer, socked feet helping him scoot across the flooring quieter. He remains a couple inches away, but reaches out again to attempt to pull Vessel's hands away from his face.

"Honey, let me just hold your-"

"No! I'll hurt you again- Don't touch me- Don't-" Sobs break Vessel's words into fractions, breaking II's heart with every syllable, "You already hate me, I don't want you to leave if I fuck up again. I'll hurt you and you'll leave. You'll leave, and Three will follow. I'll be alone. I don't want to be alone- Not again- I won't live like that again-!"

Sucking in a shuddering gasp, shock freezes II's face into an expression of horror. There's a sudden buzzing in II's skull, growing louder and louder around the echo of 'I won't live like that again.'

'I won't live like that again.'

'I won't live-'

II shakes his head, desperate to rid himself of that train of thought. Vessel self-harms, yes, but that does not mean he is also suicidal. Vessel wouldn't- He wouldn't.

"No, sweetheart, it's not your fault. I didn't get hurt because of you-"

"It is my fault! Of course it's my fault, why would you think that it isn't-" Vessel cries, six leaking eyes sliding up to pin II in place, the confusion and the heartbreak almost too much for II to bear.

Frantically, II stands. He moves too fast, Vessel flinching back, hands flexing to cover his face. More tears slide down II's jaw, and he takes a moment to rub both hands down his face, swiping away his tears resolutely. He turns to III, who has managed to sleep through the whole ordeal so far, and tries to wake him, not without guilt. Everyone is still exhausted, Vessel's bond filled with it alongside the ever present self-loathing and the fear.

"Three." II shakes the other man's shoulder, trying not to let any more tears fall, "Three, wake up, please."

III mumbles something incoherent, the bond slowly losing the fuzz of sleep, but eventually sits up, rubbing his tired eyes to try and focus. They clear quickly once the distress in the bond becomes apparent, going wide as their brain lags behind. Everyone was so tired when they got back home, and it was no different for III, who can barely think through their exhaustion.

"Three, I need you to hold Vessel for me." II can't quite keep his voice from breaking, looking between Vessel and III helplessly.

"He won't let me touch him." II whispers, a few traitorous tears breaking free.

Not trusting themselves to not slur or say the wrong thing, III nods shortly, moving to stand. Their bones protest the movement, but they ignore it in favor of crouching down beside Vessel who barely notices him. Gentle hands pull Vessel's claws from his cheeks, leading to Vessel finally taking a good look at III in front of him. A nail drives itself right into II's heart, a valiant effort being made to not let hurt bleed out into the bond despite how much it pains II to see Vessel letting III touch him so freely right now.

"Hey, pretty, what's wrong? Did something happen?" III keeps his voice low, aiming to pacify the terrified frenzy Vessel is in.

"Two hates me. Didn't go back for him. He hates me because I left him-"

"Oh no, hun, Two doesn't hate you. You came back for us, remember? Defeated a God just to make your way back to our sides?" III soothes, trying to spark the memories.

"He- He was bleeding out, wasn't he? He was- I saw it. He was all alone, Hate must have hurt you, too."

Vessel is clearly confused, the lack of sleep and the continuous stress finally catching up to him. III knew the crash would happen at some point once Vessel finally let himself sleep, but they couldn't have predicted this, didn't even want to imagine how terrifying it would be for Vessel, and seeing just how much worse it is in reality. He knew Vessel was taking II injury hard over the course of their stay at the ministry, he knew. But nothing III said or did ever amounted to more than minorly lessening that strain. Nothing they did truly helped, and now it's all crashing down on Vessel at once, it seems. If Vessel had slept at all while at the ministry, III is sure the nightmares would have swamped him then.

"That was just a dream, Sugar, we kept the object in Two so he wouldn't bleed out, remember? I was right there next to him the whole time, uninjured, even after you got there. We got Two help and he's fine now." III hopes his words will jog Vessel's memory, and those hopes aren't unfounded as some of the confusion seeps out of the bond.

"He... He is fine, now." Vessel murmurs, finally allowing himself to properly look at II, six eyes roaming over his form, catching on the tears II keeps wiping away, "You're both... alright."

The fogginess of sleep seems to finally clear from the bond, releasing Vessel fully from his dream. II hands over the blanket, III taking it from him and wrapping it around Vessel until a solid layer is between them. Only then does III pull Vessel to their chest, arms wrapping completely around him in a hug that offers none of the loving warmth of such. His fear and concern makes way for fondness as Vessel visibly sinks into the welcome warmth. Sucking in a deep, steadying breath, II lets the last of his fear slide away, gathering himself. His side aches something fierce, ignored in favor of trying to help Vessel, but it will not be so easily brushed aside now.

III pulls him impossibly closer, gently shushing quiet whimpers and heavy breaths as Vessel sobs. II watches, helpless, longing to wrap both of his lovers up in a hug, to smother them in his affection and shelter them from their pains and fears. Where before Vessel would immediately shut down his cries, desperate to not be heard, now he does not falter in the agonizing sounds spilling forth as he apologizes profusely as if there was anything to be sorry for at all.

"I'm sorry." Vessel cries, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Two, I didn't mean to hurt- I failed you. I couldn't protect either one of you-"

The apologies eventually taper off, a slow trickle down from sobbing to crying to mere sniffles. At some point, III has them all moved to the bed, leant against the headboard closest to the wall with Vessel practically in his lap, all four of his blankets laid over him carefully. II sits at his other side, nearest the nightstand, hesitant to lay down and rest no matter how his body and mind begs for it.

"I made you cry again." Vessel says weakly, so quiet II almost didn't hear him.

More gold gathers in Vessel's eyelashes, slipping over his cheekbone and onto the plush material of his jellyfish plushie that III hands him, eyes no longer glowing. "It's alright, Ves, it's good to cry sometimes." II hushes, aiming for a smile that falls flat despite his best efforts.

"Not... not like that... You look so-" Vessel cannot even finish.

"All I ever do is cry." He whimpers, reaching up to try and wipe away tears that just keep flowing.

"That just means you feel, love. You have a big heart, and you feel strongly. There isn't anything wrong with that." II says, offering up his hand.

Vessel stares for what feels like a long, long time, biting at his lip and peeling up the chapped skin. Then, he takes it, with no small amount of hesitancy. A thumb seeks out II's pulse point, and II just lets it happen, understanding it is a necessary comfort Vessel needs right now. The silence that follows is punctuated only by the breaths still hitching in Vessel's chest and the purring Elvira has kicked up at their feet. Time passes, and somehow II thinks they need this. Not Vessel's nightmare, no, but the time to just be with each other, alone in their home, finally.

Eventually, light filters in through Vessel's window around the edges of his blackout curtains, indicating it must be early morning. II sighs, rubbing a hand heavily over his face. Vessel had finally fallen back to sleep just a few minutes prior, curled up under a mound of blankets as small as he can manage with his tall frame. III is asleep, too, leant against the headboard with Vessel practically in his lap, a hand still weaved in his hair from where they were comforting the First. II stares at them, just taking his lovers in, then moves to stand. His side pulls, bringing pain with it, but he does his best to move past it, gritting his teeth. Elvira meows from the end of the bed, big eyes watching every move II makes. II pets her, smiling as she shoves her head up into his palm. With some regret, he does leave her eventually, softly ordering her to keep an eye on his boys. She meows in agreement as if she understood, and then II is exiting Vessel's room.

II has a God to speak with, after all.

The altar room is dark when he enters, but his improved eyesight that allows him to see in the dark makes getting around easier. He suspects his vision is no where near III's, nor even Vessel's, but he can see well enough. The room is untouched by the whirlwind that swept through the rest of the house, everything as they left it before II got injured. It brings him pause, curious eyes sweeping across the room. Vines cover every inch of the walls, all congregated around the rune etched into the wall, still dripping crimson. His heartbeat pounds in his ears as II walks forward, picking up the matches resting beside the golden offering plate. II lights the candles one by one, leaving only the centermost candle untouched for Sleep. When he is done, he sits back on his haunches with a pained gasp, and waits. It isn't long before Sleep arrives, the flickering golden flame casting the room in a shimmering gold glow.

Sleep does not speak, so II takes the chance.

"Take those nightmares away from him. I know you can."

"I cannot see his dreams anymore, my Second, let alone take them from him, now. I believe he is blocking me out, subconsciously." Sleep whispers, or, as close to a whisper as His many voices can, "He is gaining control over his dreams, becoming more than I ever intended. I gave him too much but if I hadn't..."

"You are a God, what do you mean you can't-" II spits, frustrated, hands clenching into fists in his lap.

"I cannot do it, Second. He is... He is becoming like me, my gifts are becoming his own and he is gaining his own power. I cannot take his nightmares from him for they are apart of his own domain, now."

II's brow furrows, confusion warring with creeping understanding. "Is- Is Vessel becoming a God?"

Suddenly, a lot of things make a whole lot of sense. It all started with his new sets of eyes, the forked tongue, scrawling golden cracks on the ink black of his skin, and now the silvery white hair... Each time he took more of Sleep's power, divine power, for his own use, Vessel would change. He is turning himself into a God for them, sacrificing his humanity.

"Not quite a God, no. He is approaching what could be considered a halfway point, and it is unlikely he will overcome that."

"What, like a demigod from myth? Does Vessel even know about this?" II's mouth falls into a flat, pale line, unease swirling in his stomach.

It would be just like Vessel to become a demigod for their sakes. No, not even just for their sakes. If Sleep had chosen some other people to be His vessels, if they were even half as nice- If they treated Vessel with even a shred of human decency, II is sure Vessel would do as he does now. Though, if II really thinks about it, it is not a matter of how kind they have been, but of how strongly Vessel's love for them runs. Had II ended up treating Vessel like his past partners had, if love had still bloomed in Vessel's heart because painful love was all he knew, then Vessel would still have done the exact same thing. It was in his nature to be gentle and kind, and... well, he is far too self-sacrificial for his own good.

Sleep responds, "I suppose a demigod would be an accurate title, and yes, I have told him of his growing divinity. My Second, I know my word means little to you, but believe me this once, if I could spare my First the pain of these apparitions, I would have. I wanted to take everything from him, when I first remade him, but there was so much damage to his... So many terrible memories and so few good, he would have been nothing but an empty shell. Some gods prefer that of their vessels. I do not."

"Sometimes, I wonder if that would have been better for him. I would have helped him, loved him, regardless. I can't speak for Three, but I'm sure he feels the same."

Sleep does not respond, but His presence, which had been faint and centered in the crimson candle, settles like a crown on II's head. In the next moment, the pain he had been feeling is gone. Something tells him it is only temporary, but there is no chance to ask for Sleep leaves, all of the candles going out with Him.

II is left staring at the sigil on the wall, at the paint perpetually dripping off of the lines of the rune. His heart still races, and only when II stands and leaves the altar room does the pounding leave his ears.

Once III and Vessel wake up, closer to evening, they find that II has begun cleanup on the house. The mess in the kitchen is swept up, the knives clean and put back in their rightful spots in the knife block. Vessel follows behind III, a hand clutching at the back of his shirt as the bond leads them towards the living room. Books are still strewn about where the creatures had carelessly tossed them, II sitting on the floor around a multitude of stacks that he is actively sorting. The tv is on, playing one of the Lord of the Rings movies at a low, unobtrusive volume. III goes to help without a second thought, Vessel following.

II turns and smiles up at them as they make their way over, offering up a soft greeting. He looks exhausted, guilt making a home in Vessel's gut at the sight of the bags under his eyes, thankful the emotion won't be visible on his face at least, thanks to his mask. Vessel wraps the blanket tighter around his shoulders, shivering where he lingers at the edge of the couch. A glance down at it shows blood and faint burn marks in the material, and Vessel feels suddenly nauseous.

"I've got this, you two, why don't you go check on your garden, Three? I'm sure Vessel wouldn't mind the fresh air." II suggests, but it comes across as more of a command.

"Sure, Doll, I was planning on doing so anyways! Come on, Ves, let's head outside." III agrees, smile widening, well aware of what II is doing and thinking it's a good plan.

"Just let me change into some outdoor clothes, be right back." III calls, already bounding off and up the staircase.

Vessel stares after him with something close to panic beneath his mask, fingers fumbling together nervously. II hates to see him so unsure of himself in their own home, as if Vessel had done something wrong or did not think he deserved to take up space. Or was it something II did?

"Are you going to go change as well?" II asks, taking in Vessel's rumpled clothes, which are the same as when they got home the day prior.

Vessel slowly shakes his head side to side instead of answering verbally, not meeting II's gaze from under his mask. It causes II to frown, hurt but not sure what is wrong. Quick as a lightning flash, III takes the stairs two at a time as he returns to the living room, sporting a t-shirt and a faded pair of blue jeans. It's one of the more casual outfits II has seen them in yet, but is unsurprised. III hates to ruin clothes when he works outside, and so has some outfits designated for garden tasks if they are doing more than watering. III grabs Vessels hand, lacing their fingers together, and soon enough they disappear out the front door. II wonders if it would be difficult to put in a door out to III's garden from within the kitchen, so they don't have to keep going the long way around.

The pathway to III's garden is littered with leaves, bits of moss creeping up and over the stone steps. There's a gentle breeze ruffling their hair, birds singing their songs all around them. Vessel keeps his eye's resolutely locked on the chipping paint on III's fingers, clasped in his own.

"Do you think we should clear some of this foliage off?" III asks, toeing at a bit of the moss with their foot.

"I like it." Vessel says, and so III replies, something terribly fond in their voice, "It stays then."

The words make Vessel smile, looking up from his bare feet for the first time since they left the house, and it's then that Vessel notices Kiwi looking at Vessel from her perch on III's shoulder. Vessel lifts up his hand to wave, smile growing wider when she waves back. III's garden looks mostly as they left it, all of the different types of flowers growing well in neat little rows. Vessel stands awkwardly behind III as they bend over to brush gentle fingers along a few petals of beautiful peony's. III plucks one, turning to gently tuck it behind Vessel's ear. Vessel blushes, thankful the mask he wears hides most of it, though it does nothing for the creeping redness of his ears. The kiss to where his nose would be under the mask only serves to make Vessel more... not embarrassed, shy? He is flattered, at least.

Not long after III begins clearing the few weeds that had popped up, cooing gently at his marigolds as they do so, Vessel wanders off with a quiet call over his shoulder, "I'll be back."

III turns to watch him go, contemplating whether he should go with him or not, but Vessel moves quickly, disappearing into the tree line still wrapped up in his blue starry blanket, accompanied by a crow on his shoulder. Feeling like they are being watched, III looks up and finds II staring out the kitchen window at the forest where Vessel wandered off, looking terribly sad. When he notices III looking, he smiles, but it does not lose the melancholy that fights to tilt it down into a frown. Before long, II is back to staring after Vessel, and III can only send his love down the bond as an attempt at comfort.

It is some time before Vessel comes back, long after II has gone back to organizing the bookshelves. III has finished watering his entire garden and clearing some fallen tree litter, Kiwi holding onto a braid by his face and speaking to him in wonder about the forest (which she has never seen before) and all the webs she has made in only the best corners of III's room since they'd been gone. There's dirt and bits of twigs on one side of the blanket Vessel has still wrapped around him, but the bond feels, lighter, almost. The peony still sits behind his ear.

The rest of the day is spent cleaning up the rest of the house, or what of it they can. Some things need repaired or replaced entirely. Something to be done when II's range of movement is not so limited. III and Vessel take on the brunt of the work when II inevitably is forced to take a break. Many of them, in fact, despite his mild complaints. III won't take no for an answer, forcing II down onto the couch with a glass of iced raspberry tea.

Vessel feels as though he is experiencing all of this at a distance, his mind continually going back to his nightmare and what dream II had said. Should Vessel ask? Does he dare? There was no way II and III knew of what Hate said to him, what It offered.

That night, Vessel crawls into II's bed (after III had informed II that he would probably not want to be in III's room due to all the spiderwebs Kiwi had made, and the little spider herself). He is careful of how the bed shifts under him, II's wound still tender enough to hurt if he moves even slightly the wrong way. Vessel wants to hold him, wrap his arms around II's waist and lay his head on the smaller man's stomach. He doesn't feel as though he deserves that, however, not with his nightmare still fresh from the night before. He settles on III's other side instead, letting III wrap Ii up in his arms and pretending he's perfectly alright with only reaching an arm over III's waist to lay on II's hip. As with the night before, Vessel layers blankets over himself, making sure to share with II and III, though it doesn't escape his notice that II barely covers himself with them. When Vessel goes to sleep, it is to the sound of his lovers steady breathing and the hope that his nightmare was just a one time thing.

It was not.

Vessel is running, stumbling over roots and shoving past low hanging branches that scratch against the soft skin of his face. Bare feet squish into mud that slows him down as Vessel frantically follows the whispers of the trees around him, leading him to his lovers with a phantom hand pulling tight on the bond they share.

He's running as fast as he can, for once thankful for his long legs that carry him over the rough terrain quickly. Like the first night, II is laid out over the forest floor, solidified blood pinning him onto the dirt as if he were a butterfly on display. III is there this time, hunched over II and holding a hand close to their chest. Vessel nearly trips when he sees them, so overcome with relief it brings immediate tears to his eyes. The relief is short lived, III tipping over onto his side just as Vessel reaches the both of them. His gaze zeroes in on the black blood protruding out of III's stomach, the dribble of crimson in the corner of III's mouth.

Time slows down. If Vessel had pupils, they would be mere pinpricks in the mass of his crimson irises, eyes widened in horror. When he makes his way to their sides, it is with shaking legs, stumbling steps that threaten to send him careening down onto the forest floor. II is completely still under III, glassy eyes staring up into the trees. Vessel sobs, pulling III up by his shoulders to at least check if they're still alive. III's chest is empty of air, not even the barest bit of movement to signify breathing. Vessel shakes him anyway, sobbing loudly with every sharp intake of panicked breaths, breaths he doesn't need.

Around them, the forest begins to bleed. 

Red drips down from tree trunks like sticky sap, leaves staining from stem to edge a deep scarlet. Green moss froths, dying crimson. The dirt begins to swell, deep browns becoming rich, bloody red. 

His hands slip, blood from III's wound, protruding straight out of his back, coating his fingers. The same thing that hurt - killed- II is sticking out of them, burning into Vessel's skin. His flesh blisters but Vessel doesn't care, barely even feels it. III's head lolls over Vessel's shoulder as he pulls them to his chest, careful of the protrusion. A hand comes up to cradle III's head, weaving into their loose hair. 

"Why..." III gasps, coughing harshly, "Why did you come back?"

"Why would I not come back? I will always come back for you." Vessel whispers, voice breaking on the tail end of a shuddering sob.

"We don't want you anymore." Weak hands try to shove Vessel away, beating against his stomach and chest, pushing against his arms, but in an act of pure selfishness, Vessel does not allow it.

Vessel's world shatters into pieces. III's breath hitches, splatters of hot, wet blood leaving his lungs. Where it hits the ground, more blood rises from the cold dark earth.

"No, please, you said you'd never leave me. You promised-"

"I've broken promises to you before." III spits, breaking out into a coughing fit.

"Only one, only one, beloved." Vessel mumbles, "You've kept every important promise to me. Every single one."

"Two and I said we would never leave." Vessel's hands tighten where he is grasping desperately at III's shirt, dead eyes boring into II's equally as lifeless ones, waiting for the final blow to land.

So quiet now, fragile and dying, Vessel is only able to hear due to their close proximity, III's next words follow what already felt like a death knell, "We'll leave you, now. As you left us."

"No-"

III makes a horrible gasping sound. It rattles his lungs, seeming to echo in the silent forest. Vessel waits, pulling III closer. It is as close as they've ever been, Vessel thinks, despite the solidified blood protruding out of III's back. He wanted to hold them, but not like this.

When their last breath finally leaves them, Vessel makes not a sound. All at once, time starts again. Every tick of the clock rings in Vessel's ears, marching him to his awaited end. Golden tears are smeared in III's hair, wetting both of their clothes as Vessel continues to cry. 

Carefully, gently, as though cradling the most fragile artifact in the world, Vessel pulls III away to lay them at II's side. Deft fingers close blue, blue eyes, starting with III, then moving to II. Vessel sits at their side, golden tears dripping freely off his pale cheeks. Claws threaten to dig into his thighs where he rests them, flexing and unflexing, over and over and over. 

He has a promise to keep. He will not break it, he refuses to. Yet, he never promised not to... Yes. That's it. 

It is as easy as breathing to summon a knife, the golden bladed ritual knife he used to cut out his heart. The dream bends to his whim, and if Vessel were not so caught up in 'his home is gone. His lovers are dead. He has no purpose. They're dead, they're dead and he must follow-', he would know that this will not kill him in the way he wants. He would recognize this as a dream. But the mind is an easy thing to deceive when it is shown it's worst fears. No matter that the fears were conjured up by the mind itself.

He really should have let Hate kill him. It would have hurt less than this, he is sure. Vessel deserves this though, as always. When he goes, when Sleep welcomes him, Vessel can ask to be eradicated. Maybe with a little begging Sleep will do it. Vessel doesn't mind giving his body over to the God to use as a true vessel for His will. Connected as they are, it should be possible. And if it isn't, will Sleep be able to erase Vessel's mind? Keep him locked up in a little box in the back of his own head, asleep forevermore and ignorant of the world that no longer is home to the only things that kept him going?

Pressing the knife to his throat, it is quick work to glide it against soft, yielding flesh.

"Vessel! Wake up! Please-"

Vessel startles awake, a burnt hand coming up to hold his throat. It comes back wet with blood when he pulls it away. Six eyes slowly slide up to meet the panicked, tear-filled eyes of his lovers, wide awake and surrounding him as though it was Vessel on his deathbed, like he hadn't just watched them both die-. 

The sight of them rips a relieved sob from Vessel's chest. Instinctually, unable to help himself, he sits up with the intent to reach out for one or both of them, but pulls back at the last second. 

"Vessel, honey, what's happened? You were so upset in your sleep that it woke us up and then we couldn't wake y- Ves!" II starts, cutting himself off in alarm when Vessel practically launches himself from the bed. 

Like the first night when all of this began, the blankets follow him, try to keep him pinned onto the bed. 

Vessel is cold. He wants- He wants-

Vessel is gone and out the bedroom door before II and III can process what is going on. They'd both awoken to the distress (and that word feels utterly lacking in the face of the pure emotion Vessel had felt) in the bond, overflowing and practically being shoved at them, like an alarm bell blaring within their souls. 

It filled them with dread, and that feeling only worsens now as they watch Vessel flee away from them. III will not forget the red blood trickling slowly down Vessel's neck as if something had cut him there, tried to slit his throat...

II and III clamber down the stairs after Vessel just in time to hear the front door click shut, II lagging behind severely, hindered by his aching scar. III is unsure whether to leave II behind and follow after Vessel, or stay to help II down the stairs. 

II decides for him, "Go. Ves is more important, go."

III gives a short nod before he is also out the front door. Frantic eyes scan the clearing around their home, searching for Vessel. He doesn't have to look far.

Vessel sits on his knees just at the edge of the clearing where well-kept meadow transitions into forest. He is hunched over into himself, folded in half with his arms over his head. Afraid that calling out to him will make Vessel flee again, III makes their way to his side, kneeling just beside him. Close now, the sobs wracking Vessels' frame are apparent though not for the noise they make, but how they shake his shoulders. 

"Sugar?"

Vessel's whole body flinches, but he does not move to run away. He says something, but III cannot make it out, warbled and quiet as it is. 

"Can you say that again, beautiful?" III asks, voice gentle as they hear the front door close as quietly as possible.

"Keep me. I'll be good. Just keep me. Please, keep me. Stay. Stay." An audible sob is finally hear, and then Vessel is sitting up, turning his torso so he can reach out and curl into III's lap.

II walks up beside them, struggling crouch down, an expression of insurmountable sadness seemingly etched into every pore. III lifts on hand up, already moving to wrap his arms around Vessel, urging II to stay standing to not strain his side. II barely listens, anguish, whether physical or mental, flashing across his face. He stays upright, and III settles their arms over Vessel's back, rubbing soothing circles over a bony rib. 

"Please keep me. I don't want to lose the only home I've ever had." Vessel trembles, cold hands grasping at III's shirt so tightly his knuckles go grey.

III tightens his arms around Vessel's back, trying to pull him closer. Vessel cries against his stomach, wetting III's sleep shirt. There is not an ounce of care about it, the clothes can be washed of gold. "You're not going anywhere, Ves. We'll keep you forever if you'll let us."

"We want to keep you as much as you want to keep us." II whispers, settling on resting a hand on III's head.

It feels like a long time before Vessel pulls away, cries quieting to small sniffles, the sun yet to rise. The moon shines above them, the forest is silent. Things aren't okay yet, but III has to hope they will be soon. Vessel does not protest when III gets them both up, leads all three of them back into the manor. Elvira waits just inside the door, following their little procession to the bathroom and the first aid kit within it.

It is II that has to put a bandage over the thin cut on Vessel's neck, hurt by Vessel's nervous expression but resolved to treat him regardless. It had stopped bleeding quickly, black and red blood crusted around it. II wants to ask. So does III, leaned against the doorframe as II works and carefully avoiding the red so his fears don't send him into an illogical panic. They will not leave their partners right now, refusing to even think of it. His fear will not keep them apart. The burns aren't severe, somewhere between first and second degree. It is easy to guess what Vessel's nightmare may have been about. 

The burns do not explain the wound on Vessel's neck.

Vessel lets III herd them all back to II's room, leaving momentarily to grab more of Vessel's plushies and make tea. Vessel and II long to touch, but Vessel will not reach out and II will not force it on him. They are left stagnant, yearning, Vessel's trauma once again making things difficult. It leaves Vessel guilty, lessened when II offers him a beautiful, lopsided but sad smile. 

Vessel's empty chest warms, and some of the guilt alleviates. He has not apologized yet, he realizes. His mouth opens, closes, opens again. The apology for hurting II never comes out, and instead Vessel bites into his lip, angry with himself.

A glass of iced tea is handed to II from an old antique silver tray, carried by III with surprising ease. Vessel is handed a mug of hot chocolate, beverage type shared with III within their own mug. They all sit on the bed, Vessel finding himself under blankets again as they lean squished together along the headboard. Tired of the silence, III pulls up a movie on their phone, some superhero movie about a rich man who makes a suit of iron. The phone remains propped up on III's legs with a pillow, the screen the only source of light in the dim room. Curled against Vessel's feet and kneading the blanket strewn over them, Elvira purrs.

The movie catches Vessel's attention and manages to distract him, bringing out a couple smiles over the jokes and enraptured by the action scenes. II, relieved, presses a kiss to III's shoulder as the credits roll and discreetly wipes away the swelling of tears in his eyes. Hope that things will be alright now keep II going, sleep claiming him quickly, head leant against the very shoulder he kissed minutes prior. Vessel and III end up watching another movie, the second in the Iron Man franchise as the sun begins to rise. Their empty mugs sit forgotten on the nightstand.

Vessel is not okay, but he can pretend to be, throw himself into needed distraction and the affections of his lovers. It's easier to pretend, that way.

By the third night, faced with the same reoccurring nightmare as the two nights previous, Vessel dreads falling asleep, and yet he lays down to let it claim him anyway. Expecting the same outcome as previous nights, III holds Vessel to him, an arm over his waist, plushies piled between them for Vessel's comfort. II is on III's other side, desperate to touch but knowing Vessel will likely start crying again, begging II not to touch him, and putting II's recently fragile heart through a shredder.

When Vessel sleeps, he dreams in loops of the same nightmare. Sometimes they are the same, sometimes there are small differences. Sometimes, those loops include III injured or stuck in his spider form begging through their minds for Vessel to turn them back. It is not a gift they've been given, so Vessel knows that those at least, are dreams. Other times, times where reality and dream blend together, it is III laid out over the ground with II over him, tears streaking down their face as he tells Vessel to leave, to never come back. That everything was all his fault and if he'd just killed himself properly instead of pathetically begging a god for love, none of this ever would have happened to them. 

The worst dream is always the exact same as the second night's. II already dead and gone, III dying in Vessel's arms. His splintering mind keeps going back to it, playing it over and over, each time worse than the last.

Throughout all of the dreams, the place where II and III died remains stained by red, the crimson part of the forest slowly seeping out further and further. 

Terzo and Orion's words seem like a distant memory compared to the maelstrom within him. Vessel had said he would try, but every step forward seems to be followed by two steps back. He is trying, he swears it.

That third day, Vessel cannot manage even a word of greeting. He spends the day and then the night in his own room, the door closed and locked. That night II and III linger outside of it, hands clasped together. It is II who raises his fist to knock, and when he does, he receives no answer. The bond, their only lifeline throughout this, is quiet but not completely gone. Vessel has pulled away in that way too, keeping to his promise to not disappear, at least. They had hoped things were improving, but this has dashed those hopes completely.

Inside, Vessel lays shivering under a mound of blankets, face buried in his plague doctor plushie as he cries. He wants comfort, but every time he closes his eyes, all he sees is his nightmares, the cruel words of his dream lovers taunting him as the silence in the house stretches on. He knows if he gets up, opens his door, II and III will be waiting for him. They'll welcome him with open arms, grace him with pretty smiles and warm hands. They'll hold him as close as he allows. Vessel will not be alone, unloved, and his partners will be safe.

And yet, in the silence, the faint sound of breathing begins to reach Vessel's ears. A shuddering gasp, a low gurgle, the accusing call of his name.

Vessel lays awake, eyes wide open, trembling, tearful, carefully attuned to the tether of the bond connecting him to his lovers. As long as he is awake, he can make sure they still live. They will not die in his dreams if Vessel never lets himself dream in the first place. The night is long, and after it, Vessel refuses to spend his time being unproductive, refuses to let his mind wander around in circles as the worst nightmare of his life and rebirth replays itself.

II and III try their best to coax Vessel out of his room, attempting to lure him with chocolate or his favorite shows or movies (of the very, very few he's watched), anything, but the other is stealthy, quiet. II only catches a brief glimpse of Vessel lugging his electric keyboard up the staircase to his room. II audibly curses when his healed wound keeps him from following Vessel up the stairs quick enough. The sound of the piano is heard often, then, throughout all hours of the day. When II or III knock on the door, they receive no answer, just a gentle tug of the bond, a bit of reassurance sent their way. The vines move to cover the door a few days in, further entrapping Vessel inside by his own will.

As the days wear on with no sign of Vessel, III begs Sleep at His altar every day to convince Vessel to at least rest, to eat, even just to see them. Sleep, to II's continued detestation, refuses. Within a matter of a day, II was concerned Vessel had begun to hurt himself again without them there to comfort him. His only solace is the reassurance from their God that Vessel keeps to his promise. That, all things considered, he is doing rather well. A stern reminder is given that Vessel has gone longer than this without rest, and then the God is gone. II feels hate festering in his chest, holding III to him that night, side aching fiercely.

Outside their room, the faint sound of a piano sounds from Vessel's room. The instrument is a constant, and it is how II and III know Vessel does not rest, ever. It let's them know he is alive, so they take comfort in it where they can.

The thirteenth day finds Vessel listless, heavy eyebags stark against his pale skin under the mask he has kept on through every waking moment. Ever since the third night, the third nightmare, Vessel hasn't slept. He knows a nightmare will be waiting for him, and he doesn't want to see what horror his own mind will cook up. In weaker moments, being crushed under the loneliness of his self-imposed isolation, he hopes that he will spontaneously die. Just- Die. So he can at last have a peaceful rest. He wouldn't deserve the kindness the universe would have to grant him for that to be the case.

He finds his resolve wavering, exhaustion weighing him down. He had not yet gotten enough rest to recover from the two or so weeks he'd spent awake at the ministry, and again he is doing the exact same thing. He is tired.

He is glad, though, when he lays on his bed and allows his eyes to rest. He falls asleep quickly, body finally giving in to it's needs. Three restless nights of Sleep did absolutely nothing to abate his exhaustion. When he next opens his eyes, Vessel is back exactly where he hoped he wouldn't be.

II is where he always is, laid out over the forest floor. Instead of running through the forest to him, Vessel is already there, straddling him. Compared to the last few nights, II has a knife through his chest, blood spilling over his lips as he gurgles. Under him, spread out like an oil spill, is a concrete sidewalk, the grime of a city darkening it to something akin to an abyss, swallowing both he and his lifeblood.

Confusion and terror course through him. Vessel tries to lift his hands away from the knife but they will not move as if glued there. He tries the rest of his body next, but not an inch of him will move. Tears come quickly as II whimpers and gurgles punctuated by stilted, wet breaths as though he was drowning. 

"Two. Two, I'm not- I wouldn't-" Vessel can speak, at least, and so he gets to begging the universe to save them from this.

"I would never do this. This has to be a dream. This- This isn't even how it happened! This wasn't how it happened!" Vessel almost wails as he tries to lift his hands from the knife.

His magic pulses weakly underneath his skin, a faint tingling down his spine. Vessel's chest aches, gold beginning to drip down onto II's barely breathing form. There's a weight growing on his skull, weight settling lightly over his shoulders as something else slides down his back, the gentle caress of magic slipping off of him. Golden tears fall onto II's paling cheeks, his lover mouthing something Vessel cannot hear, cannot understand.

It looks almost like 'I love you.'

"Hey! What the fuck is going on?" A voice shouts, but Vessel does not hear it, too lost in his panic and the confusion ripping through every bit of his body.

There's splotches of red on one of the fingers holding the knife. Is it blood? Is it II's blood slipping through the crevices of his fingers? He's killing him- He's- He didn't do this-

"I didn't kill him! He- he was robbed. I saw it. I didn't do this. I didn't. I would never- Please, I don't want to be here any more, I want to wake up from this terrible dream. I want to go home. I didn't do this-" Begging to anyone or anything that will listen, Vessel struggles in vain to move, to get up, to force himself out of this dream - he knows now that that is what this is.

He has never woken himself up before, but he thinks it might be possible. It has to be. Vessel would kill himself permanently at even the barest chance he would ever hurt one of his lovers like this. He would never do this.

"Hey! Fucking get off of-" The voice is closer now, almost directly next to him.

A force shoves him harshly, a body crashing into his.

For the briefest, most glorious moment, Vessel is relieved. He will not keep hurting II. Then, his mind catches up to the situation. He and whatever has just hit him both go rolling. Dirt the color of old blood and dead leaves fly up around them, getting in his mouth and eyes, crimson moss cushioning their bodies to no avail. Arms hold Vessel down by his shoulders, and he panics, flailing, trying to free himself of the weight settled over his thighs, a sob catching in his throat. His eyes sting, he doesn't understand what's going on.

He doesn't want to- Get her off- Get off- No, wait, he isn't allowed to refuse-

"What the fuck were you doing?" The person on top of him yells into his face and Vessel goes deathly still, squinting open stinging eyes hesitantly.

Oh.

It isn't her- His dream has not shifted from II's death to- To his girlfriend-

"Four. Four." Vessel whimpers, voice nothing more than a frail whisper, blinking dirt from his eyes as best as he can.

Four's presence further solidifies that this is all a dream. There is relief to be found in that, relief in not being alone in it.

The righteous anger in Four's eyes melts into confusion, and then slowly into realization.

"Vessel?"

Four seems to finally notice their positions, the fear still blatant within Vessel's wide, teary eyes. His hands raise, cradling them to his chest, scrambling off of Vessel but lingering close as he says, "Fuck, Vessel, I'm so sorry! I didn't remember you."

Vessel slowly sits up, wiping tears and dirt from his eyes and snot from his nose. He looks over, expecting to see II dead again, like so many times before, but there is nothing but a bed of spindly red flowers. No sign of concrete to be seen.

"Where did he go?" Four asks, looking around with concern.

"This is... It's a dream. It's just a dream. I'll wake up, and Two will be fine. Just like every night before." It's a clear attempt to reassure himself, Four frowning at the utter desperation in Vessel's voice.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes, yes, this is a nightmare. I've been having so many." Vessel replies, the forced calm in his voice blatant when paired with the tremble all throughout his body.

"You do not have to lie to me, Vessel. I know we don't really know each other well, but... If you're not actually feeling alright, then tell me." Four starts, trailing off when more tears gather in Vessel's eyes.

"You are too kind." Vessel murmurs, gaze continually wandering back to the spot where II laid.

"Thanks but uh, why don't we move away from here? You're not looking too good."

Vessel does not answer verbally but it is still clear as he moves to stand. Tentatively, giving Vessel ample time to pull away, Four reaches out and grabs his hand. Vessel has the strangest urge to lace their fingers together, as he would with II or III. Four begins leading them off. clearly having no idea where he's going, but Vessel doesn't mind. He is glad to be rid of the view of that crimson clearing. He avoids it as best as he can on his walks, the forest understanding it is a no-gone zone. The trees above their heads and the green moss below their feet begins transitioning quickly into red, a bloody scarlet, the further they walk. Vessel considers having them turn back, but as long as they don't venture too far in, it should be fine regardless of his trepidation. If Vessel pays enough attention, he swears he can spot the stag trailing along with them, mere glimpses caught between the trunks of tall, thick oaks. A white gazebo comes into view some time later, a dilapidated thing covered in thick, red clusters of silver lace vines. It is caving in on one side, lacking in railings, floorboards creaking underneath their feet and Vessel finds there is no bench. It is lovely though, a new landmark he has yet to discover. He wonders if it is apart of the dreamscape, or if it actually exists in the waking world. It is so hard to tell now that both the waking forest and the sleeping one are laced with spots of red. Four lets go of Vessel's hand as they enter under the canopy of flowers, and Vessel takes the chance to lay down, exhausted even in his own dream. Decorative flower motifs are etched into the boards above their heads, vermillion ivy vines offsetting the ruby of the the silver lace flowers. Even here, the vines reach out towards him, peeking up through the floorboards to say hello.

His antlers dig in to the wooden boards as he lays down, and it seems as though he is only now noticing them. A clawed hand reaches up to run fingers along the protrusions, a contemplative frown gracing his lips as the other hand wipes away the remnants of tears. Slowly, Four moves close enough to sit at his side before deciding to just lay next to him. 

"Who was that?" Four questions, quiet, tentative, as though Vessel will shatter if the words are said too loudly, with too much force.

He looks over at Vessel, his cloak stained with dirt, staring up into the ancient canopies visible through breaks in the gazebo ceiling and plants. This part of the forest looks to be in perpetual autumn, Four taking it all in with curious, awed eyes. A bit of that awe is directed at Vessel, too, Four sneaking glances at the other occasionally.

Every bit of this place is beautiful, him included. Despite being in a dream, Vessel feels better than he has in days. The tiredness of his waking mind is lesser here, his mind clearer now that he is away from the main scene of his nightmares. The magic that always seems to settle over him is long gone, and it's like he has full control again. 

"The man I was on top of?" Vessel responds, voice weaker than he intends it to be, hands coming to rest over each other on his stomach.

Four hums in lieu of a proper verbal answer, and Vessel sighs, a nearly imperceptible little thing, filled with bone deep sadness.

For the first time since Vessel had begun having these dreams, he actually wants to talk about II, about any of it. He couldn't, before, not when the dreams were so raw and terrifying and he had a difficult time differentiating them from reality. Not when fears he cannot tell II and III were a lot of the focus. 

"That was one of my partners, Two. It was... it was like the way he died, mixed with, well, he got... hurt, recently. Almost died to another God. If I had just stayed with him-" Vessel cuts himself off, finding his voice too emotional and unsure if he should be explaining this much.

Four doesn't need to hear him break down, even though the sight of him doing so would likely be familiar at this point. He already witnesses so much when he finds himself in Vessel's dreams, and now to be dragged into what could have been a waking nightmare, what could have been Vessel's reality, what was II's reality...

"Oh, you've mentioned a boyfriend before. Is he... alright now?" Four says, soft, kind, curious.

Always so kind, despite what he's witnessed within Vessel's dreams.

"Yes. He's healed, but scarred now. It's all my fault." Vessel laments, "He must hate me. He promises he doesn't, but how could he not? I failed him. I left them and he got hurt-"

"Why did you leave him?" Four asks, curious eyes filled with something like hesitation.

"It... wasn't willingly. I was dragged away."

Four cuts Vessel off before he can continue further, "Then, its settled. You didn't leave him willingly, so it is not your fault that he got hurt. You clearly are torn up about the whole thing. Vessel, Two's injury is not your fault."

"But-" Vessel starts, bewildered and almost desperate to deny Four's words.

"It wasn't your fault." Four reaffirms, the ocean of his eyes a deep abyss, "You tried to get back to him, didn't you?"

"Of course! I- I forced Sleep to let me go to them. Threatened Him... in a way I never have before."

"He's alive, isn't he? Isn't that what matters the most? That you both, er, all of you are alive and breathing? The circumstances were out of your control. From your reaction, you'd go back in time and stop him from ever being near the danger in the first place. It isn't your fault, Vessel. Two must know this, and he surely wants you to know this too. He loves you, doesn't he? He doesn't hit you like your previous partners? Doesn't force you to do anything you don't want to?"

"No... never. Two is... They're both so good to me when I don't- When I feel like I don't deserve their kindness, their gentle hands."

"He loves you, so you should let him show that affection. Don't deny yourself their love because you think you don't deserve it." Four is oddly wise for a man who does not know the full circumstances, so self assured. 

To have another near stranger, drawn to him as Vessel is, be so sure about all of this... Vessel is almost guilty that each of their words seem to be getting through to him better than II or III's. Perhaps its Vessel's fear of them leaving him. That feels like something II would say. 

"I hurt him... I thought he was in danger again, and I hurt him while trying to protect. I don't feel like I deserve his affections anymore." Vessel admits solemnly, a hand falling to rest in the moss by his side.

It tickles his skin in greeting, as though even here the forest knows him, now unconstrained by the dreams Vessel has been having.

"That is for Two to decide. It was an accident, you were trying to protect him, as you said." It is something Vessel has already heard from III, and some part of Vessel already knows the truth of it.

It is a hard pill to swallow. The thickness of it clogs his throat, but Vessel had made promises to try, so...

He is glad when Four speaks up, giving him something else to focus on instead of the swarm of emotions swirling around in his empty chest cavity.

"You know, of friend of mine hit me at a bar the other day. He said I was making eyes at his girlfriend. I wasn't, too lost in the drink I didn't even want but he was too drunk to listen to me, and probably wouldn't have listened even if he was sober. My boyfriend caught me after I got punched, but he was so angry he didn't really notice how tight he was holding my arm when he hit him back, so hard it sent that friend of mine to the ground. Knocked him out, even. Boyfriend sprained his thumb though, punched the friend wrong I guess. I felt terrible, because he only got that injury protecting me. It doesn't erase all of the times recently that my boyfriend has hit me, or said... such cruel things, but it felt like a start. Like I was finally getting my boyfriend back, the one I fell in love with. He's been nicer about my mistakes for a bit now. Apologizing a lot more, too, especially after he- After-" Four, who had been rambling on almost as if he was talking to himself, quiets.

A hand comes to rest over his throat, massaging the skin there searchingly, as if looking for the bruises that must have lasted a while. Vessel remembers them from the second dream they'd shared, knows how Four's throat must have ached, how his voice must have been hoarse and broken for a long time even as the bruises started to heal. "Once I got thinking about it after the adrenaline of the situation wore off, I realized it wasn't my fault my boyfriend sprained his thumb. It was his decision to protect me, I did not force him to, did not ask him to. He smiled real big at me afterwards, getting a splint for his finger at the hospital. Said it was to start making up for all he'd done to me. I guess, what I'm trying to say is, oh, I don't know. I was trying to give you an example but the situation isn't really the same, is it?"

Four blushes, and Vessel watches curiously as his cheeks turn redder and redder the longer silence lingers between them. He really is very pretty, even with just a mouth and eyes. Vessel wonders if he can give him the rest of his features. An endeavor for a different dream, should Four come back.

There is so much Vessel wants to say. So much that it tightens his throat enough that he isn't sure he can say anything at all.

Vessel's first boyfriend was like that, and so was his first and second girlfriend. They all said they loved him, initially. Though as he went from partner to partner, the grace period where they didn't hurt him got shorter and shorter. There was little remorse to be had, but Vessel didn't expect any. He deserved it, or rather, felt he deserved the pain, the hurt. Four doesn't. Vessel knows without even a bit of doubt, that Four doesn't deserve what is happening to him. He opens his mouth to tell him so, to- to tell Four that he should leave his boyfriend but the words catch in his suddenly tight throat.

"You are... very kind, Four." Vessel settles on, the words tasting like ash on his tongue.

Four has already seen bits of what was done to Vessel, why can he not bring himself to speak of it? To- to warn the other man? Vessel is a coward, that's why. Foolishly optimistic just this once, to boot. Vessel hopes beyond hope that Four's boyfriend really will change for the better. He is not rotten on the inside like Vessel. Four is kind, so kind, so underserving of a boyfriend who treats him as he does.

"So you've said, but thank you." Four grins, cheeks still faintly red.

He's... adorable too. A blush of his own rises to Vessel's cheeks, and he realizes his mask is not on.

"This place is very pretty." Four deflects, "Lots of different reds. It's kind of unusual, but I like it."

"It is the forest around my home. Sometimes when I dream, red bleeds out into the forest, changes it." Vessel says, reaching a hand out to his side and growing a white calla lily up through the cracks of the floorboards. 

When Vessel hands it over into Four's line of sight, he contemplates telling him it's meaning. Good wishes seemed a proper gift. Vessel decides not to say anything. Four takes it with a pretty smile, Vessel no longer staring above but instead at him, taking in what features are visible, drinking him in. Mildly embarrassed, Vessel straightens his head. There is silence for a few minutes, punctuated only by Four's soft breathing. Vessel is... oddly content considering how the dream started, as well as how the last couple weeks have gone. He has been terribly lonely, though it was his own fault. Always such a coward.

"Are you happy?" Four questions, holding the calla lily out above his head, watching how the sun shines through it.

"What?" Vessel responds, confused, pausing with his own hand above his face, watching a vermillion vine creep over his wrist towards his palm.

"Are you happy? Do your boyfriends make you happy? Does the life you live make you happy?" Four asks again, turning his head to get a proper look at Vessel.

Dirt slides off his forehead, specks of it making its way out of his pale blonde hair. A smile curls at his lips, ocean eyes wide and soft with curiosity, but also uncertainty. Vessel thinks back to the bruises he sees on the other man occasionally, and wonders for a moment before the sight of Four's smile falling brings him back to the question he was asked.

Is Vessel happy?

His first response is to say no. It is met with disagreement, an uncomfortable twist in his gut like a stone has plopped right down heavily.

He is happy with II and III. They do make him happy, he realizes with a start. He is overjoyed at every moment they spend together, whether they speak or not, whether they are touching or not. Vessel is content to simply be with them. Despite his anxieties and his fears, Vessel relishes in every moment they gift him.

"My boyfriends do make me happy. My life is only worth living because of them. They are trying to teach me that I am more than what other's have done to me, more than the mess of insecurities within my own mind." Vessel says, and since Four has seen some of what has been done to him, does not feel the need to explain himself any further.

"Then there is hope for me." Four mumbles, but before Vessel can even gather the words to respond to the admission, Four is barreling on into a different topic entirely.

"Are you a God, Vessel?" There's a light laugh in Four's voice, something light and airy and inquisitive.

It's cute, but then Vessel registers the question.

Vessel's mouth gapes open at the mere notion of-

Him, a God?

"No! Whyever would you think that?" Vessel blurts, incredulous.

"Your six eyes! The stag antlers! The way I keep appearing here and all this talk of Gods." 

Vessel finds himself not surprised, not by the cloak around his shoulders, the pelt cushioning his upper back nor the decorated antlers on his head. This is all... something he had been more or less expecting, something he caught a glimpse of in the ocean's reflection when Four had seen that dream of Vessel's offering. He had expected to be changed. It is not so bad. 

"I... I also saw you without your heart. How are you alive without your heart if you are not a God?"

Vessel pales, looking more terrified than Four has ever seen on his face, frozen like a corpse beside him. "You... you what? You... you remember?"

Four stills, an expression of deep confusion overcoming his blurry features. So little of him can be seen, and yet there is so much expressiveness in the tilt of his mouth, the downturn of his eyes. "Remember what?"

Vessel tilts his head to properly face him, voice breaking on a barely held back sob, chest heaving with a steadying breath, "Remember that I do not- Four?"

"Hm? Oh, I'm waking up." Four mutters, voice slurred as if he's in a daze, hands lifting above his face.

Flickering like a dying candle, the light shining through the canopies above begin to pass right through, and then he is gone. The calla lily goes with him. Vessel is left alone, laid out over floorboards that creak with every movement. Four remembers, he knows. Vessel had hoped that he wouldn't. Now, he is sure that two people know his secret.

It was different with Terzo, but the man who will become their Fourth is another matter entirely. Vessel is afraid, and yet, beyond that fear is the realization that Four had known Vessel was without his heart this entire dream, and yet there was no fear. There was no hesitancy in touching him, in speaking with him.

Someone else knows, and while that scares Vessel, it leaves him just a little bit lighter too. He wonders what it would be like to hug Four.

Vessel has no more nightmares, after that. When he dreams, he conjures flowerbeds to lay in, listening to artificial birdsong, content to pretend that he is awake and out in Sleep's forest. He would never dare tell anyone this, but he wishes that Four were with him. When he wakes not long after Four disappears, he seeks out II and III. Apologies for pulling away and an explanation are spilled through silent tears, accepted with loving hands and gentle kisses. Vessel does not tell them of Four, but he tells them most everything else. How Vessel's greatest fear (outside of the matter of his heart) is that they will leave him all alone, whether through death or deciding they won't want him anymore.  Like every time Vessel reveals fears of his, his words are met with understanding, with love and assurances that lean into logic where needed. It helps, it really helps and Vessel is so... so grateful for his lovers. 

Still, there is hesitance when Vessel leans down to press a kiss to II's temple that morning, hesitance when II reaches out to clasp their fingers together. II notices, and considers his options.

[feather-dancer]

February is drawing to a close which means it's time for the round up again. Being a shorter month, continued cold weather and a week getting wiped out it's been sluggish. Still, it's not all bad as I'm happy to report:

As long as there are stars in the sky - Chapter one has been scrubbed

A Heart of Glass - Chapter one has been scrubbed

Focusing on Heart of Glass first, that chapter didn't need all that much fixing up outside the expected paragraph with dialogue issues and run on sentences. The opening had remnants of when it focused exclusively on Douxie meeting Morgana (If via Claire) again so this was cleaned up to flow a lot better. Otherwise it's been slight tweaks in wording, the odd typo, tense changes, removing redundancies and a surprising amount of right sentence, wrong place. There's been a few little additions here and there though nothing too dramatic, more pointing out Archie a smidge sooner as an example.

When these chapters are scrubbed will be putting the pov character in the chapter name just to make it clearer much like the Writing Memes have.

Ended up gaining another half a page and because I was curious, screenshot the before and after word count when it was updated:

Vs.

As long as there are stars in the sky though that was as expected: A slog. This was the third attempt to clean up that chapter and boy did it need it. As well as paragraph fixes, odd typo, removal of so so many redundancies and run on sentences, did a lot of other things as well. Did you know past me never bothered to put Trollish translations IN THE FILE? Well for chapter one they're there now plus some alterations! Sometimes I couldn't figure out a paragraph's original intent so had to strip it down and rebuild the thing. Not too often but Enough. Been some random pov switches that needed correcting which did mean some Archie dialogue was lost though saved it on discord. Quite a bit of dialogue in general has been tweaked to help with flow and just generally make more sense in the context? Smidge more Archie at Zimroc to further push the three of them get on so well given how important that will be. Did find a moment where time was a bit out of whack which has been fixed.

A very minor plot element has also been changed, specifically to put the amulet in the box sooner. Doesn't affect anything whatsoever just meant having to change a bunch of stuff because of it.

Back on the Trollish a moment, the most annoying part is without a doubt the html. If you caught me while doing that throughout the day there would be the updated version of the chapter, Trollish then the old version. It's much easier to put the html around existing text as you can double check it's working correctly... And also doing that as you reach it when scrubbing like this because it's such a pain to refind. If you were someone who did, sorry! Couldn't think of a way round it.

Ended up with bang on two pages with all the changes and here's the before and after word count comparison:

Vs.

Currently the Shame Chart is looking like this:

Please note: These thoughts of you is not included on the above due to being an already posted oneshot but will be scrubbed as well.

As per the polls both Stars and Heart of Glass chapter 2's are my next targets! I may temporarily wander off to chuck words in something else to give me a change from edits given I've been doing it non stop for a smidge over two months now. We'll see.

Also weather please warm up I am fed up of being chilled this is getting silly now.

[topazadine]

Common Writing Issues that Reduce Readability

A short little Monday post so that we stop pissing readers off!

Beyond the usual issues that are easily fixed, like typos, there lie a few more pernicious problems that can drag readers out of a story kicking and screaming. Unfortunately, they happen to nearly everyone, no matter their skill level, and must be watched for carefully.

Now, I want to note that I am never attempting to prescribe how you should write. However, I want you to think back to the last time you read something that made you roll your eyes and give up - it's likely that at least one of these problems was present.

Here is the sum-up, and then we'll talk details. I will be showing examples of my own writing that include these deadly sins, so feel free to point and laugh.

Double describing

Overly long sentences

Overexplaining

Head hopping

Again, a big disclaimer.

I can't tell you how to write, this is just my opinion, you are the crafter of your own story, take what you like and leave the rest.

Alright, let's get into it.

Double Describing

Describing the same thing in two different ways right next to one another feels repetitive and annoying; it comes across as self-indulgent, like you're more interested in showing off how smart you are than telling a story. I have been a perennial offender in this, as shown by my story "Beyond Mortal Sight."

Here, I've highlighted the things that were double-described in blue. This includes:

The underworld

Higekiri

The crypt

The room being mostly empty

Pick the strongest descriptor and cut the other ones. You might think that this makes your writing weaker, but it actually strengthens it, as you're not diluting the description and can move along faster.

If you're not sure whether you're double describing, try removing one of the selections and see if you're still describing what you wanted to. Maybe you just need to tweak one of them, but both of them can still stand on their own; in that case, differentiate them more, or move them so that they are not right next to each other in order to provide better emphasis.

Now, sometimes you really do want to linger on a specific description, and that's fine. However, you need to ensure that you're looking at different aspects of the same thing.

I do end up lingering on the moths for a long while, and it doesn't get too repetitive (at least I don't think so) because I'm describing different elements of them.

Overly Long Sentences

The longer a sentence is, the harder it is to emphasize certain things, and the more likely that a reader will get lost aong the way and need to reread things. Of course, we want readers to take our time with the work, but paradoxically, readers are more willing to linger and reread with shorter sentences because they're not getting frustrated and glossing over key elements.

Take a look at this section of my story "A Tale of Two Citadels," which I've been meaning to rework for ages because it has chronic logorrhea. The sheer length of these damn sentences!

Right off the bat, we see that the first sentence blasts past the typical "four lines max" rule. The second one is slightly better, but it still has way too many clauses and can be confusing. The third one can easily be cut up into at least two sentences, maybe three, without losing the rhythm.

When reworked, you can see how much better it flows by the color coding.

The sentences are still complex, but they're more manageable for readers. The longer a sentence, the more difficult it is, and the more likely that your reader will get lost.

At the same time, you do want some complexity and variety in your sentence lengths. These are all about the same length, which can become a bit boring.

If I were really committed to editing this, I'd go further and add some very short sentences too.

Reading your sentences out loud, or using an auto dictation tool, can be very helpful to see whether you're overdoing it with sentence length. If you have to stop to take multiple breaths while reading a single sentence, then it is probably too long.

You can also color-code while you are editing to see whether your sentences are all around the same length. If so, see if you can cut a few of them up.

Overexplaining

This issue often shows up more when we are explaining why something happened, but it can start to feel boring and repetitive. As an example from my story "Shattered Pieces:"

This part happened right after someone was stabbed and, frankly, takes away a LOT of the tension from the story.

Is it really necessary at this exactly this second, when someone is lying on the ground bleeding, to explain why the incident happened? No, it's not. Half of this could be removed and the story would read so much better, like so:

Now we can move to the juicy stuff of Uguisumaru lying on the ground bleeding to death. Much more important.

A crucial element of writing is to reveal details as they become important, not before. This doesn't mean hiding things from your reader, nor throwing in things at random whenever you feel like; rather, it's about not forcing your reader to do the work of holding onto this information in the hopes that it will become important at some later time.

Is what Mikazuki thinking about here really that important to the overall story? No, we don't need that information. Maybe they can talk about it later, or maybe it will never be discussed.

Now, a quick sidetrack about foreshadowing here. Great foreshadowing works by not feeling like toil and by not beating the reader over the head with the information. They pick up on it, but they don't feel like they need to hold onto it. Careful foreshadowing sprinkled throughout a story feels effortless and natural, without imposing a cognitive load on the reader.

As I've mentioned before when discussing fantasy in general, we do not want our reader to feel like they are doing work. Few of us are at the level of someone like Mark Z. Danielewski, where we can create a book that is all about doing work but readers will still enjoy it because it is that entertaining. (I did not like House of Leaves personally, but that's just me.)

Therefore, our goal is to reduce friction as much as possible while still developing a fun, compelling, thought-provoking piece of fiction. We do this by avoiding infodumping, as I did in that above passage, and revealing information as it becomes important without seeming like things just come out of nowhere. That's where foreshadowing becomes crucial.

Head Hopping

This one is discussed often, but it's also really easy to accidentally do when you're working in third-person limited (my preferred POV). In small cases of dipping into someone else's head, it doesn't really cause concern for the reader, who might not even notice it, but it does make it harder to keep track of the main POV.

It's also important not to dip too often into peoples' heads while you're doing omniscient POV, either. Here, in this segment of "Dreams Within Dreams," we have at least four partial POVs, which I have color coded:

This is technically fine for an omniscient POV, but dipping into too many heads too quickly can become overwhelming and exhausting for the reader. Thankfully, it is an easy fix by simply removing the assumptions of judgment and focusing entirely on the actions.

I mean, it's still not the greatest writing, but we have a more opaque, birds-eye view of everyone, rather than constantly jumping in and out of everyone's head.

This is especially hard not to do when you have numerous characters all together in one scene, which is why it is often easier to avoid having a huge group of individuals together, especially if you're not confident in your skills yet.

The more characters you juggle, the more you need to ensure that you're not leaving anyone out and that everyone gets at least one line without it feeling choppy. This scene definitely could have used a lot more work so as to feel more natural. But that's the joy of fanfiction! It's all about learning and growing as a writer.

Nowadays, I try to limit my scenes to two "main" talkers and then add at least one line for other side characters if I have a big group, but I specify that they're off doing something else so people don't wonder where the hell they went.

And that's about it for today! Again, my posts are never about telling you how to write. I am sharing what I have learned as both a reader and writer so that you can make the choices that best fit your story. Happy writing!

If you enjoyed this, perhaps you'll consider purchasing my book, 9 Years Yearning, a gay coming-of-age romance set in a fantasy world. Which does not include any of these sins. Only $2.99 or ZERO DOLLARS with Kindle Unlimited!

If you're not sure about spending your hard-earned money, check out this review to learn more.

[manonamora-if]

December Check-In

I promise I didn't almost forget :P Even if I definitely forgot to do the weekly devlog last Sunday... To be fair, it had been a week...

Recap of last month’s progress

IF Events in the Next Month

Plan for the next month

Still long post ahead. If you want a mini version, head over to itch.io!

November Progress

Still play more IF and maybe review. ✅

Finish the edits of Harcourt Ch5 ✅❌

Fix one of the semi-completed games: ❌either the Egg parser or TRNT (and make it a proper parser)

Finish that darn SugarCube Guide: ❌there aren’t much left in the guide to cover, but there are a few things to fix.

Again, I knocked the first one out of the park. I reviewed all inkJam, EctoComp, and Bare-Bones Jam entries (which helped me get on the main page of the IFDB). It was nice to play shorter games again - it makes reviewing pretty quick... Now that the IFComp is also over, I kind of want to go back and check out the entries I didn't manage to play.

As for the rest... It's been a bit of a hell of a month, and it's not looking like it's ending any time soon. Still, when I had some free time I managed to:

Finish my portion of the edits of Harcourt (and MelS was almost done with it... before he ran into computer problems - dw the file is safe!)

Assess the damage with The Roads Not Taken and come up with a plan to fix all of it. I also started on this one, but there is truly a lot of damage.

Make a bite game in binksi, Tower of Sleep, for the Two-Button Jam

Make a One-Button prototype, Don't press the Button, to test some JavaScript/jQuery (half-failure)

Make a zine for the first time: An Ode to Pissaladière

Make a new code template: the Character Creator

Submitted a bunch of seeds to the SeedComp!

Does it look like I got distracted by a shiny new thing instead of finishing my projects? Yes. Do I care? Nope. It brought me some joy and amusement in some weird months... Banging your head against the desk because code is not working is... not, obviously.

What’s happening in December?

A bunch of jams are happening on itch, because end of year means maybe some free time, and also, you might as well do something for the sake of saying you've made something.

The ShuffleComp (@neointeractives) has started, though the entries won't be available before January. You can listen to the kickass full playlist in the meantime!

The Sprouting Round of the SeedComp! (@seedcomp-if) has just started. There are 99 new seeds available for use to make a game! Deadline is March 1st.

The Deck-Month has just started, to make a game with Decker.

The PunyJam #4 ends in about 2 weeks (if you have the time to learn Inform w/ the Puny extension...)

and of course: la Partim 500 numéro 8, for those who want to do the Neo Twiny again... but French!

I'm probably gonna pop-off a Partim. I did it last year and it was fun :P

The PLANtm for December

December is a busy month for me, which includes a lot of time offline, full days travelling, and lots of planning. So I will take any free time I have and do fun stuff if I can!

But if I have space for IF, I'd like to:

Play more games! Well... I already am, just not really IF. My Steam Library is crying for attention. I would like to knock down maybe a dozen more IFComp entries if I can. There were a lot of good games, a lot of loooong games.

Code Ch5 of Harcourt. That will be MelS dependent - well, MelS's computer dependent...

Finish fixing The Roads Not Taken. I have a plan, I have the notes... I just need to sit down and re-code (and re-test).

Finish the Guide for real! I know SugarCube 2.37 is coming soon, which will affect the state of some pages (and maybe require more pages). BUT I've been working on fixing old pages (typos - re-explanation - clearer examples). So, this is likely to be done sooner rather than later...

~

Taking the list of TO-DO from August…

To-Do not require much of new stuff:

translate Escape Goncharov! into French. ✅

fix the bugs in EDOC + overall the French version to match

fix the bugs of TRNT + find a way to add the missing pieces (ongoing - translation unlikely)

fix the formatting of DOL-OS + translate into English ✅

update LPM with the missing content + translate into English ✅

No change this month :/

The rest of the To-Do pile was:

Finish The Rye in the Dark City (and maybe translate?)

Finish P-Rix - Space Trucker (and try to translate)

Finish Exquisite Cadaver (translation unlikely, current gameplay too complex to port for French)

Add a chapter to CRWL + fix/reopen the blog

Re-working TTTT to its originally planned state (lol, not likety)

Re-working SPS Iron Hammer (samesies)

Coding TTATEH (MelS dependent - shooting for end of year)

Emptying my inboxes (they are not all answered tho)

Honestly, this pile probably won’t get done this year…. Maybe TTATEH has a shot...

[renyanchan]

TWISTED WONDERLAND HEIGHT CHARTS (STAFF + STUDENTS)

more info + full res below the cut :,)

EDIT: Hello! I’ve completely remade the height chart and its better quality and in high order! You can find the full res here. And you can find more notes about this particular height chart below!

Below you can also find the staff and individual dorms!

Any striked out text below was in reference to the original image.

sooo, i tried to combine screenshots of the original height chart i made so i can post it here, not sure if tumblr is going to absolutely destroy the quality or not (if it does, i’ll probably edit this with a link to imgur or smth, sorry if you cant read it hgfdh) 

EDIT: I’ve updated it with Malleus’s correct height! Sorry about you malleus simps thinking he was like 8 foot lmfao

anyway i’ve got a little bit to say about this since,,, this was a mess to make (also im sure someones probably done this already, but i havent seen one yet)

This was a personal project of mine and I wasn’t originally going to post it, but I felt like it would be useful to some people,, please lmk if I messed anything up or made any mistakes because I 100% did not do this perfectly.

You’re welcome to reference all you want, but please don’t reupload it anywhere without my permission since i took way too long making this ;v;(referencing it in other posts or linking to it is fine!)

It should be obvious, but these are just the official sprites from the game and I did not draw them.

THE HEIGHT CHART

(In regards to the way I measured) Grim and all the Savanaclaw boys are measured by the top of their heads, NOT by the tip of their ears/horns. The official heights don’t specify what they measured to so I decided measuring by the top of their heads like the rest of the students makes sense. These ones are pretty much the only characters I had problems calculating their height with.

However, this makes me run into a problem such as Grim looks abnormally tall/large, but that’s probably because he’s got a chunkier body type. (we love you bby,,)

All characters are lined up by their heels, with the exception of Ortho. I measured him by the bottom of his foot because he’s a robot, and I’d imagine the platform-looking bits of his feet are connected. I believe Ortho also canonically floats slightly off the ground, but I didn’t bother accounting for that since,, I’m measuring the length of his body in comparison.

The original models are not perfectly accurate height-wise to each other, so I had to resize them. Proportions also may look slightly off because of that.

Heights are not pixel perfect, and may be slightly off.

Malleus has the tallest listed height (202cm) and that includes his horns. As such, Malleus is 193cm without his horns. Of course, proportions aren’t perfect so he looks a bit off.

INDIVIDUAL DORMS + STAFF

FULL RES: Heartslabyul / Savanaclaw / Octavinelle / Scarabia / Pomefiore / Ignihyde / Diasomnia / Staff

MY THOUGHTS

Dear lord why do you have to be wearing a hat rook

malleus is (no longer) absolutely massive

azul is so tiny??? (in comparison to the tweels at least lmfao, silver is also pretty small too but with malleus next to him ig thats not surprising)

this took way too long to make because i ended up realizing i calculated every single character’s heights incorrectly and made them significantly shorter than i meant so I had to go back and resize everyone lmfao (the heights should be correct now tho!!)

POST-EDITS (Theres going to be a lot of these,,)

There’s a typo on Silver’s height. It say’s 5′2, but he’s actually 5′9 jgfd

Malleus’s height actually includes his horns,, according to the official guidebook, malleus is 193cm without his horns. He’s pretty much the exact same height as Jack. (thanks to @/pocasu for letting me know ^^) (to be completely honest i thought it was extremely absurd that he was 6′7 without his horns but i had no frame of reference fghdgf) (EDIT: i’ve fixed his height!! For reference, Malleus is 202cm including his horns!)

Completely updated and remade the height chart! She’s pretty now haha. Thanks for the overwhelming support on this, it was fun to make and I appreciate those pointing out any mistakes i made!

[library-child]

Hello, do you have any tips on to improve on writing style?

Hi, thanks for asking me. :) Of all the bloggers you could have asked, you picked the one who has posted only ONE one-shot to this day, but here we go. Below are some things I've found to be helpful:

Character, perspective and tone

I think it's vital to figure out who your narrator and your characters are and what situation they're in. This will influence their voice. Are they more likely to speak in longer or shorter sentences? What kind of words do they use? Is your narrator tied to the perspective of a particular character? What do they know? On a similar note, consider the tone, theme, and emotions you'd like to evoke.

Crop

I tend to write too much repetition/filler content, so I need to trim my story down quite ruthlessly when editing. I want each word/sentence/paragraph to convey a certain point, and if it's unnecessary, it has to go. Most of my favorite lines still get to stay; they just need to fulfill their purpose.

Dialogue tags

When writing dialogue, you often don't need tags like "...x said", etc. As long as you make it clear who's speaking, you can let the conversation flow and give the reader some space to imagine the characters' voices. I mostly use dialogue tags for clarification or to set the tone.

Problem phrases

While revising your text, you'll likely come across some words or phrases you were unintentionally using too much. I had an onslaught of "only" and "as if" in my first draft, for example. Make a list of these problem phrases and remove them one by one. You can also watch out for them in the future.

Use a spell and grammar checker

This is especially important for me as a non-native speaker, but it's always a simple way to fix typos, missing words, etc. You can also use it to remove redundant words or be more concise. Just take the advice with a grain of salt, as not every suggestion will actually work for you.

In the end, I think a lot of "style" comes down to editing and figuring out what story you want to tell.

[the-writers-bookshelf]

Hey Aubrey, happy FabFriday :-p

What about "The hushing", do you want to share news with us? I'm just tooooo curious...

Now for the question: I've become aware of a pattern in my writing over the last few months. And when I read your October 3rd post "stop being a perfectionist" it hit me like a punch, I felt so caught. That's exactly what's been driving me. I write regularly, circa 3/4 of all days, and for all stories it's the last 5-10% (sometimes just a few sentences) that keep me from publishing. I have the whole story fleshed out in my head, but instead of writing it down, I check the wording of the previous sentences a thousand times. In addition, there's the fine line between enthusiasm to finally be able to share the story and sadness because I don't want to release my baby at all, to give it away. Maybe I'm getting in my own way...?

Thoughts? Please do tell. <3

Sooooooo.... 👀 The Hushing has been published with the caveat that the last few chapters are still with my proofreader. But any typos can be updated whenever and I expect those few chapters to be in my hand this weekend. Then I'll be jumping into marketing with both feet next week and that's when I plan to officially announce that it's live! :)

I put off publishing for SO long because I was massively anxious about getting it out there (like repeatedly waking up in the middle of the night with stomach pain due to so much anxiety).

So I told myself I couldn't put it off any longer and I just had to do it!

It's also a tad shorter than I'd wanted it to be. But I'm chalking it up to a learning experience and I'll work on a longer tale next time around! :)

It's live on Amazon here! (But seriously, I will totally send you a free copy if you're interested! ;)

Absolutely TOTALLY understand being a perfectionist and it's a TOUGH habit to break sometimes! Ultimately, it will take recognizing the root of your stumbling block and finding ways to cope with it and get past it the best you can.

For me, my perfectionism came from the fact that I've had some editors (and readers) give condescending comments when they find a mistake, as if I should know better than to make a typo. Or my pacing was too slow (in their opinion), and they got really nasty about it (an editor literally told me, "Yes, we KNOW already! Get on with it!" which, btw, is highly unprofessional).

So I came to associate mistakes with shame and feeling incompetent, rather than a simple thing to fix. That led me to be preoccupied with my mistakes rather than telling the story and it slowed me waaay down. I felt like I couldn't share my work with anyone until it was spit-polished a thousand times in case someone saw a mistake and scoffed that I called myself a writer.

When you mentioned that you don't want to give your baby away, it sounds like you might have 50/50 feelings about sharing your work. You like showing your work to the world because you get feedback, you get readers, etc. which is what every writer wants!

But once it's out there...do you feel like it's not *yours* anymore? Or do you worry about negative feedback ruining your enthusiasm for the story? Or is something else about it getting under your skin?

For rechecking your work repeatedly, that sounds like something you will have to talk yourself through. Like pep talk yourself, "I've done the best I can on what I've written so far and I will continue to write new progress today."

You could try freewriting - just word dumping into a doc or on real paper - the scene(s) you want to write next. That might get you warmed up and ready to jump into your writing rather than stuck in editing mode.

You can set a timer for your editing mode. Then you have to switch over to writing mode.

You could dedicate certain days to editing while other days are for writing. Sometimes, you just might be in editing mode and that's okay! :)

You could set publishing deadlines for yourself to use as goals. That way, you don't spend a lot of time on editing and you're forced to make progress instead. This depends on you and your process though! Sometimes, deadlines can make people freeze, but it can motivate others.

You might also want to have a project or two that you DON'T share with the public if it's causing you stress. Sometimes, writing for the public eye can make us write a certain way that puts pressure on us. But when we write for ourselves, we feel more liberated and we can say whatever we want.

Whoa that was a long response! But I hope some of that helps!! ♥

I really like Craig Martelle's Youtube series: Author Five Minute Focus. He's the brains behind 20booksto50k which is all about making a living at writing, so a lot of his tips are marketing heavy. But you can skip those. He's loaded with priceless gems about cultivating a strong author mindset!

I've found a number of his videos talk about perfectionism and how it slows you down. It really helps to hear from an author who has written LOADS of books say that mistakes are not the end of the world. Just take a deep breath and tell a good story :)

Whoa that was a long response! But I hope some of that helps!! ♥

[relatablegenzwriter]

my oddly specific short story editing routine!

One of my short stories made it into the editing stage, a rare feat for anything I write. I’ve been asked for editing advice before and didn’t have a good answer, so I’m hoping I can be of more help now.

disclaimer: this is the method I’m currently using to edit a short story, and it’s working very well. This exact method might not (probably won’t) work the same for novels. It’s also very specific and strange. It’s worked for me so far, but like all things it might not work for everyone!

1. Take a break. If you’ve just finished a piece, chances are it’s gonna be in your head for a while. You’ll want to take a significant period of time away from it, and this can vary from person to person– a week might be enough for some, others might have to wait a month, a few months, or even a year. Or maybe you want to edit a piece you drafted a while ago and then left alone. Either way, this break is going to be important in letting your brain rest and experience things outside of this story.

2. Once you’ve put it out of your mind, reread your story. Read it once without making any tweaks; don’t even fix grammatical errors. Just perceive this story as if you’re reading it for the first time. Make note of what is confusing, what worked well, and any questions you would have as a reader.

      2a. Optional: have someone else read over it and give some feedback. This        will give you a good starting place. If you skip this step, take extra care to          read your story as if you were reviewing someone else’s for feedback.

3. Make a list of big questions. This is either stuff you got from feedback or questions that came up when you were reading it as if you had never read it before. Common examples include: “What is character A’s motivation? It’s hard to tell in the story” or “the relationship between these two is confusing” or “Why did so-and-so do this when they would normally do that?” Often times many questions will overlap into a single topic, so you might be able to narrow it down to just a few categories.

4. (this is where it gets a little weird) Pick one of the categories you just generated, and pick a timeframe. I usually do a week, but you can go shorter or longer depending on your availability, writing routine, and deadline. In this timeframe, you’ll be revising your piece around that specific category.

       4a. I like to spend a day or two brainstorming and freewriting about that             topic. Sometimes I’ll do character questionnaires or plot worksheets (some         of my favorites here), and sometimes I’ll just write what’s in my head.

5. Print it. If you have access to a printer, this is going to be EXTREMELY helpful. Go back and read it again, this time marking up the margins. Be as picky as you want here. Highlight every phrase that annoys you, change every typo, and write in things you missed the first time around. Also add in details from the category you’re focused on that week, like places you can add more detail or sections you want to cut.

6. Open a new document and retype the story using your printed manuscript as a reference. No copy-and-pasting from the original document! This tricks your brain in two ways: it’ll make you feel more productive since you’re physically typing more words, and it makes you more likely to catch errors or notice any additional details you want to change.

7. Repeat 4a.-6. with the other categories you want to focus on.

8. Print one last copy, and use a final timeframe to work out anything you might have missed the first time around.

Where you go from here will vary. You might feel done, and that’s great! You might also find something completely new that you want to change about your story, or you might want to show it to someone else to get more feedback, and that’s totally fine too. And a couple takeaways: is editing a pain in the ass? yes. is it the reason i’ve abandoned nearly all of my projects at one point or another? yes. is it worth having a finished piece you’re proud of? yes. are you capable of doing it? yes!!

[mandadoration]

you’re a fine girl - i

summary: Agent Whiskey would really like you to say his real name for once, and you refuse, playing this little game of his until he finally makes you say it. The circumstances for it aren’t exactly ideal, though. 

word count: 3, 758

pairing: agent whiskey (Jack Daniels) x reader

warnings: canon-typical violence (and then some), swearing

a/n: Don’t ask me how the layout of Statesman HQ works. I really don’t know, and I’ve watched the movie to try and glean some more info, but I’ve decided, like many things, to bullshit it. This will have a predetermined length of three chapters!

chapters: i 

Read this on AO3

You think it’s hilarious just how stereotypically American the Statesman agency was. Besides the front of it, a Bourbon whiskey distillery that just happens to have racehorses (you never understood that part) on a large expanse of land and have a large influence on the liquor industry all over the US, the agents that were a part of it were just so in-your-face full-blooded American. Hell, even your equipment reflected that, with electric lassos and souped-up sawed-off double barrel shotguns, to cowboy boots with razor sharp spurs and Stetsons designed for stealth and espionage. Statesman was 100% committed to proudly showing off their roots. But you couldn’t really shit on them too much since you were one of their agents as well. That would be severely discrediting you and the work you do.

Even if some of the agents teasingly call you a city-slicker. 

Although you were a Statesman through and through like your mother before you, you had been raised on the less… southern half of the country because of where she was mainly stationed. Good ol’ New York was a whole different territory than Kentucky. She had still made sure you kept up with your training and be ready at a moment’s notice to take over for her. Statesman were proud of their line of agents, names often passed down from parent to child. Built in loyalty, you supposed, and a good way to keep an eye on those who knew secrets. As the world expanded and keeping the peace grew harder by the minute, they’ve strayed far from that tradition, and the organization grew to include people that had no prior connection to it. Your mom had been insistent she at least stay true to that part of Statesman, and often showed you how to watch over New York from the high rise building to groom you for the position in the future until you graduated from your unofficial codename of Ice Tea. But you had moved south to live on a small ranch a few miles from the distillery after she had died on a recon mission instead of staying up north in the concrete jungle. You inherited her position and her moniker as Agent Brandy, supervisor of the intelligence part of the agency and relocating to home base at the same time, but Agent Whiskey had taken up position up in New York in your stead. 

Speaking of Whiskey, there he was, sauntering up to you with a smile playing on his lips as you flicked through reports on your tablet. You spare him a quick glance and a polite smile before you turn your attention back to the reports and mission debriefs, hoping that was enough to leave you alone, but instead he leans against your desk and crosses his arms, and you try your damndest not to look at how his arms make the seams on his jacket strain.

There’s no animosity between you and Whiskey at all, and you’ve said as much when Champagne informed him he would be taking over the New York territory instead of you. You didn’t feel guilty or mad or anything really that you decided to move closer to Statesman because it was your choice, and Whiskey had taken it in stride. You two were just doing your jobs, and that was all. You would even go to say that you were close friends with him, giving him pointers about the secrets of New York while he told you all the gossip about the other agents. The work he did would make your mother proud. 

But why was he so insistent on hanging around at the Statesman headquarters in Kentucky so much?

“Your mission debrief isn’t scheduled until Tuesday, Agent Whiskey,” you say, eyes roving over your calendar before swiftly swiping it off your screen to pay closer attention to Tequila’s report. That man was awful with writing. Did he even have the spell check on? You click your tongue and run the editing software, intent on letting that run in the background while you browsed through various agent requests (there was Gin asking if you could fashion a 200 proof liquor), but Whiskey puts a hand on your tablet and pushes it out of your view. 

“I know, sugar,” he says in that damn Southern accent that manages to make your ears burn. “Just thought I’d come down here to see my favorite intelligence supervisor.” You roll your eyes, but can’t help the smile that threatens to split your face. You turn your tablet off and put it down.

“Do you know many intelligence supervisors?” you ask, but your efforts to get him to leave are already an afterthought at the back of your mind. Every time you hold a conversation with him, the amalgamation of your New York and Southern accent sounds crass compared to the honeyed drawl of Whiskey. Two completely different regions. You suppose he might feel the same whenever he’s in New York. Perhaps you two had more in common than you had initially thought. 

You’re off track. It’s maddening how easily he is able to pull a smile or a laugh from you and completely derail you. Even on the worst of your days, he’s able to ease you with just a reassuring smile or touch. Whiskey shrugs and shifts where he sits. 

“You got me there,” he laughs. “But that don’t mean I can’t come see you, does it?” You rest your chin on your hand as you fiddle with your tablet pen. He’s trimmed his mustache, you note.

“I suppose it doesn’t, Agent Whiskey,” you say. Anytime he flies over to the Statesman HQ, you usually see him the same day he lands, if not, you’re the first thing he goes to see. It’s sweet. 

“What does it take for me to convince you to call me Jack, sweetheart?” Whiskey asks, nearly whines, really. He’s been insisting you call him by his real name in private recently, insisting that you were far past those formalities. 

“When you stop calling me those pet names of yours,” you retort back. He looks mock-offended. 

“That’s never gonna happen,” Whiskey says. You raise an eyebrow. 

“Then there you have your answer,” you say simply, and go to pick up your tablet again when it chimes, but Whiskey stops you and pushes it back down flat against the desk. 

“You work too much,” he says, as if that was a decent enough reason to interrupt your work. “Pay some attention to me instead.”

“And I’m starting to think you don’t work enough,” you sigh, and slide the tablet out from under his hand and you turn it back on and check over the editing software. “God knows you spend enough time pestering me.” You don’t tell him that you don’t mind. In the hectic pace in your lives, Whiskey is a nice constant that you find yourself falling back on. 

The software has managed to fix most of the typos and obvious grammar issues, but it’s mangled the nuances of Tequila’s informal writing. You sigh again and swipe the report onto your computer screen to manually edit it before you can send it to Champagne. Whiskey hops off of your desk, and he walks around it to lean over your shoulder to skim the report as well. 

He’s close enough for you to smell his cologne. Smoky, mellow, and warm. 

“Why don’t you just send that off to Ginger to edit? Or Soda?” he asks, voice rumbling in your ear. “‘m sure you have other things to do other than grade Tequila’s piss poor work.” You clear your throat and try your best not to become too distracted. 

“They don’t have high enough clearance to read this report,” you answer. “Nor do I think they have the patience to. Besides, Ginger is tech and Soda is medical. They’d either shoot themselves or shoot me.” Whiskey laughs and leans in a little closer. 

“But I have the clearance to read this as you edit?” he asks, voice low. “You flatter me, Brandy.” You blink, then gasp, whirling around in your chair and narrowly missing clipping his chin with the back of your chair as you push him away from you and back around your desk, smacking him as you do.

“You are a menace!” you exclaim. Whiskey just laughs, humoring you and letting you push him when it would be frightfully easy to just stand there. He blocks your hits and eventually grabs a hold of your wrists to stop you. 

“You love it,” he says, and your face flushes as you try to scowl at him. 

“Get out of my office so I can finish this report,” you order, pointing at the door. Whiskey pouts, but makes his way to the door. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he sighs. He tips his hat at you. “You be a good girl while I’m gone, sweet thing,” he says in a sing-song voice, and the door clicks shut behind him before you can do some serious bodily harm to his person. 

---

You don’t really know what constitutes being “a good girl”, and you don’t really have the chance to find out because you meet with Whiskey again a few hours after he had barged into your office when Champagne calls you up to discuss some technicalities that he had remained vague on.

It’s a short underground tube ride to the Statesman office building a few miles outside the distillery, and an even shorter elevator up to the top floor. Whiskey is already there when you walk in, so you go ahead and take a seat across from him, pulling up your notes in case anything important pops up. You give him a small wave, and he tips his hat at you with a smile. You turn to the man sitting at the head of the table.

“Well, Champ,” Whiskey says, “why’d you call us here?” Champagne fiddles with the lid of a decanter of whiskey before he smacks his lips together and leans back in his chair. 

“Statesman is considering adding another location in California, and I need your expertise,” he announces. He motions to you. “Sent the plans to your tablet, Brandy, but here’s the gist.” The t.v. screen at the other end of the table switches from Statesman stocks to a blueprint of a high rise located in San Francisco, alongside some smaller buildings scattered over the city. “I’m planning on sending Chardonnay over to oversee construction, but this is only the third location to be located in such a large city.” You skim over the notes. Although they wouldn’t be building a distillery, there would be a sub-HQ over there, as well as some Statesman-sponsored bars to keep up surveillance. “The first one being New York, and the other in Nevada.”

“Is there something we should keep an eye on?” you ask, scrolling through various material requests. While the other could handle the usual materials, you would have to put in a special order for the military grade stuff. “What’s the occasion?” Champagne shrugs when you glance over your tablet. 

“It’s been something I’ve been thinking about,” he says. “Stocks are doing good, and there's no looming threat- seems like a good time as any.” You nod. 

“Then why us?” Whiskey asks. “I think Brandy is more than capable of handling this herself.” Champagne furrows his brows. 

“You are in charge of our New York office, aren’t you?” 

“Brandy grew up preparing to take over for it,” Whiskey says. 

“Well--”

“He’s right, sir,” you pipe in. “Whiskey’s about to go in for a mission anyways. There’s no point loading his already full plate. I can handle it.” Champagne presses his mouth in a hard line, but eventually taps the table. 

“Alright then. Brandy, I’ll let Chardonnay know you’ll be taking part in it so he can refer to you with questions. Agents, you’re dismissed.”

Whiskey moves for the door, but pauses when you don’t follow him. You wave him off. “I’ll catch up with you; just need to talk to Champagne about something.” He nods, and leaves. You back around to face Champagne with narrowed eyes. “What are you up to, old man?” He tilts his head and pours some whiskey into his glass. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Bringing Whiskey into this,” you clarify. “You know I can handle this project by myself; why try to rope him in?”

“Thought it be a good experience,” Champagne says, taking a sip and swishing it around his mouth before he turns to spit it out into the spitoon. You wrinkle your nose. 

“For Whiskey?”

“For the both of you,” he corrects. “Whiskey gets to learn more about the technical aspects, you get to, well, spend time with him.” You raise an eyebrow.

“And I want to spend time with him because…?” 

“Don’t you know?” Champagne asks. You shake your head. 

“What? We’re good friends, but we’ve got different jobs,” you say. “So I don’t see a reason why I should be spending time with him outside of what’s necessary.” Champagne just hums with a pensive look on his face. 

“Alright then, girl.” He waves a hand at you. “Off to work.” And Champagne doesn’t elaborate any further. 

---

You are far too busy trying to sort out the semantics of some sort of stirrings of a coup on a Chilean website to go and debrief Whiskey when Tuesday rolls around, so you send Ginger in your stead. She accepts without complaint, but you can see how she frowns when you tell her so. You’ve never gotten the details as to why the two never seem to get along, but Ginger is the most capable person you can think of to take care of things when you’re not able to. 

It takes you a solid 45 minutes to try and go through the Chilean Spanish compared to the Castilian variant you know, but you determine that the rumors of a coup bears no real weight and all it is are empty threats despite the traction it’s gained so far. You suppose you could’ve run the translation, but there were too many nuances and codes that couldn’t be translated over. Just to be sure, you set up a surveillance bot to continue to track the progress and alert you if anything significant happens. By the time you do, Ginger walks in, looking a little frazzled. You frown. “You good, Liz?” Ginger just puts down the debrief folder on your desk as she plops down in the chair across from you. You raise an eyebrow, but slide the folder over and survey the notes she’s taken during the debrief. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just Whiskey complaining that he has to fly to Spain to deal with some black market firearms dealers that have gotten too confident. Apparently last time he was there, some sailors tried to swindle him. There’s some quotes of his with choice words in the margins saying so, accompanied by a doodle of him with an angry expression. “Whiskey give you a hard time?” you guess. She nods and takes off her glasses to pinch the bridge of her nose. 

“I honestly don’t understand how you can stand him sometimes,” she says. You shrug. 

“He treats me fine, if not a little persistent,” you note mildly. Ginger snorts and puts her glasses back on. “Hasn’t given me a reason to dislike him. Yet.”

“That’s ‘cause he likes you,” she says. Your stomach flutters at her comment. Then after a moment of pondering, Ginger says, “Think he was in a bad mood because you weren’t the one debriefing him.” You frown. 

“Would it have mattered if I did?” you ask. “You’re perfectly capable.” 

“It’s not capability,” Ginger sighs, leaning forward and resting her forearms on your desk. The motion jostles the cup of pens on your desk and you reach to adjust it back to its place. You click a few things on your computer to pull up the flight details for Whiskey. Scheduled for 5:50pm, an overnight flight that lands in a remote location in Madrid where then he would be promptly escorted to Andalucia. 

You wonder if he’ll come visit you before he leaves. 

You shake the thought out of your head before you go back to look at Ginger, who’s looking at you curiously. “If not capability, then what?” you ask, fighting to keep down the blush that’s threatening to overtake your face.

“You really don’t know?” she asks, almost critically. You furrow your brows. There’s that question again. 

“Is there something I should know?”

Before Ginger can answer, a knock resounds at your door. You give Ginger an apologetic look before you call out, “Come in!” You don’t know why you’re surprised, but it’s Whiskey, again, with a bright smile on his face before his eyes darken at the sight of Ginger. She bristles.

“I’ll see you later,” she says, reaching over and giving your hand a small pat before she gets up to brush past Whiskey, and she closes the door behind you. Whiskey seems to relax at that, and takes the seat she was in. 

“If you’re here to complain about going to Spain, Agent Whiskey, I can’t do anything about it,” you immediately say before he can get a word in. He takes off his hat and puts it on your desk, running a hand through his hair. 

“I wasn’t here to complain,” Whiskey says, chuckling. “You wound me, Brandy.” He puts a hand over his heart and stares at you with a woefully sad face, looking at you with big, warm brown eyes, akin to a kicked puppy. “Missed my favorite intelligence supervisor at the debriefing.” You throw a pen at him, but he just catches it and puts it in with the rest without breaking eye contact. 

“Doubt you’re here just to see me,” you say. “Shouldn’t you be packing for your flight?”

“I’ve got time,” Whiskey says. “If I remember correctly, it’s not until 6:00. Gives me a little under 2 hours until I gotta leave.”

“5:50,” you correct him automatically. “So less than that. You’ll wanna leave in an hour or so to account for traffic.” The grin that spreads across his face makes your heart beat a little faster. 

“You keepin’ track of when I’m ‘bout to leave?” he purrs, leaning forward. You scoff, but think in the back of your mind that there’s some truth to that. 

“I’m the one that booked your flight with Triple Sec,” you say dryly. “Be weird if I didn’t know what time exactly, Agent Whiskey.” Whiskey hums, but leans back in his chair and spreads his legs in an almost obscene matter that leaves you thrumming in your skin. 

“Jack,” he says.

“Hm?”

“My name is Jack.” You laugh. 

“I know what your name is, Agent,” you say. “It’s kinda my job to know everybody. Feel like we’ve already talked about this about a million times by now.” 

“Still, it’d be nice to hear you say it,” he says, almost absentmindedly as he picks at his nails, brows furrowed in a vulnerable expression. Your face falls at his soft tone. To be honest, your refusal to say his name was more because you perceived it as a game. Whiskey would press you to actually call him by his name, and you would coyly refuse, and he would leave with a promise that he would get you to say it one way or another. But something is clearly bugging him. 

You reach a hand forward, towards him, touching the other edge of your desk. Close enough for him to reach for it. His gaze snaps to your hand, and something tells you that Whiskey wants to. There is some kind of longing in his eyes that the firm, hard line of his mouth is trying its hardest not to betray. “You okay?” Whiskey’s fingers twitch. Something holds him back. 

He clears his voice, forcing a smile on his face, and the moment is broken. “Right as rain, sugar,” he says. “Pre-mission jitters, I suppose.” You suppose that’s not totally unwarranted. Whiskey would be going on into the field on his own due to the delicacy of the mission, the only backup available being Triple Sec piloting the plane. And, well, Whiskey didn’t exactly blend in with the typical Madrid population with his loud voice and louder personality. Statesman didn’t have a base out in Europe either. You give him a reassuring smile, and you try not to think too hard at how the tension seems to melt out of him at that. 

“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” you soothe. You retract your hand, and honestly at this point it seems as though Agent Whiskey has taken up permanent residence in your mind because you swear you spot some sort of deep emotion as his eyes trail after it. “Just like you always do, Whiskey.” The muscles in Whiskey’s jaw work as he clenches his teeth together before he claps his hands and stands up, that same charming smile on his face but not quite reaching his eyes. 

“Well I suppose that is some improvement!” he says. You tilt your head. 

“What do you mean?” Whiskey pulls the flask off his belt and takes a swig. 

“Got you to say my codename without all the preamble, now, didn’t I?” he says, winking at you. You stammer and flush red with embarrassment. He holds up his hands in surrender. “Now before you start wailing on me like last time,” he says, “I’ll see myself out. Like you said, I still need to pack. I’ll see if I can bring back a souvenir for you while I’m across the pond.” You cross your arms. 

“That won’t be necessary.” Whiskey shrugs and heads for the door. 

“Can’t stop me, can you?” You smile at him. 

“Guess not,” you say, almost to yourself, then your gaze falls to his hat still sitting on your desk. “Wait, Whiskey, your--” He holds up a hand. 

“Hold on to it while I’m gone, ‘kay?” he asks. You nod. “Good girl. Give me something to look forward to when I come back.” You make a motion to grab a pen, bursting out laughing when he moves to catch it when you feign a throw. He smiles, too, more genuinely this time. “See you in a couple days, darling.”

And you can’t help but start to miss him when the door clicks shut behind him. 

---

Forever Tag: @mabelleen​ @mando-vibes​ @isaissafail @adikaofmandalore

[bitletsanddrabbles]

Theater vs. Books

One thing that has routinely shocked me in the Downton Abbey fandom is how little people seem to know about how TV works, particularly when compared to written fiction.

Examined logically, this should probably not be surprising. I’ve been involved off and on in school plays, church plays, acting camps, etc. for as long as I can remember. I actually went into university on an acting ticket, only to switch when I realized I’d get ulcers if I tried to make a living at it. Between writing classes and Dad going “Honey! The Vacation Bible School skit scripts are terrible again this year! Can you fix them?” I have way more scripting know how than I realize, not to mention directing since I then directed all the skits. I took a few combined study classes in college that involved film and, of course, my BA is creative writing, which does not make me the be all and end all of writing knowledge (there are people who haven’t taken a writing class in their lives who can out write me), but does mean that I have more idea what the different parts of a story are and how they fit together than someone who just took high school English.

However, one of my personal neurosis is that I know the education system I went through is substandard and that I am bad at research, therefore I expect the entire world to know more than I do. From a logical stand point this is rubbish, but try telling my psyche that when someone talks about how bad an actor is and then holds up a badly directed piece with a lousy script. (Guy in high school who insisted Nicole Kidman couldn’t act because Batman Forever, I am so looking at you.)

I mean, really. It doesn’t matter how much I’ve done or how much I know. If I am the only person on the planet who did not, at age five, win an academy award for my first screen play, which I also produced, directed, and starred it, everyone else should know more than me.

Don’t think I can’t see that trophy you’re hiding behind your back.

So for the sake of spreading awareness of what education I do have and helping my neurotic little mind cope with the reality that I’m not the least education person on earth, I’d like to make a few points on theater - both stage and film - versus the written word.

- Theater is an incredibly limited art form. Unlike prose where your narrator can spend pages taking you deep into a character’s psyche, most theater is restricted to communicating entirely thorough what can be seen and said in dialogue or monologue. Some theatrical pieces do use a narrator, but a lot of disadvantages to this in an acted piece (it creates pacing issues, people find it off putting, etc.), so it’s not common.  Now, since people perceive emotions differently based on their personal experience, getting an entire audience on board with a nuanced performance is basically impossible. Take sarcastic characters, for example. In a book, you can say that a character made a sarcastic joke that wasn’t meant to be malicious, but that people got offended anyway. Different people will read it different ways - some people will insist it was malicious despite the explicit statement it wasn’t, etc. - but the story has told you the impression you’re intended to get. In theater, your actor has to be sarcastic, the other actors react poorly, and even if you write in, “I was only joking, geeze”, it’s up to the audience to decide whether that was true or not.

So no matter how good your actors, directors, and writers are, it will always be tricky to nail down the intended authorial intent of any one scene or character.

- Theater requires a large budget. Writing does not. Seriously, these days technology is all about multitasking. It’s pretty much gotten to the point that you can buy a toaster and write a story on it. The most expensive books to write I know of are the early Harry Potter novels because JKR wrote in notebooks with pens. Oh yeah, and she bought coffee to drink while she did it. Now, you can argue that computers still cost a fair amount of money, but they’re pretty much a one time expenditure (unless you insist on upgrading or you break it or something basically not-inherent to computer owning).

Every time an actor walks on a stage or screen, they earn money. Every time a character changes clothes, that costs money. Every time there’s a scene (mostly stage) or location (mostly film) change, that costs money. Every time something catches fire, that costs money. Every rehearsal costs money. Theater is one, big shopping list.

- Theater has time limits. Books do not. One of the things in the budget for a theatrical production is space for that production to be seen. It’s a stage or a park or a movie theater or TV air time. All of that costs money and how much you can buy depends not only on how much money you have, but how much time the owners of the theater, park, TV station, etc. are willing to give you.

This means unlike book editors and publishers who can look at a work so stinking long no one would pay for it or want to hold it up long enough to read and go “Sorry, Mr. Tolkien, but we’re going to have to break this into three parts,” the people writing scripts need to try and meet a strict time limit - not shorter, not longer  - and if they go over, the editors have to actually take stuff out.

The closest thing writing really has to this is things like drabble challenges where you have to tell a story in an exact number of words. When these first hit Live Journal they were popular because they were a challenge. When they started losing favor, it was because 90% of the time you wound up sacrificing good writing for word count.

Theater, thankfully, is generally a bit more forgiving, but still. Telling a segment of story in a one hour time slot - or a full story in two hours - is not a walk in the park.

- Theater is not a one pony show. There are so many times I have seen people criticize an actor or director or script writer for something that is blatantly not their fault (see above), that I can’t even begin to count them. Theater is a group effort. If someone blows their lines, it’s not the script writer’s fault. If a director insists that an actor ham it up, that is not a reflection of the actor’s skills. There are times when directors actively screw up the action and the script writer doesn’t get a chance to fix it. An example of this is Downton Abbey, season two, where Anna and Ethel were supposed to be fluffing the couch cushions - the part you sit on - by dropping them. This was filmed as them dropping the throw pillows, which made no sense, and by the time Julian Fellows got to see the rushes, there wasn’t time (or money) to redo the scene. So we’re stuck with two maids who apparently don’t know how to fluff pillows and, if you do know how to fluff pillows and have not read the scripts with authors commentary, an audience who assumes that the writer was the person who got it wrong.

- In theater, especially film, mistakes are forever. This is more or less true in traditionally published writing as well, but it’s amendable. If an author makes a typo or gets off in their timeline or forgets where Dr. Watson’s war wound was in the last story, it’s set in stone for the already printed edition, but can, if the author so chooses, be corrected in later printings. Similarly, in stage theater a gaffed line is gaffed and there’s no un-gaffing it, but you can get it right in the next show.

An error in film is set in stone until someone decides to do a remake.

- In no institutionalized story telling medium is the audience comprised of one person. Unless someone is telling you a bedtime story, the story is not meant to cater solely to you. In fanfiction, which is amateur by definition, you can appeal to as niche a group as you like. In professional story telling, you need to appeal to as broad an audience as possible if you want to be successful. In theater, with it’s time constraints, this means every time spent on one plot line is time that can’t be spent on another plot line. In order to please the fans of character A, you have to take story time away from the fans of character B and vice versa. It’s a balancing act where you try to please everyone, and pleasing everyone is impossible. And everyone I’ve seen say “We really didn’t see enough of (x) in this show! We were robbed!” has a plot (y) that “served no purpose” that could have been sacrificed for their satisfaction, but guess what? Someone loved plot (y), wanted to see more of it, and thinks (x) could have been cut out to make that happen. The reason the creator gave us a little bit of both instead of a lot of one and nothing of the other is not because the don’t care about the fans of (x) or (y), but because they care equally about both of them.

They have to.

It’s their job.

[darkestwolfx]

Rigged for Disaster - Re-Review #50

So, ‘Inferno’ has been posted about fifteen minutes ago, and this should now be posted like I have scheduled! Due to CITV changing the episode air times, again, the Re-Review Series will be returning to it’s original 6:30pm upload time. Except today, there are two. Inferno was like a bonus, and this is the actual episode that aired.

Unfortunately, as I’m still working, I didn’t really have the time to write two for you today, but I’ve managed to do it by making this one a little shorter (and possibly rushed), so if things are missing, I apologise (but you did get two, so forgiveness?) and I may well come back and edit at a later point.

So, first off, I adore the fish in the opening shot! But I couldn’t find a decent picture of him :(

Secondly, anyone else getting TOS ‘Atlantic Inferno’ vibes?

“The crew’s worried about that storm, boss!”

“They should be more worried about their jobs! Tell them to get back to work.”

Well, this guy can be added to the Hall of Shame set up in my last review.

“Flying car?”

Yep. She’ll teach you a lesson mate.

“Ready Parker?”

“Ready, M’Lady.”

These two, are always ready.

“Rig Supervisor Malloy, I assume.”

Malloy, from ‘Brink of Death’ (TOS)...

“She’s no hordinary do-gooder, mate. ‘ere’s the contract to prove hit.”

“What my driver means to say, is I’ve just become the owner of this oil rig.”

“Is she for real?”

“Yes. I am. And my first order of business is to decommission oil production on this dreadful rig. It’s a disaster just waiting to happen. And hazardous for everyone on board.”

Well, since you’ve said it Lady Penelope, shall we just dive in?

“Oooh-wah! *Rig breaks apart and guy falls to the floor (is the eye patch coincidence or do we think he’s lost an eye on this rig?* I’m ok!”

Point proven. Disaster #1 (although a minute one)

“That’s the overboard alarm system.”

I’m honestly surprised - with the state of this rig - that they have one, and even more so that it works!

“Someone’s gone over the edge!”

“Help!

Disaster #2. Look at her, hanging on and screaming for dear life. That’s obviously what you get for siding with the “New Boss” when your old boss is a little like a pirate criminal.

“Parker, have you driven one of those before.”

“hI can drive hanything, Miss.”

“Take it down. Ahh! Parker!”

“Sorry. ‘ard to get the knack for this hone.”

Thought you said you could drive anything, Parker? I had complete and utter faith in you, as well.

Speaking of Kayo as well, why is she there? She just turned up out of the Shadows. Makes sense I suppose.

Anyhow, onto Disaster #3. Fire!

“Steady Sherbet.”

“Woah Parker!”

“Sorry, M’Lady! This his heaven ‘arder than the last hone.”

Yeah, maybe next time we should say almost anything. To be strictly correct.

“hIs hit supposed to sound like that?”

“No! Get to the other side now!”

Sherbet! Did you see Parker’s face at the little paws scrabbling for purchase.

“hUp we go!”

“Parker, you saved Sherbet!”

“We’ve hall make mistakes, M’Lady. Get hoff!”

You can tell the level of affection has changed though. Parker doesn’t really mean that anymore.

And that was Disaster #4.

“International Rescue, we have a situation.”

“That looks more like a disaster than a situation.”

Thank you, Virgil.

“You’ve got to evacuate before the whole thing goes under.”

“The submerged platform is damaging the pipe.”

“We’re talking thousands of barrels worth of oil spilling into the ocean.”

Disaster #5 in the making.

“I’m going to remain on board and keep the pipe safe. As they say, the owner always goes down with the rig.”

“I don’t think anyone says that.”

“Well they should.”

“Parker, fire up FAB One.”

“Right haway, M’Lady.”

“So, he’s good to drive?”

“This one’s a little more his style.”

A lot more his style, thank you. And I think Parker probably could drive most things. Just not things you find on an oil rig.

“It worked! The platform has stopped sinking.”

“Something’s popping hup hon the hinfrared sensor. Crikey! There’s people inside.”

And here comes Disaster #6.

Where’s Virgil? We could really do with him right about now.

“But Mr Gordon’s the honly hone with that sort of diving equipment.”

The look on her face was enough to say that Parker was wrong. I wonder why Brains was making her a diving suit... Hmm?

So, we’ve got Doyle using the crane, and Kayo assisting with Thunderbird Shadow, whilst Parker is dog-sitting and Lady Penelope is going for swim. I think that covers it in like the three minutes-ish I have left to type all of this.

“M’Lady, hI’ve got hevery faith hin you, but that new heva suit ‘asn’t been tested.”

“And I can’t think of a better time to try it. Who knew Brains had such an eye for fashion.”

It does look kinda fashionable. Look at Sherbet! He always looks fashionable too. 

*Bark Bark*

“hOh no! M’Lady, something is coming this way! Something big!”

“Well that is rather distressing.”

My advice - as someone who cannot swim and really doesn’t big bodies of water - get back in the car. Fast.

Or just ignore me and hang on for dear life. That works.

“Don’t worry, Sherbet, she’ll be hokay. hI ‘ope.”

She always is. In fact, all of you are. You’re a pretty good team. Although the upset when they think they’ve lost her and then the hand on the window. Love this scene.

“hAwww, she’s making me blush.”

Thunderbird Shadow really can do a bit of heavy lifting. A bit. I mean, the crane struggled and Shadow’s engines struggled and the platform tumbled.

“I can’t hold it any longer. It’s pulling me down.”

It was nice to see TAG try and write a rescue for Kayo though, although they definitely wrote her ship more for bad guy chasing, not even dual purpose.

“Without the crane there’s nothing we can do!”

“Anyone need a lift?”

So Virgil arrives to save the day by doing some heavy lifting - and dissing of Kayo’s ship.

“It can barely fly, let alone lift anything.”

It’s a true observation based on previous efforts, but the idea to use Shadow as  grip does actually work. I will admit I was skeptical.

“It worked!”

It did! Magically all of the above Disaster’s were fixed or averted! How grand is that!

Honestly, I’m sorry I couldn’t write anymore (or all of this in a better way), but my fingers are tired from trying to type quickly without making any typos so this is what it is.

See you all tomorrow!

[darkpoisonouslove]

I retaliate/reward you with writer asks 2, 3, 4, 12, 22, 24, 36, 37, 39 and 42 ;D

Sounds good to me. XD

Okay, let's break these down. (I've crammed things that should be separated in different paragraphs in the same paragraph because of the structure of the ask. I just think it is easier to navigate it that way even if more paragraphs would make more sense. That way every opinion is constricted in one paragraph and you can tell which point it refers to easier. (At least imo.))

(I can't put a read more link rn as I'm on mobile. Sorry.)

2. Don't use adverbs

I cannot begin to describe to you how much I LOATHE this. It is, by far, some of the stupidest writing advice I have ever read. No, I don't care Stephen King supports this. Stephen King writes mostly horror and in horror you need to maintain suspense so short and to the point is definitely better and cutting adverbs is certainly a way to do that. However, I don't think this applies to all writing. I think this isn't really a genre thing as much as it is a specific case by case thing. And in most instances I think this advice is bullshit. Think about it. Language was created to allow us to express ourselves. Cut all adverbs out of it and that narrows down your way to express yourself. It's kinda like "Oh, hey, my leading hand serves more purpose. I should probably cut off the other one because it's not that effective." Congrats, you just crippled yourself. It's the same with language. Why would you deny yourself the help of an entire group of "tools" to express yourself? I just don't understand it. I suppose you've seen the posts going around about "good" and "bad" adverbs so I won't go into that as I agree that an adverb is a good idea when it adds some meaning to the word that wasn't there before (eg. "cried happily"). Sometimes it can actually make things faster to just "tell" them rather than show them through the context. I think adverbs are as neat as any other part of language and deserve their place in writing.

3. Write what you know

Yes, you should know what the hell you're writing about. Whether it was something that you were familiar with before you started writing or you did your research on the matter. I might be a little biased on this because I kinda hate doing research so I can be swayed towards write only what you are completely familiar with but that would just make things boring. So I think you can write about stuff that isn't quite your area of expertise as long as you put the effort to research it to the proper level depending on what you need it for. If it's more of a mention, you don't need that much knowledge about it but if you intend to make it the subject of your writing, please make sure you understand what you're going to be talking about in the entirety of your story. I am begging you because when you don't, we end up with stuff like 50 Shades of Grey (and I'm not just talking about the sex parts since this book is full of poorly researched stuff that, shockingly, ends up being unbelievable at best, potentially harmful at worst). However, I think that applies to a greater degree to published fiction rather than to fanfiction but let's not get into that debate since it's a completely different topic and I already veered off course.

4. Avoid repetition

This I mostly agree with but it depends on the purpose of the repetition. If it is done in order to establish a theme or motif or to emphasize a point (without overdoing it, of course), I fully support it. (I do that a lot in my personal writing and it shouldn't be that hard to find examples of it when looking at my fics ("What Is the One Thing That Can Never Break?" is the best example of this but I have done it countless times in most of my fics if not all of them since this is one of my fave techniques).) However, there is a thin line between establishing a theme and making dead herrings aka something that is brought up repeatedly without any point to it other than boosting the word count since it doesn't lead to anything and it was already discussed at a prior point (which I might have done a few times myself in some of my longest fics). If you're bringing another angle to an issue you've already looked at or are furthering the point, you should be fine but this is indeed a thin line to tread so it demands a bit of caution. I do believe repetition can be a valuable technique in specific circumstances, though, so it all depends on how it is used.

12 is already answered here

22. Do not use semicolons

My personal opinion on this isn't very applicable to anything else because I am not really quite sure how to properly use semicolons so I avoid them. I also don't really like them in other people's writings. I'm sure they have their uses but I think a lot of authors also overuse them to make those horrendously long sentences that I hate (but have started becoming guilty of as well even though I think that if you can't remember how the sentence started at the end of it, it is too long and needs to be split in some way). It is why I haven't bothered to learn how to operate them. XD But I think that my point about adverbs should be applied here as well. It is another tool you can use and I am sure it can be helpful. So I am not necessarily against it and wouldn't tell someone to stop using them. Only, maybe try using full stops as well? And I'll try to do the same because, like I said, I have started becoming guilty of paragraph long sentences as well. (Just to be clear, sometimes longer sentences are okay. But not when literally every sentence is over 150 words. You need to break them down, spice it up with shorter sentences thrown in the mix.) Also, I think this is an instance of the trap of "bigger is better" for a lot of writers except that here it is "longer is better". It really isn't. And I can tell you why. My scenes have started getting thousands of words long and if I were to write novel, I could hit 50k words with about ten scenes. Most novels are up to 120k words total. Those would be 24 scenes in my numbers but don't you feel like a novel will need more than 24 scenes? Consice writing is definitely a good idea and it is much harder to cut things rather than to add (at least for me). Fanfiction gives more room with the word count but I still think that it is important to be able to convey your point in as little words as possible. (Btw, this is a tangent but long sentences and semicolons appear a lot in academic writing and I hate it even more there because it makes it more incomprehensible than it needs to be (and in a lot of cases it already is written to be as incomprehensible as possible). Just... start another sentence, I am begging you. This one already is a page long, for the love of everything in the world.)

24. Don't edit as you write

A complicated one. Mostly because I have done this. I used to do it a few years back. I (mostly) don't do it anymore. I might stop to edit a typo or change a sentence that just doesn't read right but nothing bigger than that. And you should, arguably, not do that either. Why? Because you may end up deleting the entire paragraph, page, chapter and all that perfecting will have been for naught. It has happened to me when I spent a ton of time perfecting the first chapters of several of my works and some of them I will never finish while others actually need to start from a different point in time so the whole chapter needs to go. Along with all of my efforts. I would say this is mostly for longer and chaptered projects since the structure of a one shot (depending on the length) is easier to figure out and you probably won't need to rearrange parts of it. And if something is really poking your eyes out, you can fix it real quick. But once you have the whole thing, it will be easier to see what needs to stay, what needs to go and what needs to be changed. Sometimes the temptation is hard to resist and it's fine if you give in as long as you're doing it with the knowledge that "yes, this may be all for nothing but I can't look at it like that for another second". Sometimes I would say that you need to go back and see where everything derailed if you can't move on. There was good advice that if you're stuck, the problem is probably a few paragraphs before the point where you hit a wall and it has helped me get over a block a time or two. However, if you can move on without touching anything, you probably should. That can also save you from deleting something that is actually good. I have felt like the whole thing I was writing was terrible but holding back from deleting or even altering anything and, instead, giving it some time to breathe has saved a few fics along the way from being completely butchered. So I think this is, generally, good advice because of the reasons I listed but just like any other rule, it can be bent and broken. (I would say fixing typos is a form of bending it which I allow myself all the time. Spelling is just really important to me.)

36. Never use a verb other than 'said' to tag dialogue

I hate this specific phrasing of it a lot. Never start any rule with never. Of course, you need to use other verbs as well since they were created to express the wide range in which a person may speak their chosen words. My problem with this is the reason that is usually given for it and that is that it distracts the reader. It has never distracted ME. Not a single time. And while I agree that using said most of the time works since people usually speak in a calm, even, steady manner which to describe as simply "said" works well enough, I think that other dialogue tags have their places too. Because people don't always say things. Sometimes they scream them, sometimes they whisper them, sometimes they hiss them, sometimes they snap and so on. Here I think a better phrasing would be to use Syndrome's lesson again that "when everyone is super, no one will be". Dialogue tags different from said are supposed to direct your attention to the change in tone. They're supposed to stand out. If everything stands out, nothing will. (This philosophy is so applicable to so many things and I think we have to take a minute to appreciate how valuable the lesson of "The Incredibles" is.) So as with every other writing tool, if used accordingly, dialogue tags (all of them, not just "said") can only be of help and will not hinder you in any way. Just don't put more frosting on the cake than there is cake, you know?

37. Do not start a sentence with a conjunction

FUCK THIS RULE so much. This one you have to keep to only in academic writing. The moment you step through the threshold of creative writing this rule should be crushed under your soles. I often start sentences with "and" or "but" because I am looking to emphasize whether this sentence agrees with the previous one or not. Think about it. When you say "I liked him. But I didn't trust him.", it reads very different from "I liked him but I didn't trust him.". It focuses your attention on that contrast and makes you pay more attention to the objection to the first sentence that comes in the second. That can be incredibly valuable and help emphasize what you're saying in a more subtle way than repetition would. This is one of my favorite techniques of focusing the attention on where I want it to be and I will never give it up. Sue me if you want. And see if I care.

39. If there's a story you want to read but it hasn't been written yet, you must write it

Must is too strong a verb. You are not obliged to write anything. I couldn't possibly write everything I want to see written in a single lifetime. Calm down there. I think what people need to understand here is more that "if you want the story done the exact way that you would do it, you will have to do it yourself because no one else will do it the very same way". Doesn't mean that someone can't come close enough (I had that luck once) but it is unlikely that they'll do it in a way that you won't have any complaints about. So, really, "if you want something done right, do it yourself". But this can also mean "you have something fresh that the world needs because no one else has done it yet" (or at least not the same way you would do it). Which is cool but you really don't owe anyone anything. If that story is what you want to read and write (emphasis on that because writing is hard and takes a lot of energy, guys), then great! Go right ahead. But if you don't feel like doing that, you can leave it alone. Someone else might do it in time but with that we loop back to my previous point. I think that you should write whatever you want to write whether no one has written it before or it has been done hundreds and thousands of times.

42. Write your first draft by hand

Very mixed feelings here. I used to do that. The main reason for that is that I didn't trust myself to edit quite as sufficiently if I wrote it directly in a document as I would if I had to transcribe it from paper to the computer. For me personally, it is easier to change sentences when there is only blank space after that sentence since I don't have to worry whether the next sentence I have will still make sense once I'm done rewriting the current one. It was just easier to change things. A way to deal with that is to just press enter a few times before you start editing the sentence so that it looks like there is nothing after it and you're free to change it as you please. However, writing directly in a document is definitely faster and since I was having a lot of things to do in a limited time, I started doing that. It helped get over the fear of a blank page to a degree. It is faster. And I don't think I have noticed a change in the quality of my fics. Not a negative one at least. I just know that if I had had to write the 10k+-word ones by hand before typing them on the computer, I would've lost it. It would've taken way more time and patience than I was willing to give these ideas. Writing the words by hand sometimes helps me feel them better, though, (if that makes sense) and I wouldn't completely give up on it. I like to go with my intuition when deciding whether to write it by hand or type it directly in a document and it has worked out well enough for me so far.

[introvertmagick666]

Story #3 Time to train you pt 1

It had been heretic yesterday, being dragged from one clothing store to another. And, getting measures for the maid uniform. However, Asmo and Lucifer kinda bickered about the length and the cleavage issue of the maid uniform Christine would wear. Luckily, she was was to wear at least modest, custom black dresses depending on the season. But today, she was waiting in the room not far from where Lord Diavolo office was. She was a little nervous, and for a good reason. He was serious, and rather scary. While waiting to meet him, she seen lesser demons wear olive green button up shirt with a black jacket like uniforms with red little capes on there shoulders walking with there books and such since the Devildom schools were done for the day. She never wore uniforms, since she attended school in the United States and a public one at that.

The clearing of a throat caught her attention, looking to a very tall, well built dark skin red hair male wearing a red school uniform. By him, was a shorter male with dark green-blue hair wearing a similar color button up under his uniform and a tie. "Hello, sorry to be a bit late. You must be Christine, please come in." The red haired man spoke.

Christine stood up, she was wearing a nice dress that looked rather comfy. Following behind them, she watched the red haired man sit behind the desk. "Thank you Lord Diavolo, its an honor to be here."

He smiled, "As its honorable, for me as well. Though, its somewhat unfortunate I couldn't meet your mother Cheryl. I once went to a nice restaurant she was working, back when you and your folks lived in Florida and was astounding by her cooking."

Christine blushed, hearing clattering which her eyes were drawn to a cart full of sandwiches, a tea pot, tea cups, and some desserts. Diavolo chuckled, "Oh, my manners. This is my personal butler, and close friend Barbatos."

Barbatos bowed, "Pleasure too meet your acquaintance. Care, for some tea?"

Christine shook her head, "Um, no thank you. I'm not exactly a fan of hot tea."

Barbatos placed his hand on his chin, "Well, we do have some soda, and ice water. Would, either of those two be good?"

Christine pushed a hair strand behind her ear, "I'll take some soda, thank you."

Barbatos leaves, leaving Christine and Diavolo alone in the office. "So, I know that you were hired to cook for Lucifer and his brothers at there home. But, due to some unforseen events they lost there housekeeper as well. I would hire someone else, but, I am already tired up with tape with the other two human students, and the angels that will be here for the exchange program. So, the human that will be living with the brothers and you as well, might help you out with anything you need."

Christine smiled, "It's alright, I can actually handle some housekeeping duties on my own. But, I might need assistance with the stairs and such. A few years ago, I injured my knee cap and since then going up and down stairs is a bit dangerous for me."

Diavolo nodded, "That's understandable, were making negotiations with getting a service elevator built in the manor for you. Also, I did let Lucifer know that we might need to fix up his kitchen as its a safety hazard for you."

The sound of Barbatos footsteps approached them, handing her the soda can which he went to wash his hands. "I must apologize, their was an incident with the food vending machine."

Part 1 is done...this is going to be a long story

Edit: I made an oopsie with a typo...its been fixed

[nanowrimo]

Naps, Hooks, and Cookies: How to Tackle the Editing Process

Whether you wrote a collection of short stories this May to celebrate Short Story Month, or whether you finished a draft of a novel during our last Camp NaNoWriMo session, editing is the next step of the writing process. Today, NaNoWriMo novelist E. L. Johnson offers some advice on how to fall in love with the editing process... or at least, how to learn to live with it:

Hello Writers!

So, you’ve written a novel. You’ve gotten to know your characters, you’ve created story lines and navigated your way around plot holes to come out the other side. Now it’s time to edit.

Here are my tips on how to tackle the editing process:

1. Take a Break.

Take the month off, seriously. You’ve spent time getting close to your story, now you need to step away from it. Do the dishes, reorganize your closet, spend time with your friends, and binge watch a TV show. In short, do anything and everything but spend time looking at your novel.

Once you’ve taken a break and hopefully a well-deserved nap, it’s time for...

2. The Big Picture

Make an outline of your story, scene by scene. If outlines don’t help, try writing out the synopsis (people hate doing it, but it will be helpful in the long run).

Here you should figure out what doesn’t work. Go over the big overarching plot. Refer to your outlines or synopsis and restructure your scenes so they make sense.

3. Characters

Do you have too many characters? Or three characters named Sarah? Are they essential to the plot or can you cut out or merge two? Too many characters can confuse the reader.

Consider your characters’ voices. Do they all talk the same? Are they very polite and sound like they’re from the 19th century when they should be talking about spaceships or the Watergate scandal? Give your characters unique voices.

4. Build the Tension, Keep the Pace

Think about tension and pacing. Does your first chapter end with a cliffhanger? Make sure your chapters flow and connect well to each other. Do you need long descriptions if it’s a car chase? If you’ve got a dramatic scene then shorter, choppier language can build the tension.

5. The Nitty Gritty

By this time your writing is solid. The story flows, the characters aren’t all named Sarah, and you can spend some time on the nitty gritty details.

I’m talking line by line analysis—where you read every single line and check that it works. Fix the language you use. Check for typos and grammar mistakes.

Look for certain words you use again and again. Do a search for passive words like ‘was’, and ‘were’; thinking words like ‘wondered, thought, pondered,’ and empty modifiers like ‘really’, ‘very’, ‘extremely’.

Show, don’t tell. You’ll hear this time and again. Take a close look at your writing. Show me the depth of your main character’s despair, don’t just tell me ‘he was sad’.

6. Reading Time!

Print it out and read the story. Use that red pen!

Fix the story and give it to a friend to read, or your publisher, editor or agent. Take any criticisms of the story on board, but above all, remember that you are the author and this is your work. You don’t have to agree with everyone.

Once you’re ready, take a few days off and read it again, out loud.

Bring it to your local writers’ circle and read a few pages, get others’ input. Share your story with a few trusted folks in return for a coffee or cookies. People will do a lot for cookies, especially homemade ones.

And when you can’t stand to look at it anymore, you’re done. It’s time to put it out there in the world.

Remember, you’re a writer. You’ve got this!

E.L. Johnson is a novelist with too many history degrees. Fleeing the colonies to study medieval history, she arrived in England and discovered a love of crumpets and cream teas. Now working in London, she writes during her commute and gets paid to tweet, when she’s not singing on stage or running a book club. Johnson’s first historical fantasy novel, Wolf’s Blood, began as a NaNoWriMo project. Published by Azure Spider Publications, it is available now on Amazon. Read her book or follow her on Twitter.

Top photo by andrea di on Unsplash.