#i tried doing nanowrimo a few times and its literally nothing

[cryptidjeepers]

saying that being anti ai (ai as in generative ai art or writing) is being classist and ableist is so fucking insulting lmao i cannot get over it

[a-vintage-snake]

9. In All My Dreams I Drown

Pairing(s): Pre-romantic Dukeceit

First chapter - Previous chapter - Next chapter

Warnings: Implied child abuse, vomiting, dirty humor, basically Remus is Very Thirsty™ for that Snake Booty Characters: Janus “Deceit” Sanders, Remus Sanders

Summary: It is time for Remus’ first magic lessons

Word Count: 10213

Author’s Note: Heeeey there... Been a while, huh? Sorry if this took so long, I had to take a mental health break from writing for a while. But the good news is that I joined NaNoWriMo! I didn't hit 50k unfortunately, but I did hit nearly 30k! Anyways, enjoy!

Taglist: @avocados26, @fandoms-will-collide @nottoonormalme, @bihighandgivinghighfives, @atticusfinchthelegend​, @hekking-happy-nonsense, @lockmcduckwoodchuck

If you want to be removed or added to the taglist, just ask!

Read on AO3

He was floating.

Remus wasn’t sure how, but it didn’t matter. He felt light as a feather, a drowsy grin stretching on his face. His gaze idly, unhurriedly, moved up. Stars and galaxies twinkled above him; shining in a symphony of colours that made him half-heartedly wish he had his sketchbook with him. Their light was filtered however… As if he was looking at them from underwater. Was he in the ocean? How was he even breathing?

Remus leaned back against his partner, and all those silly questions left his head. The man behind him was the only solid thing in this floaty, tranquil world of his, and the only thing that mattered right now. Hands ran down Remus’ body, lazily exploring his skin. They traced down his back in small circles, before sliding up and pulling through his hair, making him almost purr in contentment.

“Aren’t you a lovely thing, my little prince.” A voice amusedly crooned into his ear. It was not just a voice. It was without a doubt the loveliest voice Remus had ever heard, and he would never tire of listening to it.

“I’m your lovely thing.” Remus answered with a grin.

“Are you now? Does that mean…” Remus felt a playful bite in his neck, scales dragging along his skin. “You want to stay with me?”

“Yes…” Remus answered in a haze.

“Will you be loyal to me?”

“Yes…”

“Will you help me?”

“Yes…” Remus moaned. “Yes.”

Abruptly the man behind him disappeared and Remus fell. He shouted in surprise as gravity suddenly had its hold back on him as he crashed hard into the painfully solid ground beneath him. Bewildered, he sat up and looked around. The stars above his head died away, one by one. Until he was left in pitch-black darkness.

“Worthless traitor.” A chorus of new voices echoed, the sheer disgust in them making Remus’ stomach turn.

“No! I’m not-! I don’t-!”

“Turn your back on us, after all that we have done for you.”

“You’ve done NOTHING for me!” Remus screamed as he shuffled back. “You deserve what’s coming for you!

“Deserve?” The voices laughed coldly. “You know what you deserve?”

A harsh wind knocked Remus back onto his back.

“You deserve to be punished.”

No! Anything but that! He tried to stand and run, but painfully bumped his head into a sudden low ceiling. He crumpled to the ground, nursing his aching head. The groaning sound of wood and stone surrounded him, deafening him.

The walls-! The walls were closing in!

“No… No!! NO!!” Remus screamed as the room became smaller and smaller, pushing onto him until they were squishing him down. It didn’t stop him from kicking and banging at the unyielding walls, his arms and legs barely able to move in the space that kept getting smaller and smaller. Even as he screamed as hard as he could, he could feel the air becoming thinner and thinner. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe-!!

Then he heard it. The sound he always dreaded. A lock falling into place and a key being turned.

“That is what you deserve.” The cold chorus of disgusted voices said from beyond the walls.

“NO!! PLEASE NO!! LET ME OUT, PLEASE LET ME OUT I WON’T THINK I WON’T SPEAK!!” Remus banged and pounded as the walls pressed in, slowly suffocating him. “JUST LET ME OUT PLEASE!!”

“PLEASE!!” Remus screamed as he rolled over, fighting against the hold the walls had on him. Funnily enough, now they seemed to yield a little easier. They felt a lot softer too. They were white. They were… Sheets?

Panting Remus sat up and looked around wildly. Rough stonewalls, large windows showing mountaintops and a sky slowly turning bright, a small desk and a fireplace… This was not his room-! Where the FUCK was he-??

-Lovely mismatched eyes, looking at him like he was a puzzle he wasn’t quite sure how to solve yet-

Slowly Remus’ breath evened. Oh. Right. Not a hopeful fantasy then. The last few days actually happened.

“Stupid fucking dream…” Remus muttered, trying to free his arms from their cotton prison. Fuck it, the dream had started out so nice too! The ghost memory of the hands in his hair made him sigh. Couldn’t that part just have continued for a little while?

As he sat up and tried to shake away the lingering dread the dream had caused, he looked around his chambers. Heh, funny how his actual life had become more dreamlike in just three days. It was almost impossible to believe!

…Unless he was still dreaming?

He pinched his arm. Nope, definitely awake, and still in the castle of a legendary warlock, who somehow seemed to tolerate his company enough to let him stay here.

…Not only that, he remembered. He was going to be taught magic.

Instantly erasing any leftover terror the dream had caused, Remus grinned widely.

“WOOO!!” He yelled, throwing himself back onto the very soft bed. He rolled around giggling wildly. It got him tangled in the sheets even further, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t hold in all the sheer excitement even if he wanted to try. Him! Him, learning magic!! Remus, the wizard! Remus, the sorcerer! Perhaps some day even… Remus the warlock!

Finally slowing to a halt Remus stared up at the ceiling for a while, his mind reeling with the options of what could happen today. Would he be taught how to do light illusions, just like he had seen on his ninth birthday? Or would he make potions like Virgil did? Perhaps he would be taught how to summon fire!

And let’s not forget just exactly who would be doing the teaching... Remus bit his bottom lip, excited anticipation making him squirm in his place. He had never understood people who had Sexy Teacher fantasies, but oooooh man did he get them now. It would just be the two of them, literal magic in the air… The idea alone made his heart flutter. Ugh, gross, his heart fluttered. Was this how Roman felt whenever he saw Patty-cakes? How did he ever get anything done?

Finally untangling himself from his sheets, Remus jumped out of bed and sprinted towards his luxurious bathroom with an eagerness he hadn’t felt in, well… Ever. He washed and dressed himself hurriedly.

“Right,” He said to his reflection. “Rough start yesterday! But it doesn’t matter! I can still turn this around!”

Can you though? The voice of reason chimed in. Oh wow, he was early today.

“Yes I can! I just need to make sure to act like Roman, and everything will work out just fine!”

Your disillusions could almost be called cute, if they weren’t so damn pathetic.

“Whatever,” Remus dismissed, ignoring the swirl of uncertainty in his stomach. “I just have to channel my inner Roman! I gotta think like Roman!” He placed his fingers at his temples. “Become the Roman! Right! What does Roman like??” He slapped his cheeks. “What. Does. Roman. Like?”

Remus wracked his brain for a few minutes, staring at his reflection with all the concentration of a child trying to win a staring contest.

“…Horse riding!” He eventually blurted. “Chubby men! The latest fashion trends! Boring dinners! What’s that? Why, I certainly want to kiss that ugly ass baby of yours! Just as long as it doesn’t drool on my ivory jacket! No, it’s not white, it’s ivory, you uncivilized peasant! Oh, let me just flip my luscious locks in this non-existent breeze as I trot towards the dance floor!”

Satisfied Remus nodded at himself. Oh yeah. He had this in the bag.

Leaving his chambers Remus took off towards the dining room. It had taken him a couple of hours yesterday, but eventually he had found his bedchambers again, where a small lunch was waiting for him. He had taken the rest of the day to map out the route between his bedchambers and the dining room until he was confident he could find it without too much trouble. Honestly, this place was a goddamn maze.

In the end he took only one wrong turn before he found the dining room again. The warlock wasn’t there yet. Remus shrugged off his disappointment as he took the same seat as he did the day before. He supposed he was too early anyway. The sober food hadn’t changed; they were still the same plates filled with fruits, dark bread and dried fish. Not exactly a varied diet in this castle, heh?

No matter. Remus' stomach growled anyhow. He already reached out to fill his plate, but paused midway. Uncertainly his hand hovered over the food. Was he… Allowed to eat now? His host hadn’t arrived yet… What if he accidentally insulted him by not waiting for him?

He shook his head. It was not worth the potential reprimand if he did eat. So Remus sat back and waited.

And waited.

Remus wiggled in his seat, tapping his fingers against the wood of the table. Boredom quickly took over. Fuck, he shouldn’t have arrived this early. Now what was he supposed to do?

He eyed the spare firewood for a second, but the dinner knife turned out to be too dull for whittling. He really missed his sketchbook by now. Why oh why hadn’t he brought it on his quest with him?

With nothing else to do Remus let his head fall back against the chair and started to tap out a little tune on the table. He hummed lowly, little no nonsense lyrics floating to his brain as he experimented with the melody.

“Went to the mountains today,” He sang to himself. “Went to the mountains and expected to slay… Little did I know that I would stay, oooh that I would stay…”

Really getting into it, Remus gently started tapping a knife against his glass alongside his other hand that still tapped the table, creating a whole new melody.

“Went to the mountains to find my destiny,” He now rocked back and forth in his chair. “How could I know that instead destiny would find me?”

“Very lovely.” A voice commented. Remus jumped in his chair with a shout, knocking over his glass. His heart beat a mile a minute as he turned to the right, finding the warlock sitting in the opposite chair, looking as hot as ever. Eris was once more wrapped around his shoulders, and the cobra glowered suspiciously at him.

“An original?” Deceit asked with a half smirk.

“Uuh, yeah,” Remus nodded as he looked between Deceit and the door, which he confirmed with a quick glance was still closed. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack or is scaring people shitless just a hobby of yours?”

Fuck, Remus cringed, that was too forward, wasn’t it? Too Remus, not enough Roman. Luckily the warlock only shrugged.

“Nothing like a little scare in the morning to get the blood pumping, as I totally always say,” Deceit grabbed an apple from the fruit plate. “Don’t you agree?”

Remus quickly nodded. He would agree with anything as long as the warlock just kept talking in that velvety voice. Somehow he kept forgetting just how brain meltingly gorgeous it was.

“You’re quite early.” The warlock said as he rubbed the apple against his sleeve. “Bad night or just eager to start the day?”

“Eager to start the day!” Remus beamed, cheerfully ignoring his dream from last night. “I am ready to do some magic!” Enthusiastically he started piling his plate full. “Let me just eat something real quick and then I’m ready-!”

“You haven’t eaten yet?” The warlock frowned.

Remus halted. “No…?” He said uncertainly.

“Why ever not?”

“I… Uhh…” Remus fidgeted. “I wasn’t sure if it was… Allowed?”

“Allowed? Oh stars above…”

Remus cringed. He did something wrong. Already. For fuck’s sake, the day hadn’t even started yet!

Obviously. What did you expect?

“I’m sorry.” He said quickly.

“No, you don’t need to-! Remus, understand this,” The warlock’s voice lost all its teasing quality. “You are completely free to do whatever you need to make yourself at home here. You don’t need my permission to eat, drink or otherwise make yourself comfortable. I mean, goodness,” The warlock huffed a laugh as he lifted the apple to his lips. “Next you’ll ask me to bathe you.”

Remus quickly shoved a forkful of fish in his mouth before he could moan out ‘Oh, please do’. The salty flavour sobered him up enough to not let any delightful bathing fantasies grab his attention for too long. Chewing like his sanity depended on it Remus quickly shoved a few more bites into his mouth, looking to his right to show that yes! He was eating now! Only to find that the warlock paid him no mind, focusing on his own food instead. Deceit’s fangs glistened in the light of the fire as he finally sunk his teeth into the apple, breaking the skin and taking a bite. A drop of juice gathered at the corner of his mouth, and he absentmindedly licked it away. Did Remus’ eyes fool him, or had it been a split tongue he had gotten a brief flash of?

Remus had to gulp and swallow his food, even though it was too big of a mouthful to go down comfortably. This was unfair; this was so unfair! No one was allowed to be this hot while just eating a fucking apple, of all things.

He wanted to lean forward and kiss him breathless. He wanted to taste the sweetness of the apple on his tongue. He wanted those fangs to bite his bottom lip, a low growl emitting from the warlock. He wanted to pull back, look in those mismatched eyes and hear him say-

“You’re stabbing your face with a fork.”

Remus blinked, the images disappearing, leaving him with the very real warlock giving him a weird look. “Wha…?” He asked dumbly.

“The fork you’re currently stabbing in your own face?” Deceit repeated deadpan, and now Remus finally noticed the pricking sensation in his cheek. He floundered, almost dropping the utensil as he quickly threw the fork over his shoulder.

“I do that! Sometimes!” Remus fumbled as the fork landed behind him with a ting. “Part of my, uuuhm…” Shit, shit! Quick! What would Roman say, what would Roman say??

“…Skin care routine?”

Somewhere, somehow, Remus’ inner Roman started crying.

“Ah, of course!” Deceit said. “How silly of me, to just forget the single most important step of every skincare routine!”

“HAhahahha, yeaaah…” Remus choked. “So silly!”

“Well then,” The warlock dropped the half eaten apple on his plate. “If you’re finished with eating and your, ahem- skin care routine,” Deceit rose from his chair. “How about we get started?”

--

“What are we going to do first??” Remus asked, barely able to keep himself from hopping up and down as he followed the warlock through the castle’s halls. “Fire from my hands?? Light illusions?? Holy shit, am I going to learn how to teleport??”

Eris gave him a disapproving glare, but the warlock only chuckled. “While I appreciate your enthusiasm, we’re going to start with something different.”

“Oh.” Remus shoulders sagged. “Like what?”

Deceit threw him an amused look over his shoulder. “Like some beginners lessons, perhaps?”

“Aaaw…”

“No need to sound so disappointed! We’ll get where you want eventually.”

“Tomorrow?” Remus hopefully asked.

“No.”

“Aaaw!”

“Honestly,” The warlock laughed and stopped in his tracks to turn to him. “Do you expect to become an expert at everything you do within a day?”

“No, but I would sure as hell would like to!”

“Don’t we all…” The warlock shook his head. “But I’m afraid that’s not how it works. Magic, like all crafts, requires studying, time and discipline.”

Remus grimaced. Oh great, his least favourite STD.

“Look, I know you said you’re an amazing teacher, and I believe you!” Remus tried again. “But I was not joking when I said I’m horrible at learning!”

“I still don’t believe that.”

Trust me, you will, the voice of reason piped in, making Remus wince.

“Isn’t there like a magical amulet or something that can give me super instant magic?” Remus asked. “Instead of wasting your time?

“That’s now how magical amulets work, or even how magic works,” Deceit laughed. “A magical amulet can only enhance a person’s magic, not create it.”

Not even trying to stifle the desperate whine that left his throat Remus threw his hands up in frustration. “Then how does magic work??”

The warlock thought that over a few seconds. “Imagine…” Deceit eventually slowly said. “Imagine the world around you as a calm lake. And see magic as dropping a stone in the middle of that lake. One small act creates a ripple, which spreads over the water. Changing the world as its waves surge through it. Of course, that calm lake would have remained a calm lake if you had never been there. Because those ripples start…” Deceit tapped a finger against Remus’ chest. “With you.”

Remus held a hand over the place where the warlock touched. His heart thrummed against his palm.

“So…” Remus frowned, his head slightly spinning. “Magic is like water where I dropped a stone in…?”

“Correct.”

“…But if that stone sinks, does that mean the world will just swallow up my magic? And if they’re ripples, does that mean that magic eventually becomes less powerful the more it spreads?

“I-” Deceit blinked a few times, looking mildly bewildered. “No? I mean, that’s not-! Look, it’s not a perfect metaphor-!”

“Also how big is the stone? I mean a stone won’t give much ripples! Why not throw a rock in? A boulder?? An entire mountain-!”

“The point is!” Deceit interrupted. “That all the things you wish to do won’t be possible if you don’t summon your own core magic first! That is the key to magic, not spells or potions!”

“Does that mean spells are the ripples-?”

“Forget the ripples!” Deceit said through gritted teeth.

“Right, sorry.”

The warlock raised a hand. He closed his eyes and when he opened them, his eyes were burning in that now familiar spellbinding molten gold. The gold spread through his veins, his face and hands coming alive like rivers of lava rushed through him instead of blood. Even Eris lit up, the ridges between her scales glowing gold as if red hot coals burned inside of her. Remus stared breathlessly as Deceit became a living golden statue, light pouring from him and Eris, lighting up the dark hallway like they trapped sunlight in their very forms.

“Summon your core magic,” Deceit spoke, gold pouring from his mouth. “With it you can accomplish anything your heart desires, and change your world.”

Currently what Remus’ heart desired was finding out if Deceit’s tongue would burn his if he leaned in and captured those lovely lips in a kiss, but somehow he didn’t think that’s exactly what the warlock meant.

“Summoning my core magic!” Remus grinned and clapped his hands. “Awesome!” His grin tempered somewhat. “How do I do that?”

Deceit closed his hand, and the glow in his eyes and veins disappeared. Eris returned to her normal state as well. Remus blinked some spots in his vision away. His eyes had to get used to the sudden darkness of the hallway again. Taking a calming breath Deceit crossed his arms at the small of his back.

“Close your eyes.”

Remus frowned but obeyed, uncertainly closing his eyes.

“Breathe in deeply,” The warlock’s voice ordered. Remus inhaled. “Very good. Now exhale through your mouth. Think of nothing. Let all thoughts pass by and leave you…”

Think of nothing? Well shit, if that was a requirement for using magic he was fucked.

“Relax your muscles. That includes that frown you currently have.”

Remus quickly relaxed the muscles in his face, allowing his shoulders to sag.

“Continue to breathe deeply. Inhale… Exhale. Inhale… Exhale.”

Remus followed the pattern that the warlock set for a few minutes. He felt a little silly, standing in a hallway and breathing like he was an old man trying to calm his heart after running a marathon. But if it meant listening to that voice for a little longer he was more than happy to continue this odd little exercise.

“Continue breathing in this same pattern,” Deceit said. His voice was slower now, softer. “Now, as you continue breathing… Allow the world to fall away. In this very moment, there is nothing in this universe but you and my voice. Everything else ceases to exist.”

Nothing else existed? Man, what he wouldn’t give for a universe where it was just the two of them…

“Continue breathing like I showed you,” The warlock’s voice had shifted. Now it came from his right, still ever so quiet. “With every breath the world falls away bit by bit, until the only thing left is you. You, and my voice… At this very moment, you need nothing else.”

The warlock’s voice continued to circle him, closer and closer, yet Remus heard no footsteps. Not even when he strained his ears. His head felt incredibly fuzzy. If it weren’t for the solid ground beneath his feet he would think that the warlock spoke the truth. That in this moment Deceit had taken away everything and left only them, drifting in the vastness of space. The thought was exhilarating.

“Turn yourself inwards…” The warlock said, slower and softer, closer to him than before. “Feel every inhale, every beat of your heart. Search deep inside yourself…”

Remus’ head spun. The world truly became a distant mirage for a brief second, and he distinctly felt like he was floating outside of his own body. Now even the ground felt distant and far away, as if he had left behind such commonalities as stone and mortar. Perhaps, in this moment he really didn’t need them. Fuck, he felt weird… Weird… But amazing.

“Very good, Remus.” Deceit’s voice suddenly came from right behind him, and just like that Remus fell and was slamdunked back into his own body. He jolted, acutely aware of the world around him. The ground beneath his feet, every itch on his arm, every blow of the wind outside and most concerning of all, the very real and solid presence behind him. Warm breath hit the back of his neck, making his hairs stand on end.

“Turn yourself inwards,” Deceit whispered in his silk on leather voice, making all kinds of delicious shivers roll down Remus’ spine and his head fill with warm, bed-tousled fantasies. “Feel your heart beating, in rhythm with every little part of you. Here, at this very place… You will find your core magic.”

Don’t get a boner, don’t get a boner, Remus thought desperately. Don’t get a boner, don’t get a-

Suddenly, Deceit pressed a hand between his shoulder blades, and Remus’ head snapped back with a sharp gasp.

Magic!

Like lightening it struck, alighting every nerve in his body in response. Magic streamed through his blood, bold and confident, filling his head and making it spin with light. This was not like how the hypnotizing had felt. That had filled only his head, dulling his senses and making him feel lazy. This sparked up every cell, every inch of him awakened by its call. His heart beat out an enthusiastic rhythm, answering the thrum of magic that rushed through his body with a melody of its own. Remus blinked his eyes open and gasped again at the sight of his hands. His veins were lit up in a golden glow, making his hands tingle and tremble. He did not need a mirror to know his eyes were alighted in that same golden flare.

The warlock pulled his hand back, and just like that the magic rushed away. Remus wanted to howl when the magic started to leave him. He wanted to grab onto the feeling with claws and teeth, to try to keep it inside of him like a dragon guarding its hoard. Let him have that confident feeling just a little longer, please!

No use. The magic left, leaving him feeling empty as Remus grasped his heart and resisted the urge to cry. He was shaking. Shaking as every fibre of him wanted that feeling back.

“And that,” Deceit said casually, as if he hadn’t just reduced Remus to a trembling mess. “Is magic. Do you understand now why you must summon that first?”

Remus turned to him, shakily. “I want to do that too.” He said breathlessly.

“You will. In time.” Deceit said lightly. “Here is your first assignment. From this day on you will do this breathing exercise every day, until your core magic is brought forth. Understand?”

Remus nodded wildly. “What are some other beginners lessons??” He asked eagerly. He had to get that feeling back, no matter what it took. The warlock smiled, and Remus felt his heart skip a beat. If that happened every time this man so much as looked his way, he would have died from a heart attack by nightfall.

“I know the perfect place to start.” Deceit said.

--

He really had to get used to infinite stairs if he was going to live here for the near future, huh? Remus would never have called himself unfit, but right now the sweat was starting to bead on his forehead and his breath came in heavy pants. The warlock ahead of him didn’t appear to be troubled at all. They had done nothing but climb stairs for what felt like ages, yet he still looked as if he freshly stumbled out of a dark fairy-tale. Eris hadn’t moved from her spot on Deceit’s shoulders, and occasionally she casted a look down at him full of mocking disdain. Remus had no idea how a cobra could convey this sheer amount of dignified disgust at him when she didn’t even have facial features, yet here he was.

“You try climbing all these stairs!” He mouthed at her when she gave him again another look as if she smelled something foul (to be fair, he had been climbing for a while now). Eris pulled up her nose at him with an “Hmph!”movement and nestled her head into the warlock’s curls. Remus squinted bitterly.

He was not going to be jealous of a snake, he was not going to be jealous of a snake-!

As if she tasted his bitterness in the air, Eris burrowed herself a little deeper into the warlock’s hair and threw him such a smug look Remus considered strangling her for a brief second. He settled on sticking his tongue out at her instead, grinning at insulted hiss he got in return.

“Will you two stop fighting?” Deceit exasperatedly said over his shoulder. Remus jumped. How the fuck did he-?

“You,” Deceit said as he scratched Eris’ yellow and black scales. “I told you to be nice.” Eris grumbled and moodily slithered her head inside the warlock’s cloak.

“As for you,” The warlock stopped and turned to Remus, who halted sheepishly in his steps. “Please stop antagonizing my familiar. Trust me, it’s not going to help you endear yourself to her. She’s a delicate lady.”

Remus took one glance at the cobra, who stuck her head out from her hiding place just enough to bare her fangs at him, the murder clear in her eyes and was just about to comment that they had a very different definition of what ‘delicate’ meant, when he frowned.

“Wait, what’s a fami-?”

“Keep up, we’re almost there.” The warlock interrupted as he resumed climbing the stairs. Remus cursed and quickly followed, despite his lungs and legs protesting.

Eventually they reached the top of the stairs, which led them to a narrow hallway with worn double doors at the end. Remus felt some of the sweat on his back turn cold. Hurriedly scrambling after Deceit he tried his best to ignore how the walls seemed to grow narrower and narrower the closer they got the doors.

“Doors!” Remus giggled nervously, trying to distract himself from the hallway. “Obviously the most magical thing of all!”

The warlock chuckled. “You might be more right than you think…” And with that, he pushed the doors open.

Remus blinked at the unexpected brightness that came pouring from the open doors. When he was adjusted to the sudden influx of light and looked around his mouth dropped open. Funny, it had been doing that a lot recently.

They were in a greenhouse. Somehow, at the high top of this mountain, there was a fucking greenhouse. Following the warlock in and instantly forgetting the narrow hallway, Remus spun on his feet to take everything in. The temperature was much milder in here than the rest of the castle, making him relax at the warmth. The distant sound of rushing water filled his ears. Suddenly he wished he had been born with a head completely covered in eyeballs just so he could take in every little detail of the greenhouse and its multitude of greenery. The high glass pane ceiling illuminated the vast array of plants, some he recognized, and some he didn’t. An apple tree stood next to a long elongated plant with large purple flowers, whose leaves swayed as if they were tousled in a non-existent wind. Familiar flowers like roses, daffodils and lilies grew alongside flowers who looked like see-through pink glass, or ones whose petals flickered like a small candle flame. Plants folded their leaves open like silk green fans, others let theirs droop like little golden bells. A willowy tree that carried curtains of silver clustered flowers opened its petals as Deceit and Remus walked past them, and unfurled to reveal long yellow stamens thick with pollen.

“Keep up, will you.” The warlock’s voice came from further ahead. Remus shook his head and tore his gaze away from the plants for now to catch up with Deceit. Hidden amongst the green there stood a worn table, wedged against a rocky wall where a modest indoor waterfall steadily rushed. Remus guessed this had to be where the castle stopped and the mountains began. The steady sound of rushing water became louder, louder than the small stream could be. Remus curiously walked up to the large windows that were opposite of the wall. They were foggy with little water droplets, but could not hide the massive waterfall right next to the window, plunging into a depth that made Remus’ legs feel all jumbly.

“Wicked…” Remus breathed.

“It is quite spectacular, isn’t it?” Deceit said, a pleased undertone in his voice. Remus tore his gaze away from the waterfall to look back at the warlock, who rummaged through the equipment that was scattered all over the table. As Deceit searched through a short pile of books that stood at the edge, Remus stepped closer and curiously inspected the table’s contents. There was a mortar and pestle, a watering can, a wooden cutting board and a knife etched with runes on the side, a book flipped open to a page explaining the anatomy of a plant he did not recognize and more dried plants than he ever saw. More so even than the collection Virgil had hanging from his ceiling, back home.

“What do these do??” He asked, pointing at the runes on the knife.

“A bit more patience, I will start the lesson shortly. But before I do that… Aha!” Finally founding what he was looking for, Deceit turned back to him. “This…” He held something out for him. “Is for you.”

Remus hesitantly took what the warlock held out for him. It was a book. A small, leather-bound tome. Curiously Remus flipped through it, only to find that the pages were all blank.

“What is this? Horrid Spells written in invisible ink?” Remus frowned up at the warlock, who chuckled.

“I’m so tempted to say yes, but no. This,” Deceit tapped a finger against the leather cover. “Is your very own grimoire.”

Remus blinked. “My what now?”

“Your grimoire. Or Book of Shadows, spell book, whatever you wish to call it. The name is not as important as its purpose.”

“Which… is?”

“To document your journey. Everything you learn about magic you put it here. Not only to track your progress, but also to look back if you ever need to remember something you might have forgotten. A grimoire marks a diligent student, and later a true magic user.”

“Wow… Uhm, okay.” Remus turned the book over in his hands, inspecting the simple black leather and the yellowed pages. Now that he thought about it, hadn’t Virgil always read and written in a tattered tome bound in black leather? He wondered if he got his own grimoire from the warlock too…

Oooh, how cool would it be if he used the blood of his enemies to write in this?? Now THAT would make it a properly badass cursed spellbook-

Remus quickly shook his head and repressed that thought faster than Logan would dismiss his weird experiment ideas. Oh nice, he was getting good at that!

“Thank you.” Remus said sincerely as he held the book against his chest. It had been years since anyone had given him something, anything, even as simple as a book. He wished he could give something back in return. What would Roman do? Pay him a compliment maybe…? But what was a good non-weird compliment?

Tell him his face is magnificent, and you totally want to sit on-

Remus quickly squashed that down. Nope, nope, definitely not!

“Now then,” Deceit smiled as he handed Remus a short pencil. “Shall we begin?”

“Yes!!” Remus grabbed the pencil, bouncing in his spot. Finally! “Yes, yes, yes please!!”

“I like your attitude. Here is your first study subject,” Deceit gestured to their surroundings. “Herbology.”

Remus blinked a few times. “Hebelowhatnow?”

“Herbology, meaning the study of magical and mundane plants and their use in occult practices. It is the perfect start for a beginner, as herbology is a type of magic where you don’t necessarily need to have other magical qualities to become an expert in.” Deceit explained as he grabbed and filled the watering can at the indoor waterfall. “And much like potions, it is more of a science than an art.”

“Right, awesome!” Remus opened the book and hastily scribbled ‘Hebelogie’ on the first page. “So is herbology just a fancy name for gardening?”

Deceit chuckled. “Not exactly.” He took his watering can and took off into the greenhouse. Remus followed.

“While it’s true that there are obvious similarities between gardening and herbology, they are two very different things,” Deceit explained while they walked, occasionally watering one of the plants. “For one, gardening is for plants used for either beautification or consumption. A herbology garden is explicitly used for magical purposes.”

“Makes sense, makes sense…” Remus nodded seriously, hoping to sound very knowledgeable.

“Secondly,” Deceit halted for a minute and drew a rune in the dirt of a small bush with heart shaped fruits. “While spells and runes can absolutely be applied in an ordinary garden as well, it’s more common to do these things in a herbology garden.”

“Spells and runes, gotcha!” Remus tried to see what kind of rune Deceit had drawn, but he had to catch up to the other before he could get a clear look.

“Lastly, and most importantly, there are some plants that no gardener without magical experience should ever handle. For example.”

The warlock halted before the tree with the silver clusters of flowers. Once again the flowers unfurled to reveal their yellow stamens. The warlock stooped down and grabbed a bucket with a tightly closed lid, which had been hidden under the greenery of another plant.

“Observe.” He said as he opened the lid. Immediately the sickly stench of rotten meat drifted upwards, making the warlock draw back with a small flinch. Even so though he reached into the bucket with his bare hand, grabbing a handful of slimy, rancid meat and righting himself. Remus’ head completely blanched on the many questions he had as he saw how the tree’s stamens righted themselves, swaying back and forth, as if it reacted to the smell.

“Putidus Carptus.” Deceit said as he threw the meat right into the awaiting flowers. The branches immediately wrapped themselves around the meat, pulling it inwards and out of sight. “Otherwise known as ‘Soldier’s Despair’ in farmer’s tongue. A tree known for sprouting in the midst of a ravaged battlefield, eating away any rot and decay around it. Whole forests have been known to sprout in prior combat zones.” He threw another piece of meat into the flowers, which was met with equal enthusiasm. “Usually it dies out if it has eaten all the decay, but when hungry enough in its final days of bloom it has been known for eating fresh meat as well in its desperation.” The warlock murmured a quick spell and the filth on his hand disappeared. “Funnily enough, it’s flowers and stamens can be used to create multiple healing potions for various illnesses. Just goes to show you even Mother Nature likes irony sometimes.”

Remus nodded, open mouthed and only half hearing the explanation. He stared, starry eyed, at the moving branches as they ate away at the meat.

“That… Is…” He said with a growing grin on his face. “So…” Amazing, awesome, fucking cool as SHIT, his mind supplies, but he said none. Biting back his grin he considered his options. Yes, he thinks it’s cool, but Roman would hate the plant. In fact, he would probably be disgusted by it!

Be like Roman, he reminded himself. Be. Like. Roman.

“…Disturbing,” Remus said finally, despite his heart wanting to stick his hand in the flowers and see if they would nibble on him too. “So very disturbing.”

The warlock gave a short hum. “Its beauty may be lost to those who look no further than what purpose it can serve, but I can appreciate its willingness to do a dirty job.”

Suddenly uncertain if he had said the right thing, Remus turned to the other to ask more. Deceit however seemed to already have moved on, now picking away dead branches of a very normal looking apple tree.

“But if this is a magical garden,” He asked, repressing his doubt for now. “Why are things like apples here? Isn’t that regular garden stuff?”

“Hardly. While it’s true that some plants have more… Obvious magical qualities than others,” Deceit picked away another branch, “More ‘mundane’ plants can actually enhance intentions in spells and potions.”

“Right. Because…” Remus thought for a second. “You choose them based on what your intent with a spell is…?” He hesitantly asked. He was rewarded for his question with another brain melting smile from the warlock.

“That is correct. Well deduced.”

Remus felt something in him swell with pride. He couldn’t remember the last time a teacher (or anyone really) complimented him. Usually people either looked disgusted or annoyed when he asked questions.

Then it hit him. The perfect compliment. One that wasn’t gross or inappropriate. Wiggling his shoulders in excitement he propped his elbow on the tree next to the warlock and planted his other hand on his side.

“So… He started, hoping he sounded casual and failing miserably. “Herbology, potions, spells…” He smiled what he thought was a good imitation of Roman’s signature golden smile. “Is there anything you can’t do?”

The warlock’s smile fell. A flash of some emotion crossed his face, but it was gone before Remus could decipher what it was.

“…Let’s continue.” Deceit said flatly as he turned away from the tree, leaving Remus in his prime flirting pose feeling very confused. After a few seconds of him puzzling what the fuck just happened Remus hastily scrambled after him. Obviously he had said something wrong… But what? For the life of him he could not figure out what.

He’s probably just disgusted by you. Accept it.

“Uuuh, hey!” Remus called out to drown the voice of reason. Deceit stopped and turned.

“What?” He said in that same flat tone. Remus winced, his eyes darting for something, anything-!

“Roses!” Remus quickly said.

“…What about them?” Deceit raised an eyebrow.

“Well, uhm- What kind of magical qualities do roses have?” Remus gestured to the plants in question, which grew alongside the path they currently walked. “I mean the gardens back home were full of them! Don’t tell me I had a secret stash of magic supplies right under my nose and wasted an opportunity to sell them off to the highest bidder!”

Deceit’s stance eased. “Ah, good question.” He said. Remus sagged in relief. Good save there.

“It’s true that roses have no overt magical qualities,” The warlock said made his way to Remus and smoothed out some of the roses. “But they’re used in plenty of potions and spells as enhancers.”

“Like what kind?” Remus asked curiously.

“The thorns can be used in protection spells and minor curses,” Deceit fussed over a white rose, one that hadn’t quite bloomed yet. “With the petals it depends on the colour. Remember, intent is everything. White petals for example can be used for blessings, while yellow petals are useful in anti-depressant potions.”

“Right,” Remus nodded as he scribbled ‘patels and colur meening’ in his grimoire. “And red petals?”

“Oh, those are used for love potions, aphrodisiacs, that kind of thing.”

“R-Really…?” Remus gave himself a mental pat on the back as he managed to push away the delightfully delicious images that the word aphrodisiacs conjured up. “That- That’s interesting…”

“You know,” Deceit said slowly as he looked at the rosebud. “It’s here you find the real difference between gardeners and herbalists.”

“Oh yeah?” Remus raised an eyebrow.

“Yes. While we both agree that nature will always do the most work, sometimes we can give…” Deceit gently touched the bud. A spark of gold flickered at his fingertips, before it spread through the veins of the flower like thin glowing rivers. “A helping hand.”

The flower trembled as it slowly, ever so slowly, unfurled its petals. The golden veins glimmered, casting Deceit’s face in soft light. Lightly Deceit cupped the flower and leaned in to inhale its scent. Remus couldn’t help but stare as a smile softened the sharp angles of the warlock’s face.

“I wish I was that rose…” Remus muttered reverently.

“What did you say?” Deceit blinked up at him.

“I SAID YOU’RE GROSS!!” Remus blurted.

Slapping a hand in front of his mouth, Remus stared at the warlock’s stunned face. Oh fuck oh fuck OH FUCK-

How the fuck do I get myself out of this, what do I do what do I DO-??? Don’t let him ask questions do something follow your instinct QUICK!!!

Turning, Remus grabbed and pulled the nearest plant from the ground and shoved it into his mouth.

“No wait, DON’T EAT THAT-!!”

--

Remus hurled, and added some more of his stomach fluids into the empty flowerpot he was currently hunched over. He lost count at this point how many times he had puked into the clay pot by now, and yet the vomit still came at an alarming speed. The cool hands that diligently brushed his hair back as he was unpleasantly reacquainted with his breakfast only made this whole situation so much worse.

“Well then,” The warlock said dryly. “Hopefully this will be a wise lesson not to eat any plant you’ve never seen before.”

Another miserable roll of his stomach made Remus heave out some more fluids. At this point it was nothing but bile. “W-What the fuck did I eat…?” He managed to miserably whine out.

“That was a little plant called “Atrejeci”. Or, as it is more commonly known, Charcoal Root. In its diluted form it can purify mild poisons from your bloodstream. In its undiluted form however it just purifies the body…” Deceit paused as Remus puked out some more stomach acid. “…In a more literal sense.”

“Cool,” Remus muttered pitifully. “Cool cool cool cool cool. How long is this going to last exactly…?”

“Seeing as you ate nearly half a plant, you’ll probably be here a while.”

“Great…”

“Not to worry, it shouldn’t be fatal in the long run as long as we treat it well.” The warlock patted him between the shoulder blades. “I’m going to get you some water. You’ll be losing a lot of liquids in the coming hour, and we need to make sure you don’t get dehydrated.”

“Okay, you do that…” Remus babbled as footsteps echoed away from him. “I’ll be here…!” He heaved again and leaned his sweaty forehead against the flowerpot’s cool edge. “Not going anywhere…”

Nice going, idiot. Nothing quite says “romance” like gratuitous vomiting!

“Well at least I distracted him…” Remus muttered. His stomach felt like it was determined to burn a hole through his flesh and turn him into the world’s most horrifying fountain.

Ah yes, at least you did that… All the while showing how you are nothing but a screw-up. How long do you think those magic lessons will last now?

“Shut up-” Remus murmured miserably before he felt another hurl coming up and he had to spit out more bile.

--

The serene sounds of vomiting followed Deceit as he made his way to his little indoor waterfall. His new student was an… Odd one, to say the least.

“he’s an idiot.” Eris contributed from his shoulders.

“Be nice, dear.” Deceit distractedly muttered.

“he does not take this seriously. why do you bother?”

“On the contrary,” Deceit answered as he grabbed a wooden pitcher from his supply table. “I think he takes it incredibly seriously.”

Eris gave him a disbelieving head tilt. “how can you tell?”

“Because, my sceptical serpent,” Deceit gave Eris a small flick on her nose, earning him an offended hiss and a snap at his fingers in return. “He wants this chance to prove himself to a near desperate degree.”

Yes, spending more time with Remus this day had given him a clearer image of the prince. The eagerness to please, the careless willingness to put his life into the hands of a complete stranger, the disbelieving joy when he got even the smallest of compliments, the fear and badly hidden flinches when he did something wrong… All of it was starting to paint a picture, and not a very pretty one.

With a scowl he held a pitcher in the waterfall. Goodness, just when he thought he couldn’t hate Augusto more… The man unfortunately just kept surprising him.

Oh well… In a weird sense he supposed he should be thankful that his nemesis had screwed up his parenting this badly. If he hadn’t, it would have been so much harder to persuade Remus to his side. Now he didn’t even need to do anything! The ease almost unnerved him a little bit. Although he definitely could have used that same kind of ease with his… Previous student…

He had wandered quite a bit further from the castle than he usually did. He tried to convince himself it was because he was looking for a specific herb for one of his potions, but in truth… It had been for no other reason than pure restlessness.

The lights of the small city at the base of the mountain gleamed in the darkness of the night. Occasionally shouting of drunken folk would echo upwards to where Deceit stood, silent and observing. He had gotten close enough to the houses that he could see the people walking in the streets, crawling around like busy little ants. Usually he avoided coming this close but alas, it appeared that his hubris had gotten the better of him yet again. Though he doubted anyone would see him even if they did bother to look up. His black cloak made him one with the shadows. Invisible to those unsuspecting fools who cowered at the mere mention of his existence.

The night sky deepened, and one by one the lights went out in the city. People sought out their warm homes and comfy beds, yet the warlock kept looking until the quiet of the mountains pressed in on him once more. Like he was suffocated under a pillow.

Deceit sighed. Why did he come here? More importantly, why did he stay here so long? Reluctantly he tore his gaze away from the darkened city and started to walk up the path he walked a thousand times before. Eris would probably have started to worry by now. He better try to come up with some good excuse-

He stopped. He perked his ears, frowning. Deceit had been in the mountains for a very, very long time. He knew every sound these peaks and valleys made at night by heart, every creature’s howl, every whisper the wind would carry.

What he heard now however? That decidedly did not belong here.

Curiously he followed the sound. To him it almost sounded like a wounded animal, but the closer and closer he got he slowly realized that couldn’t be it. That’s how he found the ravine.

The ravines could be found all throughout the mountains. Treacherous, gaping chasms hidden in the rough landscape. Invisible to the eye until it was too late. Especially in the dark, when the shadows would hide their depths until someone stumbled into them. Deceit suspected that these fissures had added more people to the missing list than he ever did. Unless you were very careful or knew the mountain paths well it was almost impossible to avoid them.

Treading carefully towards the rocky edge of the fissure, Deceit peered in. It was not as deep as some of these ravines could get, but still deep enough that the moonlight did not reach all the way down. Luckily Deceit’s night vision had always been very good, so he could just make out the figure squirming at the bottom. Hurt grunts floated up towards him as the person in the fissure tried to wobbly stand, only to fall back over with an anguished wail.

Deceit tilted his head. Why on earth had they tried to enter the Desolate Mountains? Surely if they lived this close they must have heard the stories of him and his infamous reputation. Hadn’t those been enough? He almost felt a little insulted.

Well, he supposed it didn’t matter now. Whoever the poor sod was, if they were hurt they wouldn’t be able to climb out of the fissure by themselves. They would just become another disappearance. Another rumour for the gossipers down below. Deceit shrugged and turned to leave.

“Shit-! Come on, get up get up-! OW!!”

Deceit froze on the spot. The voice that drifted upwards from the fissure kept on babbling, panicked, pained and…

And they sounded so young.

Another distressed ‘No, no! Get up please!’ floating up only confirmed it. Whoever it was down there, they were young. Hell, they sounded like they hadn’t quite hit puberty yet. Maybe it was one of those snot-lipped city kids who dared each other to go in the mountains to prove how brave they were. But even then they never got this far up! Why had this kid travelled all this way?

Deceit shook his head. It was none of his business. Surely if their parents missed them they would come and look for them.

…But would they be on time? Even if they dared to enter the mountains for a rescue mission (which was unlikely) it did not guarantee that the kid was found before a predator with less mercy than Deceit would. Or before he starved to death, or any other gruesome fate. The mountains were cruel, especially to those who were hurt. By this rate the kid would most likely be dead by morning…

No, this was ridiculous! He didn’t know the little idiot, and besides! They knew the dangers when they went into the mountains! It was their own fault for coming here!

Deceit knew all that, and yet his feet refused to move away from the fissure. A pained cry echoed towards him, causing something to tug at the tattered strings of his heart and- Oh no, was that his conscious talking??? He thought he got rid of that thing years ago!

Another distressed wail. Deceit closed his eyes, frustration and resignation coming out in a long grunting sigh before he snapped his fingers and transported himself. Right before the teenager stuck at the bottom of the ravine.

At first they didn’t notice him. The boy- Or at least, Deceit thought it was a boy- looked to be around twelve or thirteen. Dark locks fell down in unruly bangs, hiding away his eyes behind a thick curtain of hair. The boy grunted and grabbed the rocky wall to try to stand up once more. Incredibly dumb of him. If Deceit had to judge from the sight of the boy’s ankle, which was wrapped in improvised bandages darkened with blood and bent at an angle that couldn’t mean anything good, he had made quite a nasty fall.

As Deceit moved to get a better look, the boy finally noticed him and fell back down with a startled shout.

“Who are you?!” The boy yelled, shuffling backwards. Deceit held up his hands in a calming gesture.

“I’m not here to harm you.”

“Like hell you are!”

Deceit rolled his eyes impatiently and didn’t answer. What use was explaining now when that ankle was in such desperate need for a healing?

“Stay back!” The boy yelled as Deceit kept advancing in on him. “I’m warning you!”

“Foolish boy, I’m just here to help you-!”

“I am the warlock of these mountains!” The boy growled with a ferocity that made Deceit pause in his steps. “Dare to come any closer and I will hex your ass!”

Blinking a few times in surprise, Deceit fought against the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. Now that was one he hadn’t heard before. If it hadn’t been for the underlying prepubescent quality of the boy’s voice, he would have actually sounded threatening enough to fool someone.

“I said stay back!!” The boy growled once more as Deceit stepped closer. “Didn’t you hear me?! I am the warlock of these mountains!!”

“Oooh?” Deceit said amusedly as he kneeled to the boy’s eye height. A snap of his fingers made a small flame flicker to life in his palm, illuminating his face in threatening shadows. “Are you now…?” He grinned, his fangs flashing in the flickering light.

In the light of the flame Deceit saw the colour drain from the boy’s cheeks as he realized his mistake.

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit- I’m sorry-!” The boy babbled as he tried his best to crawl even further back, despite the stone behind him. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know-! I didn’t mean to insult you, I’m sorry-!”

“Look into my eyes.” Deceit said calmly.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please don’t hurt me, I didn’t mean it-!”

“I said look into my eyes.”

At the commanding hiss the boy’s eyes unwillingly snapped up and looked right into the bright glow of Deceit’s hypnotizing gaze. As he saw the boy’s eyes glaze over in molten gold obedience Deceit smirked.

“There we go! Was that so hard?” Deceit drawled. “Now, tell me the truth. What is your name?”

“V-Virgil…” The boy stammered. “Virgil Becker.”

“Virgil.” Deceit nodded. “Such a pleasure to meet you! What exactly are you doing in my mountains, Virgil?”

“I… I…” Virgil seemed to struggle to find the words. Trying to lie already? Goodness, what a shame.

“No use lying to me, boy. Why are you here?”

“I ran away!” The truth finally came out in a rush.

“Right,” Deceit nodded. “And your first idea was to come here? That seems a little foolish, don’t you agree? What, were you looking to prove yourself? Hoping to earn your peers’ praise by pretending you’re brave?”

“N-No…” Virgil shook his head. “I came here because… Because…”

“Because…?”

“Because he wouldn’t follow me if I went into the mountains.”

Deceit paused. Forgetting his ‘dreaded warlock’ act for a second, he finally fully took in the boy in front of him. His thin frame, the hollowed out face. He squinted. Now that he took a closer look, there seemed to be something… Hiddenbehind the boy’s long bangs.

Virgil flinched as Deceit reached out his hand, but all he did was gently brush away his bangs from his eyes. Deceit’s breath hitched. Virgil’s left eye was almost swollen shut, dark purple and yellow bruising pulling most of his eye white from sight. It didn’t look like he had gotten it falling down. It looked to be at least a few days old.

“Oh dear…” Deceit said softly. “This world has hurt you terribly, hasn’t it…?”

Perhaps it was Deceit’s words, or his drastically gentler tone, but the fear seemed to disappear from the boy’s shaking frame. Confusion seemed to take its place as Virgil openly gawked at Deceit. Suddenly uncomfortable under the boy’s stare Deceit grappled to find back his control.

“Sssleep.” Deceit hurriedly commanded. Immediately Virgil’s eyes started drooping, and though he valiantly tried to fight it off it was no use. Deceit breathed a sigh of relief as Virgil’s head eventually nodded forward and he fell into a deep slumber.

Hoping to get rid of the uncomfortable ache in his stomach, Deceit finally focused on the boy’s ankle. As he unwrapped the boy’s improvised bandages he fought back a wince. Up close it was even worse than he had initially thought. The skin had broken, and if he saw it correctly through all the clotted blood the bone was actually sticking out. Not only that, but also the too warm skin and the beginning of blackened veins surrounding the wound suggested that the boy was developing an infection. This was not something he could just heal then and there. The boy needed five separate healing sessions at the very least.

He shook his head. No. No, this was not his problem. He would heal the boy just enough that he wouldn’t die for the next 24 hours and leave him at the edge of the mountains. He would go back to his life thinking this encounter was just a fever dream, and they would go their happy separate ways.

Except… What if he didn’t survive it? What if he couldn’t stop the infection from spreading to his heart, and the boy would die a miserable death before he could even reach his hometown again? Besides, there were still other predators on the loose. Deceit highly doubted a mountain lion or one of the Fair Folk would be as kind as him.

Not only that, what if the boy did somehow survive and didn’t think it was a dream? What if he told everyone about this encounter? Yes, most people would probably declare him crazy, but there would always be people who would believe him. Who would know the warlock they feared had not only spared, but also healed someone who went into his mountains. The reputation he had so carefully cultivated would slowly fall apart, and before you know it some brainless knights would march into the mountains again to come for him. He couldn’t let that happen!

Or, some traitorous part of Deceit whispered as he looked at the unconscious boy, what if the one he fled away from will find him first…?

He didn’t realize he had dug his talons into the flesh of his own palms until his skin broke and small beads of red trickled from his clenched fists. Cursing the traitorous little voice and every deity he could think of, Deceit spat out a spell under his breath. The boy levitated from the ground, his head rolling backwards like a marionette without its strings as he floated in mid-air. Deceit rose, already dreading the journey home.

How on earth was he going to explain this to Eris?

The sound of another hurl pulled him out of his memories. Deceit shook his head and grabbed the pitcher, which was full by now. There was no use dwelling on his past mistakes. All he had to do was make sure he wouldn’t repeat them.

Walking back to his newest student with the pitcher in hand, Deceit carefully thought over his next step. Perhaps it was wiser to not jump to his next course of action too quick. It appeared he was compromised anyhow. He shuddered. At first he had thought he had finally found the person who could actually successfully lie to him... Wasn’t that a terrifying thought?

But thank the stars that hadn’t been the case. He just hadn’t seen his honesty. True honesty… Now that was something he hadn’t seen in a long while. No wonder he hadn’t recognized it at first.

Nevertheless, better to tread more carefully. He had always prided himself on his talent to see right through people, but it appeared that his years of isolation had damaged that talent. Deceit snorted. Hell, if he didn’t know any better he would think Remus was attracted to him.

[the-neon-writer]

Fuck it, it may not be edited and it may change still, but here’s Cara’s Intro. She’s yet another character in my maybe novel that is coming along slowly. I may have not won NaNoWriMo but i still got further with progress. So i’m proud of myself. I have one more characters intro left to write. I promise it’ll be a good one when it arrives. In the mean time enjoy this as a special christmas treat 😉🎄😉

Cara’s Intro

She wasn’t sure where he had come from, but he was there nonetheless. The man had just appeared one day and decided to take care of her. What made it stranger was that people usually looked down on her because of the way she looked. But this man did not. She may have been young, but she knew how the world worked, the other street urchins had taught her that. She had to be smarter and tougher than the rest of them if she wanted to survive. He was different though, he didn’t seem to care about the colour of her skin, or what people whispered when they saw her with him.

It had taken some time to start trusting him and he had given her all the time she needed. The moment she knew she could trust him was her first full moon. She had no clue what was happening to her, she felt like she was being ripped to shreds from the inside out and she had no control over what was happening to her. They had been staying at a farmhouse on the outskirts of Dublin. He was in the other room and she assumed he’d heard her yell. She remembered seeing him rush in, sword in hand. She couldn’t control what was happening, it was like she was watching someone else control her body, but she charged towards him. All he did was just wrap her in a tight hug and whisper that it was going to be ok and that he would help her no matter what, that he would never leave her side as long as she needed him.

After that they grew closer, he was like an older brother that she’d never had in her life. He helped her understand what she was going through and patiently taught her to control the beast as best he could.

She had a purpose now, she was informing on people for him. People didn’t care enough to notice street urchins so she could slip into and out of most places without ever being seen. She spied on priests and gentlemen, ladies in fancy bonnets and young brats of rich families. She trailed them throughout the town and reported their activities to him. She wasn’t quite sure why she was spying on these people, but more often than not, she never saw them again. So one day she asked him why he was looking for those people. And he told her, that’s why she trusted him, he told her the truth if only she asked. She was angry and confused but he explained why these people needed to be eliminated, though, sometimes, on rare occasions, he didn’t eliminate people in the literal sense. A few times during the years, she helped him smuggle people out, making it look like they were gone permanently but really they were just removed from the equation.

He told her about The Council when she turned 12. That made her understand it a little better, why he killed the people he did and spared the ones he did.

“Now I don’t always agree with the council, but, I have to trust their judgment on most things. They’re family and I guess I’m sorta stuck with ‘em. I do have a noggin’ of me own though, and they’re not always as smart as they think they are. I’m tellin ye this so that ye can understand why they can never know ‘bout ya Cara.” That’s what he had told her, “I’ve seen that not all of ye are evil and mindless bloodshed sickens me, so I hope ya know that I’d never hurt ya. Do you trust me?” She had believed him, foolish, she now knew people always ended up hurting you.

The beast was growing with her and it was becoming stronger also. And not long after her 12th birthday, the beast spoke for the first time. It was just a regular day and she was out on the streets trying to nick whatever she could off the rich blokes and snobby arses who thought themselves so much better than her. She didn’t need the money but it made her feel good to get payback.

She’d just nicked a shiny pocket watch from a well-dressed gentleman when she saw a gang of other street kids approach her. She knew them since forever, she’d always managed to slip away right under their noses, but this time she was so enamoured with her find that it was too late when she noticed them.

“Whatchu got there girly,” said one of them, snatching the watch from her hands.

“Oi give it back ye thick gobshite, that’s my find,” she tried to snatch it back but the boy was taller.

“Or what, s’not like anyone’s gonna help you,” he looked her up and down disapprovingly and giggled with his mates.

“I suggest you give it back, boy,” it was a deep booming voice, with an accent so far from Irish it was startling.

“Oi who said that, show yerself ya flute.”

“If you insist,” Cara felt herself lose control again, this hadn’t happened in years even on a full moon, but she wasn’t trying to fight it this time. It lunged at the boy and she felt it sink its teeth into his neck and the life drain out of him with a horrible crunch. She remembered seeing the horrified looks of the other street kids and saw them start running for their lives. A pool of blood was forming next to her and she saw her reflection for the first time, only it wasn’t her, it was It. It was huge, with a long sharp muzzle and glistening black fur, its ears were pointed and its eyes glowed gold. It had a slender jackal like figure, yet it was bipedal and more muscular than any human or beast.

The next thing she remembered was the chase, following the kids into the night, not even trying to regain control, the taste of blood and revenge sweeter than honey in their mouth. It caught up to them quick enough, they were hiding in an alleyway, It could hear their frantic heartbeats and smell their fear in the air. The fear tasted sweetest of all, filling It with new vigour and jest to toy with its prey.

It approached slowly giving the brats hope that it couldn’t find them, it paced in front of their hiding spot and took off at a short run to make them think it left. It didn’t. It waited for a few moments as it climbed onto the roof above them. It was about to jump them and rip them to shreds when they heard a voice.

“Cara, please, stop.” And there he was, but he wasn’t comforting or jovial. He was holding a crossbow, and it was aimed at them. “I can’t let you hurt innocent people, no matter how much I care about you.”

They turned to face him, jaws dripping with fresh blood and it spoke, “They aren’t innocent, are they…”

“Fer fucks sake they’re children, Cara, listen to yerself.”

“I’M NOT CARA.” Its voice echoed across the rooftops and silence fell between them as beast and hunter stared each other down.

“Cara, please, you can control it.”

“Oh, I don’t think she wants to anymore!” Cara was in there, but she had no control, but she was no longer certain she wanted this. It all seemed wrong all of a sudden.

It suddenly shuddered and stepped back to keep its balance.

“Cara, think about all the good we’ve done, please don’t undo it all now.”

The creature shuddered again but its eyes glowed golden, brighter than the sun. It growled and the growl permeated the air around it and cut the silence like a knife. The shuddering stopped and it looked up at him. Then it charged, but he had been ready, he hadn’t been training to hunt monsters his entire life for nothing. Before it even took 2 steps he had fired the bolt.

It stopped in its tracks and fell forward onto all four. Cara couldn’t take back control even then, she was scared but there was nothing she could do. She didn’t want to die, not yet, not like this, not afraid.

She awoke again in that warm room with a fireplace. She wondered if it had all been a dream or if she had died and this was meant to be the afterlife. But then she tried to move and it was painful. Her whole body was racked with pain as she tried to lift herself into a sitting position on the couch. She must have made some noise because she then saw him enter. He had a dagger on him made of silver, it was sheathed, but she could smell the silver.

“Don’t move, please.”

She stopped trying to sit up.

“Look, I know it wasn’t your fault that it took over, I couldn’t’ve prepared ye fer that. Something like that has happened very rarely in history and the accounts were all second-hand experiences.”

“w-what,” was all she managed to say, her tongue felt like a useless stone in her mouth.

“Yer not the same as It. There’s two of ye now.” he sighed, he looked tired and sad all of a sudden and she could finally see the age in his eyes, he forgot to hide the pain that only comes with old age, it was there for only a second before it was gone like sunlight on a winter’s day.

”You caused a lot of trouble, Cara. I don’t know how long before they notice something off, but we definitely have to leave Dublin.”

”Y-you shot me,” she struggled out, her muscles weren’t being cooperative.

”Right, yes, in yer shoulder, wolfsbane, gives a nasty shock to the system. I wasn’t actually goin’ t’ kill ya, just wanted to scare you to your senses, didn’t account on It having a will aside yer own”

She looked at him but try as she might she couldn’t tell how he was feeling, she never could.

“Get some rest,” he said as he turned to leave the room, “We���ll have to leave in the morning.”

He closed the door behind him and Cara was alone again. She was so tired, every nerve in her body thrummed with fatigue, ”shifting” was a very physically tiring process she had noticed. Before long sleep overtook her, she dreamed of a moonless night being chased by a figure with a deep foreign voice that encircled her as she ran.

[caelenath]

Sweet Child of Thine - chapter 4

First post of 2021! I’ve been away a little while. November was spent participating in the wonderful insanity that is NaNoWriMo (I won!) and December was spent catching up on everything I had neglected in order to win.

But now I’m back with a new chapter for my pre-canon PRSPD story. Cross-posted to AO3, FFN, and caelenath.com.

Length: 1664 Warnings: concerns child abduction Chapter summary: Mirloc finally learns what young Sky’s power is.

4. power

In addition to being fragile, human children were also voracious, absurdly so for their size. Before the sun had even reached its peak in the sky, the boy was complaining of hunger again. Mirloc had another full day and then some before he was due to deliver the boy to his acquaintance, so he decided he had best procure a more substantial supply of provisions if he wished to survive that time with his sanity intact.

Leaving the boy locked in the room once more, the mercenary went out and found a market the size of a modest skyport, in which there were entire sections dedicated solely to sustaining the young. He studied the endless aisles of foodstuffs and supplies for a few incredulous minutes before deciding it was nigh on a miracle that humans didn't die of exhaustion before their pitiful offspring reached maturity.

He selected an assortment of items based on the children pictured in the labels—all smiling brats with similar expressive round eyes—as well as a book of pictures to keep the boy occupied. When he was content, he had proved to be an industrious sort, carefully studying every inch of his quarters that he could reach before learning how to amuse himself by throwing the colorful object Mirloc had stolen in the park at the forcefield in the door and watching it bounce off helter-skelter.

This was indeed what the boy was doing when Mirloc returned to the house. After inhaling more food, the child took an interest in the picture book and it wasn't long before he'd left a sticky finger mark on every page. When he reached the end, he began again, leafing through more slowly. His little pinch grip was tight, leaving a new crease in the paper with each turn. at one point, silent tears began dribbling down his face and Mirloc decided to investigate.

The boy looked up in alarm at Mirloc's approach, but the mercenary ignored his wet eyes and looked down at the book in his hands instead. On the page was a dark shape, literally just a large brown square with shifty eyes and two short legs, unusual nonsense even for a child.

"Does this picture frighten you?" Mirloc asked.

The boy shook his head. "This is Daddy's book," he said, pointing at the brown square. Another tear rolled down and he scrubbed his arm across his face with a sniffle, but after a moment, his weeping began in earnest.

A distraction was in order, but Mirloc had no interest in reading about an anthropomorphic shape the color of loam. However, if human children were like other types of children he had known, then any yarn would do.

"Would you like to hear a different story?" he asked.

* * *

The day went from too long to too short in an instant.

After a fruitless afternoon in the search for Sky, a lead finally came through in the evening, albeit a tenuous one. The manager of a superstore on the east side of town had filed a theft report with the PD after noticing a most unusual thief while reviewing the day's security footage. Gene had in turn shared the report with SPD immediately when he noticed the kinds of items that had been taken—baby food, cereal, cookies, a picture book, and some children's clothing.

Jay reviewed the footage with Nate and Mori in the command center. It showed a distinctly non-human character wandering through several aisles of the store before he began plucking items off the shelves. Each one he selected seemed to disappear into thin air before he moved on to the next. The three Rangers exchanged puzzled looks.

"Maybe he has a picky kid at home?" Nate mused when the perp paused in the cereal aisle to look up and down the literal wall of choices.

"Or a few?" said Mori. "The target age for those supplies ranges from zero to four or five. The cereal's kind of a tossup. My guess though? He doesn't have a clue what he's doing."

They continued watching as the perp went on to pick up some nonfood items, then entered an unoccupied aisle in the home décor section and vanished.

"Hey!" Jay slapped the control to pause the video. "Where'd he go?"

They reversed the video and re-watched the segment several times before Mori had the sensible idea to slow the playback speed. It took several tries and adjustments, but finally they were able to see that the creature hadn't vanished into thin air after all, but into one of the decorative mirrors on display.

Jay was vaguely aware of his teammates watching his reaction, but all he could think of was the mirror in Sky's room at home. It was part of an old dresser that held Sky's clothes and spare blankets. If this creature, whatever he was, had in fact taken Sky, was that mirror the way he had gotten in and out of the house unseen and unheard? What exactly happened to the things he made disappear that way?

Elsewhere in the Delta Base, Kat was running a facial match against SPD's vast databanks. So far nothing had come up, but the perp's image had been shared with all PD and SPD units anyway. If nothing else, he could be picked up on shoplifting charges.

As Jay watched him in the video though, troubled by the purple skin and sinister eyes, he wasn't sure whether or not to hope this was the person who had his son after all.

* * *

The boy awoke crying in the middle of the night, frightened by bad dreams and refusing to go back to sleep. Perhaps the mercenary's earlier stories of nebular serpents and walking shadow monsters had not been the best choice.

Mirloc went to the washroom to wet a cloth and wiped the day's grime off the boy's face along with his tears. The cold dampness made him shiver, but the gesture seemed to soothe him nonetheless. Mirloc then squeezed the cloth hard to wring a single droplet of water into his palm. It lit up with a golden light that matched the glow of the mercenary's eyes.

Curiosity trumped fear as the child crawled out from the safety of the bedclothes towards Mirloc's hand. The light from the droplet reflected in his widened eyes like twin candles, making them look almost as yellow as Mirloc's own.

"Is it magic?" he asked.

Few places in the universe had a word for what Mirloc could do, and Earth was not one of them. He said no and braced himself for more questions, but they never came. Instead, the boy lifted his own hand and that mysterious blue energy he had demonstrated the day before flashed briefly around his small digits.

"I can too," he said.

Mirloc glanced at the shielding device around the boy's waist and wondered if this might be the time to solve that particular mystery. "Will you show me if I remove this?" He tapped the device with a finger.

The boy nodded.

Hoping he wouldn't regret his decision, Mirloc unfastened the device and laid it aside. The boy made a fist and this time the blue light rippled and pulsed uninhibited around his entire forearm. He moved it in a clumsy circle to create a translucent blue wall that hung in midair like nebulae out in space. His young eyes were narrowed in un-childlike concentration.

Mirloc cautiously stretched a hand towards the glowing wall and was astonished to feel neither heat nor the potent charge of electricity emanating from it. Then he remembered what the boy had said about the forcefield in the doorway.

The child was a living weapon.

The mercenary stopped just short of touching the blue energy��because that would have been foolhardy—and when he dropped his hand, so did the boy. The blue wall dissipated in an instant, gone like it had never been, and the child seemed unaffected by the effort.

"That is very good," Mirloc said. "You have a very special power."

"What yours?" the boy wanted to know.

"I can travel through reflective surfaces." From the child's blank stare, it was clear this explanation was beyond his comprehension, so Mirloc tried a different one. "Anywhere I can see my own face, no matter how small—" He gestured at the water droplet in his palm. "—I can use it to go anywhere I wish."

"Anywhere in the world?"

"Anywhere in the universe."

The boy's eyes widened. "How?" he demanded.

"How do you make your forcefields?"

"Science."

That was not an answer the mercenary had expected at all. "How do you know that?"

"Mommy says so."

Not his Ranger father, Mirloc noted.

"I want to go home," the child said, a whine creeping into his voice just as Mirloc was starting to find him tolerable, amusing even.

"Only if you behave," the mercenary reminded him. "If you like, I can tell you a story about my home."

The boy nodded eagerly, so Mirloc sifted through his memories for an appropriate one. Thus far, his life had involved far more stories of darkness than of light, but the latter were not forgotten even if it took him several moments to find his way back to them, back to the time before he began wandering the stars. Few knew—and most would not believe when they looked at him—that his life had begun in a place of light and of great beauty.

The memory he finally chose was older than this babe could ever fathom. It was of a place with three suns, shining walls, and heat so fierce, it scraped your insides to breathe it in. It was the last place Mirloc had known peace, and belonging, and the last time he had walked in light instead of dark.

As the mercenary recalled this fondest place, the child fell asleep and did not wake again until the sun had risen.

~

Chapter Notes

The picture book that Mirloc steals for Sky featuring “a large brown square with shifty eyes and two short legs” is a real book. It’s called Square.

[soulofgenocide]

Main Verse

Alright, so, for those of you that aren’t aware as you’re here for Richard’s AUs.. he does have a main verse. I just haven’t done jack diddlyshit with it in a long time, there are a lot of reasons why and I’ll explain most of them, but the TL:DR before I get to that is this.

I’m gonna reset his main verse storywise, and it won’t affect any ships in said verse, whether we RP public or private in main verse nothing will really change. Certain topics I just won’t bring up anymore, and neither will he, and considering everything was just kinda.. forgettable, it won’t have any impact at all on the main verse. So just proceed like normal, the only thing you might notice is just more main verse activity, literally nothing will change considering I haven’t done anything in his main verse in so long. Things will just honestly get LESS confusing if anything.

Ok so full reasoning under read more.

Right, so, believe it or not the main verse used to be super busy, I had quite a few threads going normally and I had a main plot going for Richard that pretty much grew over a year or two. This was different than just his default plot which exists on the blog, it was actual progression using content from the book he’s from (my book), but things got messy pretty quickly. I had started writing content from the book that I hadn’t written yet, so everything not only didn’t have all the details properly set out, but also it started to blur the lines really hard. See, around this time I was also really pounding out the chapters for Genocides book for NaNoWriMo, and I was making really good progress, but then I hit a point where the stuff I made up only for tumblr started to mesh with the book and suddenly the book was a mess.

Think of it like this, if Tumblr Genocide is a T.V. show then the book was supposed to be a movie, and trying to cram like 3 seasons of shit into one movie made it just become bloated. It ended up killing all momentum I had for writing the book because I just couldn’t separate the two easily, I tried doing it in several documents and storyboards, but ultimately at the end of it all I just lost the thread. It was really depressing honestly, because I love the ‘Book of Genocide’ as its called, he’s my favorite to write and losing that muse really dragged me down. What I write when I’m writing a book is about 200% the quality of what ends up on here, probably more if I’m really in the zone, so it took a LOT of work to get where I had been, but the bridge had already collapsed and I wasn’t getting back across. I ended up ending NaNoWriMo with an unfinished book, only making it about fourteen chapters in, and since then I’ve pretty much torn apart every single chapter, disappointed in it all because I simply don’t have the same muse I did when I wrote it.

That wasn’t all though, because losing my muse for the book version of Genocide meant tumblr got hit even harder, after all this was supposed to be my for fun area, so if it’s not fun then why was I doing it? I wrote up arcs for the tumblr Genocide that were complete dogshit, rushed out pieces because I knew I wouldn’t ever post them if I didn’t, and ultimately I was just jamming the embers of my muse into the fire trying to keep it going. Didn’t work. The main verse as it is now, as many of you probably don’t even know it, is a complete nightmare, and honestly its beyond my repairing. So that’s why I’m resetting it, just a story reset there won’t be any ships or friends or whatever affected by it, I’ve literally been moving away from the main verse just for this reason.

I’ll be updating his character pages, removing pages, and doing a lot of work in the coming few days, hopefully, so just chill with me and maybe when he’s patched up we can do some neat OC rping in his main verse.

[ckret2]

How long does it take for you to write a story (not oneshots but like multi-chaptered shit or just a very lengthy one chapter) and how much do you research and map it out? Is researching fun, tedious or exhausting for you?

It depends on how long the story is! “Man Of Dreams” on FFnet, about 108k, I wrote in uhhh, I’ve been saying “about a month” for years but I don’t remember exactly how long I spent where writing it was my primary project, but I DID write it over one summer break and spent about another month proofing it. “The Cop & the Cryptid,” about 130k, I wrote in about a month and a half and proofed over a few weeks. (That’s not counting the time those fics were with betas.) Cold Day In Hell, at 24k, took me... god, idk when I started it. Maybe a couple weeks, week and a half? I’m pretty sure I didn’t have time to start it until NaNoWriMo ended on Nov 30, and I posted it Dec 13, so.

If you want to see exactly how much I map out a long fic, you can directly compare “The Cop & the Cryptid” to its outline. In a lot of places you can go paragraph-by-paragraph in the fic and find a corresponding line/sentence in the outline. TC&TC is 130k, and its outline alone is 40k.

I was able to write the outline super fast because it’s incredibly goofy. When I write an outline, I just ramble it out at a couple friends in a chat room, and i can write like 10k a day if all I’m doing is rambling. And then, once I have that outline, I can also write the fic super fast, because I’ve already written the fic, I just need to make it sound like a fic instead of like i’m gossiping about someone’s weird workplace drama that i overhead. So even though in total I’ve written 170k between the outline and the fic, it goes a lot faster than if I’d just tried to sit down and write the 130k fic all by itself, because the first time i’m only worrying about plot but don’t have to worry about word choice and the second time i’m only worrying about word choice but don’t have to worry about plot. When I was writing TC&TC, I literally had the screen split between the outline and the actual fic, and just glanced back and forth going line by line on the outline and expanding it into proper narration & dialogue and tweaking as needed as I went.

And jeez, how much do I research. That is a difficult question because like. I’m constantly researching. If I get a tiny seed of an idea for a detail in a story, and I don’t know whatever I need to know in order to write that, my next instinct IMMEDIATELY is to look up whatever it is I need to look up in order to know enough to write that thing.

Example: when I was writing “You Made That?” and decided this giant frigging pteranodon was going to blow glass using a volcano as the oven, I had to go look up how exactly blowing glass works, because like, I know Apply Heat To Sand, but I wanted to be realistic, I wanted to know what kind of sand Rodan would have to get and what other ingredients. And because of that research I discovered that the lava in volcanoes isn’t actually hot enough to melt glass. And then I discovered that the lava in volcanoes isn’t hot enough to melt lava. The mantle where rocks melt into magma isn’t hot enough to melt rocks. And then I spent the next five hours feverishly trying to find out first how rocks melt into magma if they’re not hot enough to melt, and then how the hell humans got fires hot enough to melt glass back when all they had was wood fires to work with. And I read a lot of very academic papers about volcanoes and glassmaking with a lot of words that I had to go look up, because I have not studied either of these fields, except to the extent that I’ve learned about volcanoes in order to write about Rodan.

(The super simplified answer, for those of you who are now going to be haunted by the thought that the mantle isn’t hot enough to melt the rocks that it clearly is melting: the melting point of a rock gets lower when a) it’s mixed with water, or b) the amount of pressure on it is suddenly reduced. As rocks in the mantle are pushed upward toward the crust, water from the surface gets sucked underwater that mixes with the rocks, and the pressure on the rocks is decreased because it’s now closer to the surface/has less weight pushing down on it; and both of these things combined lower the melting point of the rocks enough that they can melt into magma. Then, once it’s on the surface, it’s no longer mixed with water and the pressure is stabilized rather than decreasing, so the melting point of the rock increases again and it solidifies. And you can melt glass with a wood fire by, first, putting it in a little oven so that none of the heat escapes, and second, blowing air over it at the EXACT right speed so that it maximizes the amount of oxygen reaching the wood fire and makes it burn hotter but doesn’t go so fast that it blows some of the heat away. Trying to maximize the heat of a wood fire in an oven like that is all about trying to hit the exact balance between “add more oxygen” and “don’t blow away heat” where you reach the point where the fire is as hot as you can mathematically make it.)

And like once I knew that, I just made sure that Rodan had a makeshift oven in order to contain heat and the ability to blow air over the fire to make it hotter and bam story’s done.

And like... nobody was making me do that. I needed a tiny factoid for the story, and I was possessed by an all-consuming hunger to obtain that factoid and nothing could drag me from my course until I’d obtained it. I didn’t need to know how the mantle melts rocks, but like... I needed to know how the mantle melts rocks.

Sometimes when I do research it’s like that, I know I need a specific factoid and I go out and find it; sometimes it’s more general, like, “oh, one of the characters I’m dealing with worked in the radio industry in the 1930s, what was that like?” and when I’ve got spare time or am bored I go read up on the history of radio, even though I don’t need it right now, but because I don’t know what I’m gonna need until I need it. What if it turns out that people who worked in the radio industry in the 1930s, like, carried around forks for good luck? Then I can say this character carries a fork everywhere and that’s a weird character detail I never would’ve gotten if I hadn’t done the research even if I didn’t know I needed it. (Note: to my knowledge, there is no association between lucky forks and the radio industry. I made up this example to illustrate the kind of thing you can’t possibly know you don’t know unless you’ve already done the research without looking for a fact like that.)

And sometimes research flows into each other. Like for one thing I needed to know what a traditional radio sign-off format sounded like, back when radio stations turned off at night and played the national anthem before they went dark; and because I was looking that up, I found a YouTube video talking about how a radio station in 1939 recorded an entire day of broadcasts, so now I know I can go look that up and listen to an entire day on one radio station in the 30s and learn a lot more about how radio broadcasts sounded within a few years of the timeframe I’m working with for the above character. I wasn’t looking for that when I was looking up radio sign offs, but because I have that it’s gonna be hella useful.

So, like, tl;dr: I research a lot. I research anything that crosses my mind as something I want to put in a story that I don’t already know enough about to write about. I research for tiny details and I pre-research big broad concepts that might be relevant to my stories later. My research leads to more research, and prior research tells me about things I can look into on future research. The research never ever ends. There is a whole amazing world out there with billions of people alive and that’s only counting the people alive right now, not all the people that were alive before, and ALL of those people were Doing Stuff and Creating Things and Making Discoveries and ALL of it connects together and you’ve gotta understand all of it, the whole universe and everything in it, all of the science and every single human achievement, before you can write a story.

But failing that you’ve gotta at least understand whatever’s surrounding your characters.

If I try to write without research like that, it kind of feels like trying to solve a jigsaw puzzle with only 20% of the pieces. I am annoyed and dissatisfied that I don’t know those things.

The argument against that much research is typically “oh if you’re writing sci fi/fantasy you can just make that stuff up” but let me tell you, the creativity of one single human writer will never match the creativity of tens of thousands of hardworking humans trying to make a discovery or accomplish a task. One single human writer all alone will never be able to match the fascinating weird details of the real world and all the things we’ve put into it or discovered in it. If you try to make all that stuff up—like, if you’re writing high fantasy and you just make up how forging a sword works—then you have shackled yourself to the limits of your own imagination. If you do the research, dig into how actual swords are made in the real world, then you have supplemented your own creativity with the creativity of however many humans over the millennia have contributed to that craft. There’s so much interesting stuff out there. And I am bound and determined to find it.

[porchwood]

Hi just so I understand cause i keep waiting for it and it doesnt seem likely to happen have you kind of fallen out of love with wtm? and everlark in general tbh? cause ive been following you for a while now and you always had lil quotes and pictures and things that reminded you inspired you whatever it was about katniss and wtm and now alllll it is is gadge i followed you because personally i love what you did with everlark and im just wondering if thats gone and not foreseeable any time soon?

I’ve been thinking a lot about how to answer this… It’s afair question - to a point. If you’re more of a drop-in person (like me) thanlive-on-the-dash, coming back to find my blog awash in Gadge might have beenquite upsetting. There are several reasons for the current state of things:

1. Life has been driving me into the ground since December26, 2013. (Yes, going on six straight years.) If you were a WtM reader from thebeginning, you may recall that I was pretty energetic and prolific in 2012-2013.Oh, there were tough times, but nothing like what started on the aforementioneddate (a car accident where I was in the “bystander” vehicle and it still got totaled)and has continued relentlessly ever since. Sometimes adversity leads to greatcreativity and sometimes it turns you into a depressed, exhausted, reclusivelump, and the past 5+ years have seen periods of both from me. These past 18months have been exceptionally awful (and expensive), resulting in very littlewriting at all, about any pairing.

2. Writing WtM takes a lot out of me. I don’t know whether thisis common knowledge or not, but it’s the gospel truth. I love that world, Ilove that version of Everlark, but every chapter requires so much hard work, itmakes me tired just to think of it. Not to mention, over the past couple of chaptersEverlark have been pushing for more intimacy than the plot/timeline allows, andso I’ve been struggling with how I want to handle that. Do I fight them andstick to the plan? (I can’t advance the timeline for several reasons.) Do I tryto figure out a cheat for them? They’ve got minds of their own and have changedmy plans multiple times, but this is something they genuinely can’t have, and Ihave to fight them on it. ☹ Which is sad, frustrating, and exhausting.

3. I’m a multi-pairing shipper, and have been from about 3chapters into WtM. Which means that my Everlark fics almost always feature asecondary pairing (or more than one), and sometimes I’ll get a plot bunny for afic about a pairing other than Everlark. Most writers in the THG fandom exclusivelywrite their OTP, whatever the plot bunny, but I find that some plot bunnies don’tfit Everlark as well as they do another pairing. (This is why I’ll never write aBeauty and the Beast Everlark fic unless Katniss is the “Beast,” if you will.)

4. The Everlark fandom is…tricky. I’ve never fit in there. Idon’t write Everlark the way the majority of fans see them (except for Peetabeing “sweet,” I guess), I hated the movies (I refuse to see MJ 1 or 2), and I’vemanaged to really rub some people the wrong way over the years –unintentionally, and for a variety of reasons – all of which leaves me feeling kinda down about Everlark in general. Don’t misunderstand me: I love Everlarkand WtM, but it’s really isolating to be this sad little island of unpopularopinions and unwelcome side-ships. That’s the part I really wish I could makeyou understand. For six years I’ve had Christopher Plummer in my head saying, “You’llnever be one of them,” and he’s so, cruelly, right. I want to cry every time Ithink of Embracing the Season (my E-rated Everlark modern AU oneshot for Lovein Panem - lots of daring for me!) because I poured heart and soul into that andit still wasn’t the Everlark that people wanted.

5. About a year and a half ago (when Strawberry Time reallytook off of its own accord) I participated in Gadge Day 2017, working my buttoff to find and schedule (and tag) over 100 carefully chosen Gale/Madge/Gadge aestheticposts, and for lack of a better way to say it: it turned on my Gadge-dar. After that, thosekinds of posts just leapt out at me whenever I had a chance to scroll, and forseveral months I wasn’t sure what to do with that. With a little encouragementfrom @ghtlovesthg, I came up with #march madgeness – wherein I turned my Tumblrinto Madge/Gadge-land for one month, and it was a blast. (Side-stepping Gadgefor a moment: Madge is a highly underappreciated and underused character,especially in fic/on Tumblr and I love splashing the dash with Madge-love.) Thenext month I launched a run of pent-up Everlark posts (i.e., regularprogramming), but I missed my Madge, so I instituted #madge monday – one day aweek when I could splash the dash with Madge/Gadge. At every juncture I gavepeople tags to block if they didn’t want to see this content (though I stillget unfollows every time I post, alas). I participated in last summer’s THG Reread– on the fringe of it, but my posts (reblogs and meta) were strongly Everlark-focusedagain during that time. So there’s definitely still been Everlark on my blog,but if you’re just dropping in (or for that matter, glancing at my archive), you’regoing to see a majority of Madge/Gadge.

6. Frankly, Gadge is fun. It’s a completely different dynamicthan Everlark, with less pressure to create something transcendent, and whenthe chips are down, I’m more likely to work on something that isn’t my six-years-runningopus. This spring, in the midst of lots of awfulness, I finally wrote a piecethat I’ve had in my head for years – The Best Part of Waking Up – with a differentpairing featured in each drabble “chapter,” including Gadge, Luka/Johanna (whoI’ve been wanting to put out there for AGES) and Jack/Raisa. I haven’t beenable to write quickly in years, and I think I finished those three “chapters”in about two days, maybe three. I completed the Raisa drabble in a couple ofhours and I consider it one of the best things I’ve ever written. (Honestly, ifa pairing was going to topple Everlark in my heart, it would be Jack/Raisa, i.e.,Mr. Everdeen/Mrs. Mellark. I love them to distraction.) Once upon a time I could drabble/sprint Everlark too – notoften, but I could manage it. Maybe it’ll happen again someday, but for thetime being, when I write in quick eager bursts, it’s usually about aside-pairing.

7. Because I just need to say it: about a year ago, I set up a secondary Tumblr for almost all my side-interests and ships outside of THG. When I first joined Tumblr, porchwood was just a fun page where I posted whatever struck my fancy (pretty things, funny things, whatever I liked), and over the next few years, I honed it into a pretty “writer’s notebook” for WtM and my other THG fics (related quotes, aesthetic posts, writing check-ins, etc.). When Star Wars: The Force Awakens came out, I shared a handful of posts pertaining to a new ship (not a new direction for my blog or writing, just sharing my excitement) and it was made very clear to me that people didn’t want to see that content on my page. So when I started watching Voltron: Legendary Defender, I had a sneaking suspicion people wouldn’t want to hear about those ships either. So I started an entirely new Tumblr for that content, and every so often I accidentally post something to the wrong page, which I immediately correct in horror, but people still unfollow. Point being: this blog is THG (and a few personal life updates) ONLY, with a pretty consistent aesthetic. I hide literally everything else that I’m interested in so you don’t have to be bothered by it. Is it really so unacceptable for me to have side-ships (complementary to the main pairing, not threatening to them) in the same universe??

8. Believe it or not, I’ve been working on WtM all along,just not making any massive strides. I tried to chip away at the current chapterduring Camp Nanowrimo last July, and it was a disaster. I thought joining awriting group would be helpful, but I didn’t realize that Camp Nano is basicallya lot of writing sprints in which you try to churn out as many words aspossible, which you then report to your “cabin” – and that’s the onlyinteraction with your fellow writers. I can’t write like that anymore (seeabove) and especially not when it comes to WtM, so I got discouraged veryquickly and sort of drifted away. I reattempted Nano on my own in April and wrotealmost 15K words, but in that instance I was really just using the Nano platform toset and reach a goal (which I didn’t ☹ ); I wasn’t in a cabin and didn’t interact with anyother writers, except my friend @ghtlovesthg, who read the finished portion.

9. I want to finish this dang chapter so much, and frankly, theonly way that’s going to happen is if life gets a little better and I holemyself up with my laptop for hours on end for weeks at a time – and somemagical being comes to support/cheer/comfort me while I do so. It’s currentlysitting at about 25K and I anticipate it will need to be at least double that,which is beyond ridiculous, but that’s the nature of WtM. The chapters are asmany words as it takes.

TL, DR: I still love Everlark and I’m still working on WtM, but my life has been extremely difficult for a very long time and I don’t have a great Everlark lifeline. Gadge and all my other ships are fun, and most of the Gadge you see on my Tumblr is aesthetic stuff for themed days/months/occasions. Anything non-THG goes on my sideblog.

[batbirdies]

NaNoWriMo 2019 Batfam Fic part 6

Part 6 of my Jason Todd Batfam fic where Jason eventually agrees to dog sit Titus, there are some deep seated issues, unintended animal therapy, snarky text messages between Robins and eventually some reconcilliation between father and son. Takes place in a murky in between time sometime after Damian was resurrected.

Same warnings as other installments: This is a very rough draft that is copied and pasted directly from my working google doc. Expect mistakes. These are also snippets, and there is skipped content between them.

also as for CONTENT; there are some flashbacks to violent things, some violence involving animals, references to dog fighting :(( and things like prostitution and homelessness are mentioned periodically. Also a lot of bad language.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

The dog park, in the end, is nicer than Jason expects. Even though it’s small, it’s got some nice, rolling hills, a couple benches set up at different points, next to small maple trees that look like must have been planted in the last two years, still waiting for them to grow big enough to actually shade the benches. They were naked now, fall being in full swing.

It’s still flipping cold and there’s a light drizzle that’s just uncomfortable, even with the hood of his jacket drawn up. Titus doesn’t seem too happy about it either but he’s got his waterproof coat on and the earmuff-sleeve-thing so he isn’t bothered so much by the cold. He let’s Jason cajole him into playing catch at least and runs freely after the tennis ball he sends flying.

After a bit he seems to get bored with it though and is more interested in the other dogs, so Jason lets him roam without thinking much of it. He looks like a big dumb idiot in the getup he’s got on but it just makes him look more friendly and less intimidating to the other dog owners so Jason counts it as a win when he takes his phone out to snap a picture of Titus sniffing some labradors butt.

“Real polite bud” Jason mumbles under his breath, as he lets his eyes scan over the milling group of people. He doesn’t mean to be doing it, doesn't even realizing he’s looking for threats until he spots one.

There are two men standing stock still next to one of the benches, a large Rottweiler sitting next to them with a spiked collar on a thick, black, leather leash. The guys don’t look tough so much as they look mean and Jason can see them watching the dogs, eyeing each one almost critically, staring at Titus for a little longer than he’d like. He doesn’t even really know what he’s looking at but he doesn’t like it, can feel the hair on the back of his neck stand up like some sort of sixth sense.

“Titus!” He lets out a loud whistle, clapping his hands to draw the dogs attention back to him. He trots back over easily, abandoning the other dog he’d be attempting to greet. Jason grabs his collar when he approaches, latching the leash back on, keeping an eye on the two thug looking guys who are now walking slowly in his direction. Jason tries to get a good look at them without making it obvious.

One is tall and thin, a shaved head and a nose that looks like it had been broken on a few different occasions. His eyes are half lidded, he looks bored, and with a brief direct glance he spots a deep scar on the back of his hand, raised and red skin in a curved line that looks distinctly like an animal bite if Jason had to guess.

The other one is heavy set, broad in the shoulders but of average height, close cropped dark brown hair and a chunk missing out of one of his ears. Sharp eyes that are focused directly on Titus. He’s the one holding the leash.

And the dog is the other thing.

Every other dog in the park just seems happy. Either excited and playing or relaxed. Tails wagging, panting, running around or just lazing about near their owners. There’s one half grown mutt on the other side of the park that’s being trained, learning how to sit and stay.

The Rottweiler walking next to this man does not look happy, or friendly, or excited. It’s big, moves gracefully, doesn’t seem to be in any sort of hurry but is looking at Titus and Jason both with eyes that Jason can only think to describe as….empty. If you can even think something like that about a dog.

They’re only 10 feet away when Jason tugs on Titus leash, ready to get the hell out of there before something nasty happens. And maybe he’s gotten rusty but hes just a little too slow.

Just as they turn around the broad shouldered man stoops down and unhooks the Rottweilers leash, says something sharp to the dog that he can’t catch and suddenly he’s lunging.

Jason has been in more fights than he can count, or remember, ones where his life is on the line, but there is nothing quite like having 140 pounds of solid muscle barreling towards you with a snarl like you’ve never heard, teeth bared and ready for sinking.

Titus immediately pulls hard on the leash, and Jason moves without thinking. It’s reflex more than training that has him throwing an arm out, right in the path of the big black dog. The tall thin guy shouts something just as teeth clamp down on his forearm, sink through his leather jacket to his skin and beyond.

“Shit!” Jason shouts, throws his other hand out, dropping the leash, he grabs at one of the dogs ears and yanks, hard, but the clamp down does not loosen, if anything it tightens and the dog lets out a guttural growl. Jason is swearing up a storm, stumbling and nearly falling on his ass trying to pull his arm out of the vice it’s being crushed in. He’s never been bitten by a dog before, at least not beyond a warning snap, and it fucking hurts.

The short guy is suddenly there, clapping his hands, he shouts at the dog again.

“Drop it!” And Jason’s arm is abruptly free, he actually trips and falls on his ass, feeling light headed and instantly furious.

Skinny guy has a hand around the Rot’s collar, holding him in place even though he’s already sitting down, looking business as usual like nothing even happened when there’s blood dripping out of its fucking mouth. Jason’s blood.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Jason hauls himself to his feet, standing just as tall as the skinny guy and broader in the chest than the heavyset one, who looks wide eyed and nervous, in contrast to the tall one, who just seems mildly surprised.

“Holy shit man, I’m so sorry, he just lunged!” The short guy stutters out, fumbling to get the leash back on the dog.

“You expect me to believe that was the dog? I wasn’t born yesterday asshole.” He steps toward the stocky one but the Rot takes a step to meet him, letting out a low growl of warning.

“Whoa, Crusher no.” He swallows harshly, glances back at the tall one, who’d let go of the collar as soon as he attached the lead.

“Crusher? Are you serious?”

“I’m so sorry man, really, I didn’t exp- he’s never done anything like that before.” Jason doubted it, wanted to spit in the guys face.

“Chris, why don’t you take Crusher to the car? I can take it from here.” Guy has an accent like he’s from the West coast, words clear and almost overly pronounced. He’s got one hand stuffed in the pocket of his coat, the other holding a lit cigarette.

“Sure, yeah. I’ll uh, I’ll get him out of the park, just find me when you’re done.” Chris looks distinctly relieved to be out of the conversation.

Jason is reeling, what the actual fuck just happened? What was this? The short one had clearly given the dog some kind of command.

His instincts told him not to let the guy leave, to stop him in his path and get answers, but the dog was still a threat and Jason wasn’t in costume. He didn’t have any armor on and his identity was not hidden. He needed to be careful. His mind also finally registered the ear splitting sound of frantic barking from a large dog and he suddenly realized he hadn’t seen where Titus went.

He’d let go of the leash when the dog attacked and - He whipped his head around, feeling frantic for a split second before he spotted him just a few feet away, some random bystander holding his leash wrapped around a hand. It was a stocky woman, middle aged, and with a fat bulldog of some kind standing behind her. She looked stricken, face pale. Titus was pulling pretty hard on the leash and barking in a high pitched tone that definitely wasn’t natural for him, a near whine to it, but the woman stood her ground, feet planted hard.

Jason was distracted enough that the guy was already shuffling away, the Rottweiler following at matched pace. He should go after the guy, wanted very badly to go after him but he couldn’t leave some random woman with Titus, who was obviously frantic and upset.

Jason eyes Tall Guy, still standing there and watching him, expectant and bored look on his face, decidedly turns his back on him to handle Titus. The guy isn’t a threat, not to him, even if he has a weapon his posture is slouched, feet planted sloppily, his balance isn’t solid. He’s obviously not trained to fight and Jason could take him in a heartbeat if he felt the need. He needed to get his head back on straight before he talked to him, there was a heat curling in his stomach with a distinctive green tinge Jason needed to get a handle on.

He marched up to the woman with the bulldog, tucking his bleeding arm in close to his side. He was fuming, furious and totally struck dumb like he couldn’t remember being. He almost wondered if they knew who he was, why else would they randomly sick a dog on him?

“Are you alright?” The woman asked when he approached, eyebrows drawing up in the middle.

“Fine.” He tried not to snap at her, since she was literally the only reason Titus probably hadn’t either run away or gotten in a fight with that dog when it bit him, but he was so tightly wound it was hard to keep the edge out of his voice. “Thank you for grabbing his leash.”

She nodded, Titus shoved into him, lifting his front half off the ground repeatedly like he wanted to jump on him, whining, ears down. “I’m fine, buddy, I’m good. Stay down.” He grabbed Titus collar with his good hand and pulled down gently to get him to stay planted in the grass, he didn’t need to get clawed in the arm after that.

“Are you really sure you’re alright? You’re bleeding pretty….pretty bad.” She sounded a little breathless, as she finally relinquished Titus’ leash to him. She grabbed at her ponytail with her now free hand and tugged on it, a nervous habit if he’d ever seen one.

“I’ve had worse.” He was too busy looking over Titus and making sure there were no injuries he’d missed, that he wasn’t too late to keep the Rot away from him that he didn’t see how she reacted to that little confession. The ear muff thing had fallen down and he carefully tugged it back up over his ears, while trying to even out his breathing.

“That was pretty nuts man.” Jason stiffened and turned back, Tall Guy standing there, cigarette in hand, he took a long drag. “Why jump in like that? Your dog looks like he could hold his own in a fight.” And he was staring at Titus when he said it, eyes still bored, as they flicked up to meet Jason’s. Jason felt his shoulders hitching up.

“We should really call the police.” The woman interjected. “That dog is dangerous, need to-“

“No police.” Jason snaps just as Tall Guy says, “I don’t really think that’s necessary.”

“Not Necessary?” Her voice is sharp. “Your dog just attacked this man, he’s bleeding, he could have a broken bone or-“

“Nothing’s broken lady.” She snapped her eyes to him, looking at him like he was nuts.

“Regardless, I’m calling the police.” She reached in his purse, hanging off her shoulder and pulled out a cell phone. This was not good - the last thing Jason needed was to be questioned by the police while Bruce was out of town, even if he was a victim, he didn’t need to be recognizable to anyone, didn’t need Barbara recognizing his fake ID in a police report and drawing this whole incident up.

He also didn’t know why any of this just happened, and if somehow this guy knew who he was….he didn’t want a civilian mixed up in that.

“Look lady.” He snapped at her, feeling guilty for the way she flinched back from him. “I appreciate the concern but I’d rather handle this myself.” He put a hint of threat in his voice, for both her and the asshole’s sake. Jason knew what he looked like, big, broad shouldered, well built and with a massive dog. “I don’t really think you wanna be involved.”

Her eyes darted between Jason and Tall Guy, like maybe she wanted to argue, but was quickly thinking better of it. She clutched her own dog’s leash in a fisted grip, expression morphing to wary suspicion.

“Fine. Guess I’ll find a new dog park.” She snapped before turning on her heel and marching away. Bulldog waddling after her.

Sm͏a͏rt lady, Jason thinks as he watches her go. Finally turning back to the guy who’s just standing there, enjoying his cigarette without a care in the world.

[sassypandacandy]

Meet the Writer Tag (II)

Thanks for the tag, @lunarmoment ! Since it comes out in two days (TWO DAYS), I’ll be answering most of these questions for A Day Out of Time and its main protagonist, Cat Fiyero.

Is there a song/album that helped you shape some elements of your WIP or characters? What is it?

I have an entire playlist dedicated to A Day Out of Time because music is such an integral part of my process. Some songs represent a vibe or a character, and others have to be on in the background while I write a particular scene.

Is your character a picky or adventurous eater? What is their favorite thing to eat?

Because Cat grew up in NYC, she’s used to having tons of food options, which makes her fairly adventurous. She’s not a huge fan of new “fad” restaurants, but give her anything from Korean barbecue to pickled pig’s feet and she’ll probably try it.

Do you prefer to outline or wing it?

I’m a die-hard fan of winging it. I’ll have a basic structure in mind, and I always fill up a document with notes about scenes and plot points, but the one time I tried to structure a book before NaNoWriMo, it fell to shit within like two chapters.

What is your favorite line you’ve written so far?

"JESUS FUCK, IS THAT A PTERANODON?!”

Kills me. Every time.

What was the first story you ever wrote?

Probably the two-page story about unicorns that I submitted to my 4th grade class’s anthology. Everybody else turned in little poems or like ten-line stories, but I just had to be extra.

Did it take you a while to settle on a pen name (if you use one)?

No pen names here. Tumblr suggested my username and it was love at first sight.

What would you say your biggest inspiration was for your current WIP?

A Cracked article about weird calendars. There was an English guy in the 1740s who proposed the exact lunar calendar that my book uses (13 months w/28 days each), and he suggested that the leftover day be referred to as “a day out of time.” BOOM, story idea.

Do names come to you easily? Or do characters tend to remain nameless for a while?

I tend to come by MC names by instinct, or through research. I don’t have nameless characters, although they may go through a few name changes. A Day Out of Time is full of names of people I know because there are so many background characters.

If you weren’t planning on making writing your career, what would you have gone for?

Literally nothing. It’s this or bust. Unless there’s a way to monetize reading books (no review writing, just reading them).

If you could live anywhere else in the world, where would it be?

I lived in Florence for over three years, and it’s still one of my favorite places in the world. I’d move back in a heartbeat.

I’m feeling lazy, so @sweetpopcorno @trickster-writes and @fragrant-stars can use the same questions lol

[maliciouslycreative]

Title: In The Butt

Ship: Castiel/Dean Winchester

Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Castiel, Gabriel

Rating: M

Words: 2183

Tags: sex toys, crack, sexual innuendos, Sam is so done, it’s all crack, bad dragon, implied bottom dean, implied top cas, sort of canon but not, it’s in the bunker, but gabriel is alive, ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Additional comments: ok so like i am probably concussed and like i wanted to write something for the forst day of nanowrimo so i decided on some crack. @rosemoonweaver​ suggested Gabriel shenanigans so I complied. I am literally just writing this and posting this with 0 editing because honestly this is fucking cracky crack and the fact that i just wrote cat instead of fact just verifies that i probably should not be writing and this silliness will only add to the silliness of the fic.

Summary: Gabriel is totally tired of his bro Castiel moping around because he's not getting to put the D in Dean. So he decides to do something about it.

Gabriel didn’t really get it. Sure the human was pretty but well he wasn’t the brightest. He was so sure Castiel had better taste than this. Maybe it was because Castiel had very limited experience with humans that he picked this particular one to fall for. Well ok, the guy had great lips.

And he apparently had great taste in sex toys.

Gabriel whistled at what he’d found in the bottom of Dean Winchester’s duffle. He could work with this.

-x-x-

Dean was fucking exhausted. They’d driven all night just to get home because Dean was tired of shitty motel water pressure. They’d spent just over a week on the road hitting up a series of simple cases. In a way it’d been nice to just come in and wham bam it’s done.

Upon arriving home he’d immediately chucked his bag in his room and then headed for the showers. Now he was in nothing but his dead-guy robe and boxers. He unzipped his duffle to grab his phone charger when something moved in the bag.

“Son of a bitch!” He yelped and umped back from the bag. Grabbing the nearest makeshift weapon (a hardcover version of Return of the King) he tentatively approached his bag.

He gently nudged the bag with the book and a muffled voice said “Hey, be gentle!”

“What the...” He was about to prod his bag again when there was a knock at his door.

“You Dean, you ok in there? I heard yelling.” Sam asked.

“There’s something in my bag!”

There was silence for a few seconds before Sam gently opened the door and peeked his head in. “What do you mean something in your bag…”

“Like a something that shouldn’t be there. A moving something.”

“And you decided the best course of action was to vanquish it with Tolkien?” Sam gestured at the book in Dean’s hands.

Rolling his eyes Dean put the book down on the desk. “It was the first thing I grabbed! Not like I keep a lot of weapons in here.”

It was now Sam’s turn to roll his eyes as he walked over to the wall and pulled down the sword Dean had mounted there. “Really?”

“Whatever.” Dean gingerly approached his bag. “Just be ready to swing. I’m going to dump it on the floor...” Dean took a couple seconds to calm himself then in one  quick motion grabbed up the duffle and dumped its contents out.

“Jesus, I told you to be gentle!” Something said from amidst the stuff on the floor.

“Who the hell said that?” Dean asked and eyed the book on his desk. Maybe it was heavy enough that he could squash something small.

“I did!” There was a few seconds of silence and then the pile of stuff started wiggling. Sam raised the sword, ready to strike, but then something white with the faintest blue tint and pointy started poking out from between two of Dean’s shirts.

“Jesus Christ.” Dean quickly bent down and scooped up the white wiggling thing before Sam could take a swing at it. Unfortunately this also revealed to Sam the entire 12.5 inch glory of David.

Sam’s eyes widened so far it looked like they were going to pop right out of his. “I… I think...”

“What, you never seen a cock this big?” the dildo, or rather David, wiggled a bit in Dean’s hands. “Well looking at you I wouldn’t be surprised if there was something pretty impressive in those pants.”

Sam’s mouth dropped open. “I don’t… you…. I’m going to go do some research!” He practically sprinted out of the room.

“Dude.” Dean held out David and glared at him. “That’s my brother!” Dean was about to say more when he saw something black starting to slither out of the pile of clothes on the floor. Eyes widening slightly Dean reached down and scooped up the entire 15 inches of Ika in his glorious night sky colouring.

“Hssssssth!” Ika said at him and wiggled in an extremely unnatural way. It made Dean’s dick harden almost instantly because god did he want that in his ass.

“Ok.” Dean licked his lips. He walked over to the bed and laid the dildos down on it. Almost immediately Ika started wiggling towards the edge of the bed. Dean grabbed the tentacle and put it back beside David (who thank god seemed content to just lay there). “Stay!”

“Hssssssssssss!” Ika wiggled more violently.

Dean clamped a hand firmly around the middle of Ika and turned his attention to David. “Ok, since Cthulhu wannabe over there doesn’t seem too interested in talking I guess that leaves you.”

“Well, let’s be honest, I’m interested in far more than talking. Just imagine what what it’d be like with me buried in your ass now that I’m-”

“For the love of – just don’t finish that thought. Please.” Dean put a hand over his face.

David did some flops and wiggles until his tip was nestled up against Dean’s hand. “But I love the warm cavern of-”

“Ok. Nope. Not going there. Look we gotta-”

“Hello Dean.” Castiel said from the doorway.

“Cas!” Dean hastily tried to shove Ika behind his back but in his panic his grip loosened and the tentacle sprung free. But this time instead of trying to make a bid for freedom it slipped under the edge of Dean’s dead-guy robe and made a b-line for his ass. “Nope!” Dean sprung off the bed and firmly grabbed Ika. He held the tentacle out in front of himself and glared at it. “Will you behave for one goddamn minute?”

“Hssssth hsssss.” Ika stopped protesting and seemed to relax in Dean’s hand. Sure the tip was still gently caressing along Dean’s wrist but whatever, it was better than it was.

“Sam said that your toys had come alive but I will admit that this was not what I expected.” Castiel said as he bent over so he could more closely examine Ika and Dean nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Cas!” Dean tried to put Ika behind his back again but Cas grabbed onto his wrist and pulled the sex toy closer to his face. Ika stopped caressing Dean’s wrist long enough so that it could flop over and gently caress Cas’ cheek.

Cas stepped back, startled. “I see…. Do you have any idea why they’ve suddenly animated?”

“All that floppy can do here is hiss and all that glowy over there wants to do is talk about my ass.” Dean grumbled.

“Glowy?” Castiel stepped closer to the bed so that he could see David better.”

“He uhh...” Dean’s cheeks turned red. “He glows in the dark. Dark aqua.”

“Fascinating.” Cas reached down and picked up David. He turned the werewolf penis over in his hands a few times as he examined it. “This appears to be a completely typical dildo. Well, perhaps not typical given its size and shape...”

“I feel a but coming on, please let there be a but.” Dean said.

“I like your butt.” David said.

“Not what I was talking about.” Dean sighed.

“Well...” Cas held David up to his face so that he could look at it even closer. David wiggled forward slightly and gently caressed Cas’ face with his tip. This time Cas was prepared and he didn’t flinch away. “It appears to be bespelled. If I had to guess I would say by an angel.”

“An angel made my dildos sentient?” Dean stared at Ika in his hand.

“It would appear so.” Cas said.

“Why? Wait, never mind. I probably don’t want to know. Can you reverse the spellwork?” Dean scrubbed at his face with his hand not full of a writhing tentacle.

“Probably. Though I suspect it would be faster to just figure out what they want.” Cas looked at David very seriously and asked, “What is your purpose?”

“We were given sentience so that we could better pleasure Dean. However we’ll submit in the presence of the one thing Dean truly wants up his ass.” David said.

“And what would that be?” Castiel asked, head tilting to the side.

Dean couldn’t move fast enough. He stumbled slightly in the pile of closes and personal possessions still all over the floor and Ika started wiggling violently. Not that grabbing David would have done much good because the fucker didn’t even have a mouth to cover up.

“Well, your dick of course.” David said like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Cas nearly dropped David in surprise as he whipped his head around to lock eyes with Dean.

“I can explain!” Dean said.

The four of them stood in complete silence for almost 30 seconds before David asked, “well? You gonna explain hot lips?”

“I uhhh...” Dean was actually at a loss for words. There was nothing that he could say to save face on this. The giant talking werewolf dick was right, there was nothing he wanted more than Cas’ dick in his ass. Well maybe having Cas around all the time, but he’d start with just the dick.

Cas watched Dean the whole time, head tilted slightly to the left. After the silence had once again stretched into uncomfortable Castiel let out a sigh. He turned and gently placed David on the bed then began taking off his trench coat.

“Cas!” Dean surged forward and grabbed onto the edge of Cas’ coat so that he couldn’t pull it off any further. “What are you doing?”

“Giving you what you want.” Cas said.

“But, uhh...” Dean licked his lips and stared at a spot in the floor. “You don’t – not if you don’t want to.”

“Dean,” Cas laid his hand gently atop Dean’s. “I very much want to. I’ve wanted to for years.”

“Yah?” Dean glanced back up and locked eyes with Cas. He gave him a shy smile.

“Yes.” Castiel gave him a soft smile in return.

“OK then, yah, let’s do this.��� Dean released Cas’ shoulder.

Cas continued quickly removing his trench coat and suit jacket. He paused for a moment and studied Dean, as if he was making sure this was all still OK. Dean gave him a little nod and with that encouragement Cas quickly undid his belt and fly. He then reached into his underwear and pulled out his already hardening dick.

It was long and thick and absolutely perfect. Ika went limp in Dean’s hand. He let out the breath he didn’t even know he was holding.

“Seems that it worked.” Cas gestured at Ika.

“Well, you better still fuck me into the mattress just to make sure.”

Cas grinned. “I think that sounds like a wise decision.”

-x-x-x-

When the two of them came into the kitchen in the morning they were met with an extremely exasperated Sam and a smirking Gabriel.

“Morning, boys. I take it you enjoyed my present?”

“You!” Dean tried to lunge towards Gabriel but Cas caught him by the collar of his dead-guy robe.

“Leave him be, Dean.”

“But he made my sex toys come alive! I have to live with the memory of this for the rest of my life!” Dean whipped around and scowled at Cas.

Sam muttered something under his breath and buried his face in his hands.

Cas’ smile was gentle as he stepped closer to Dean “But you can’t argue that it led to the best sex of your life.”

“Too much information!” Sam stood up from his chair and it nearly toppled to the ground. “I’m going into town. Actually, I’m going past the town. I’ll see you in like a week. Please, take a vacation and enjoy whatever...” Sam gestured dramatically at Dean and Cas. He then let out an exasperated sigh and stalked out of the room.

“Sooooo” Gabriel twirled a lolipop in his fingers while he glanced between Dean and Cas. “I suspect you won’t be needing a certain 15 inch-”

“It’s a cold day in hell I’d let you anywhere near my sex toys again.”

“Actually, most of hell-”

“Can it.” Dean scowled at Cas then turned his icy glare on Gabriel. “Get out before I resort to banishing you.”

“Aww, you’re not even going to say thank you, Dean-o?” Gabriel pouted.

“Get,” Dean said, voice going low

“Thank you, Gabriel.” Castiel said.

“Out.” Dean crossed his arms over his chest and gave Gabriel his best death glare.

“Fine. Whatever. You can just owe me one.” There was the sound of wings and a whoosh of air and Dean and Castiel were finally blissfully alone in the kitchen.

“You could have thanked him, Dean.” Castiel frowned at Dean.

“Yah, but I didn’t want him getting a fat head.” Dean started moving around the kitchen, grabbing various ingredients from the fridge and putting a pan on the stove. “So, breakfast?”

“Yes, you’ll need to keep your strength up for what I have planned for you.

[dynoguard]

NaNoWriMo: Return of the DinoKnights (Day 5)

Day 1 & 2 text is here. Day 3 is here.  Day 4 is here.

--

Sheriff Cora Horne slumped against the wall of the dimly lit laboratory. In the distance, the big brains, including the female mammal, were arguing about exponential this and unstable that. Linn and Brach were tending to Kyle’s lost arm even as he scrawled calculations on the wall with the other.

Cora wished she could be distracted. Nothing in her training, or her career, had prepared her for a world where asteroids screamed, where home was sixty-five million years in the past, and where the squint-y, furry things that raided her mother’s garden for sweetbulbs had given rise to the rulers of the world. 

The only other observer from the side was the darker of the two mammals. The one named Sagan. 

“Excuse me.” Sagan said in his small voice. He was half as tall as Cora, and easily a fifth of her weight. 

“Yes?” 

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry.” He said. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

“Thank you.” She said. “I have to keep up the appearance of strength right now.”

“I don’t think anyone could blame any of you for needing a cry.” Sagan paused. “Do you cry, anatomically, I mean?”

“Yes.” She gave a weak chuckle. “But Linn, my daughter, is going to need to lean on me, they all are. They’re civilians, and kids, except for the big guy.”

“I have a kid too, my son, Jason.”  Sagan responded. “Which one is yours?”

“Right there, her first adult feathers just came in last year.” Cora indicated Linn with her claw. Together, Linn and Brach managed to bind Kyle’s arm in case it started bleeding. They were now arguing about something drifting in time or space. Cora turned her attention back to the human.

“Your species is remarkably diverse.” Sagan said. “That, isn’t a rude thing to say, is it?”

“Specieses.” Cora said. “Speciesi? Spee-suss-es? More than one species. Six in total. She’s a dromeon, like her father, I’m a pachyon. Nychus’s sister had a spare egg, as you do.”

“Adopted, I see.” 

Corna’s nose crinkled at the word. Her language had a similar one, but it was purely a verb. The way the new word seemed to create a different category for one kind of child than another irked her sensibilities.. “She’s my daughter, family is born in the nest, not in the shell.”  

“I didn’t mean any offense.” Sagan said. “I apologize.”

“Its the translator, I think.” Cora replied. “I’m used to how it gives the meanings of words in our languages, I’m still getting used to how it puts the idea of your vocabulary in my head... if that makes sense.”

“You’re speaking different languages?” 

“Several related ones. I can’t rumble enough to speak podite, Brach could never hit the chirps to talk thersperontis and while she tries her best, Linn can’t honk with enough range to express emotional states in pachyosh. Before the translators everyone had to speak tuberspeech.”

“Tuberspeech?”

“A trade language that sounds just as stilted and dry when spoken with lips or a beak, no matter the shape of your tongue or teeth.” 

“The cornerstone of your agriculture is a tuber, isn’t it?”

“Got it on the first guess.” Cora laughed. “The first translators came out two weeks after Linn’s father and I started courting. I thought it would be romantic to insist on speaking only with our natural voices, in tuberspeech, of course, instead of using a machine. Three days in Nychus hands me one, saying its our sixty-third-day-anniversary.”

“Do you celebrate a sixty-third da-”

“No we do not.” Cora laughed. “Turns out, that the sound of me trying to trill is akin to the sound of a living pterodactyl being turned inside out.” 

“My ex-wife had similar comments about my singing.” Sagan responded. “I heard them call you Sheriff. You’re in law enforcement?”

“I am.” She replied. “Lady Cora Horne, Sheriff of Crestspine Township, DinoKnight of the Order of Scales and Hands.” 

“Uhhoo-kay. Not really sure what any of that means, but it sounds impressive.” Sagan responded.

“My order is the branch of civil service devoted to law enforcement and public safety. After I attained my knighthood, I was promoted to sheriff.” She replied.

“So in your world, a knight is someone who arrests criminals or puts out fires?” The human asked.

“And a few dozen other jobs just for my order alone. Who puts out your fires?”

“Firefighters.”

“And your policing is done by?”

“Police officers.”

“I don’t want to tell a weird future culture their business, but you need better naming scribes.” Cora glanced over at the others then back to Sagan.

Sagan considered coming to the defense of the utilitarian nature of civil servant job titles. Before he could come to his decision, Linn hopped over to them. 

“Zara says she thinks she knows what happened, Mom.” Linn said. 

“That’s good, we should all get on the same feet.” The sheriff stood, turning to Zara. “When are we? Exactly.”

Zara took a deep breath. “I can’t dispute the data the human provided. There was a misfire before the system was fully activated. That may have caused it, or any one of a thousand other possible factors. That doesn’t matter.”

She took another deep breath and closed her eyes, steeling herself. She resumed speaking. “We don’t know how much of our civilization was successfully taken into the time slip. We do know the field was unstable, the collapsed area of the field was irregular. Section 3 is inaccessible, possibly nonexistent. We don’t know about the rest of the building.”

“You sent us all forward in time, like with a time machine.” Cora interjected. “Can’t you just, I dunno, cross some wires and send us back?”

“Its not-” Zara pinched the fold of skin just above her nostrils. “Its not time travel, not like that. For everything in the field, time was gone. It vanished, out of synch but anchored to normal time. Like... like...”  She picked up a water bottle from the floor. “It’s like the universe is a river... the water is time. And we were all in bottles, caught in that river, floating downstream.” She mimed the bottle bobbling in the stream. “There’s no water in the bottles, so we were dry, no time, frozen in one instant. But the water carries the bottles along with it at the same rate. Time kept flowing on and then our bottle broke, spilling us into the water. Into normal time and space. And the contents of the bottle displaced anything that was in its way.”

“But... our friends and families are still in their bottles.” Cora said.

“And my arm.” Kyle interjected weakly.

“And we don’t know when they’ll break, or how to break them.” Zara said. “For all we know, no one else made it out, or it worked the way it should have for them and they went extinct millions of years ago.” She shook visibly. “Or they won’t come back for a hundred, a thousand, or another sixty-five million years.”

“Hey!” Brach’s voice boomed, and he slid between Zara and the rest. He seemed even larger than normal, his neck craning down to look her in the eyes. “No doom and gloom in front of the kid! She’s been through enough today. Everyone has.”

“I’m just being realistic.” Zara narrowed her eyes, but lowered her voice. “Literally the only thing we have going for us is that we can’t get any more extinct than we already are.”

---

In the moment the tower had returned below, a sphere, sliced away by a bubble of lost time, snapped back into existence. A fraction of its body and form, a scoop of its being, fell toward the Earth at the exact speed that it fell away from it, locked in orbit above the world. 

It spewed its orange-yellow ichor, which froze into crystalline spikes and shards. The shards moved to orbit around the sphere, a ring forming around its center, parallel to the planet below. 

A crack formed across the bottom surface, as the thing’s anatomy restructured to accommodate its diminished form. A yellow-and-orange, four-lobed eye stretched wide, above the thin blue haze of Earth’s atmosphere.

From its ring two shards drifted free, then fell into the atmosphere. A pair of shooting stars hurtled toward a rocky place called Colorado. 

[uncannycookie]

Gil’s Guide to Meeting Cute Guys, Part 3

Nanowrimo snippet, continuation of this.

Part 4.

Farsaidh isn't sure if he likes the way Gil is prodding at the stone around them.

"Careful," he says, after a short while of just swallowing and licking his lips in preparation for speaking. "There might be - others. Somewhere. Buried. Moving the rubble could hurt them."

There is a pause. Gil is looking at him over his shoulder, eyebrows drawn together.

"Nah man. The screaming and everything stopped a while ago." He tilts his head at Farsaidh's probably confused expression. "You didn't hear?"

Farsaidh hums a short negation. "Ears hurt."

"Yeah, well." The hesitation in Gil's voice is strangely unhappy, as if he's trying hard not to take something too personally. "You were lucky there, let's leave it at that. Point is, there weren't that many people nearby and the ones that were buried by the same building as us are no longer a problem."

"Maybe they - maybe they just. Calmed down. Maybe that's why they're silent."

Farsaidh feels very cold, which is odd because even though they're in the shadows right now it's still summer, the middle of the day, the middle of the desert. He shouldn't be cold.

It's the thought of sharing their pile of rubble with a bunch of corpses, probably. Farsaidh is not good with corpses, never has been. Even as a kid he could never bring himself to loot the ones stacked up by the harbor, like all the other children did.

"Look. I heard them suffocate." Gil is being brusque again. "I know what that sounds like and I know when it's over. They're dead, moving on."

Farsaidh gets it. He wouldn't enjoy talking about that either. It occurs to him that he is not being very good company today, all in all. Had Gil not already declared they'd never speak to each other again after this, he would have decided to definitely apologize when they got out.

He feels a bit sad about this. They were getting on pretty well before that building fell on them. Even despite the fact that Farsaidh was trying to arrest him.

Gil is chewing on his lower lip, his hands patting down the walls and fingers digging experimentally into any gaps they find. "You wouldn't happen to still have your scimitar with you, would you? Ugh, no, I saw you drop it when you went for your shield. Alright. Wait. Let me think." Even while he says this, he's already turning back around, hands suddenly on Farsaidh's chest and tugging at different pieces of his armor.

"What are you ‒?"

"I'm not digging through that with my hands, I need a lever of some sort. Where does this open?"

Gil isn't exactly pulling at his armor with lots of strength, but the slight movement is still sending some quick jabs of pain through his body.

This is no time to whine about that though.

"At the side. Under ‒ wait. Here." Farsaidh hasn't spent much thought on his left arm, since the right one and the still very curious absence of feeling in both his legs has been keeping his mind busy enough. Now he carefully tries to lift it and it's not even all that bad. Most of the pain comes from it pulling at all his other injuries, but the arm itself appears to be doing well for itself.

As soon as it's lifted high enough, Gil lunges at the clasps down Farsaidh's side. "These are a little busted already," he says, clicking his tongue a little. "And ‒ oh." His hands slow down and he glances up at Farsaidh. "Do you feel that?"

"Feel what?" Farsaidh asks. And realizes a second later: "Ah. That means No."

"Yeah. That's not good. I mean, well, for the moment the Not Feeling Anything part is probably better for you, but... hm."

Just when Farsaidh starts wondering why he's sounding so strangely concerned all of a sudden, a wide grin snaps onto Gil's face as he quickly goes back to opening the clasps.

"You know what, never mind. Guy like you can afford a fancy healer, right! City guard must have their people for that. They'll just knit you back together all nice and clean after this, shiny hand-wavy magics and all that good stuff. Easy. I knew someone who got her skull literally impaled by this iron rod thing, like, I'm not joking, it went in one side and came out the other. And they actually patched her up again, it was crazy! Sure, she wasn't big on talking afterwards or on, uh, having any sort of personality at all, but her skull was completely fine! It's amazing what they can do with healing magic, I meant to read up on how that works exactly, but y'know, restricted knowledge and all that, you need a special pass or something to even get into that section in the library, which is kobold shit if you ask me ‒"

"Words," Farsaidh just groans very quietly, a little overwhelmed by the sudden flood of exactly that.

"You know!" Gil just says, very loudly and kind of interrupting himself with it. "I would already have a lever, if you hadn't insisted on confiscating my stuff! All my stuff! I didn't even steal half of what was in there."

A weird sense of excited triumph fills Farsaidh at that, he grins and barely even notices anymore how the bent and broken pieces of his armor are being pried off of him. "So I have your confession that you did steal some of it?"

Gil takes the end of one of the long and narrow metal plates that usually make up Farsaidh's chest armor and rams it into one of the gaps between the stones.

"I told you, I didn't mean to!" he says, much more worked up now than he has been this entire time. Farsaidh can't really tell if the whole situation of being buried alive is finally catching up to him or if he's just really getting into the argument again.

The shifting and rumbling of stone above them puts a swift end to Farsaidh's amusement. His racing heartbeat pushes the air out of his lungs and he swallows a few times in a row, blinking the falling dust out of his eyes.

"I can't, I can't hold any more than this," he whispers roughly, gesturing to his right arm. "You'll shift the rocks. If ‒ if anything falls on top of us..."

Now that there is a bit more light, he sees that the shield is bent and broken. Some of the sharp pieces are digging right through the hardened leather of his arm protector and ‒ judging by the amount of blood that's sluggishly and continuously welling up from under there ‒ deep into the flesh of his forearm.

Farsaidh's throat feels rough and dry. "I can't hold up any more than this."

"It's fine," Gil says, slowly pivoting his lever and leaning forward to press his ear against the stone, listening intently to pick up any movement. "That wall we're under is still largely intanct, the rubble should just be sort of piled up against it from the side. Nothing can fall on top."

"Wh ‒ how, how do you know that?" Farsaidh asks in disbelief. "You're just guessing, you can't stake your life on just a guess!"

"First of all, uh, yes I can? It’s what I do? And I'm still alive because, lo and behold, my guesses are educated ones." With a sudden twist of the armor piece, Gil widens the small gap he's working on and the stones begin to tumble loudly around them.

The weight pressing down on Farsaidh's arm doesn't change even a tiny bit.

Gil readjusts the metal but takes a moment to break his concentration and glance at Farsaidh. "Second. This," and he points up at the wall above their doorframe, "is a load-bearing wall. One of the least likely parts of this building to simply collapse. The biggest weakpoint would in fact be the doorframe, which is being held up rather effectively by you. It's not this building that collapsed, but the other one across the street. Which I know because I wasn't shutting my eyes and praying while it happened, like some other people I'm not going to name, I was observing. Seriously. Pay more attention to your surroundings man, shit's gonna save your life one day."

Farsaidh barely has the energy to feel shame anymore. "It was scary," he just says.

"So is this, but you don't see me closing my eyes and pretending it's not happening, do you!" With another tug on the metal, Gil sends the stones moving again and, just like before, Farsaidh feels none of it.

He watches the trickle of blood on Gil's forehead, the one he wiped away twice already but that keeps coming back. Watches how it makes its way through the deep creases between his eyebrows, pulled together in sharp concentration.

Suddenly, something inside Farsaidh decides to just trust that expression.

The thief knows what he's doing.

They met maybe half an hour ago, but even Farsaidh figured out by now that he's good at coming up with plans. He remembers the trap the thief improvised for him, that he set up while on the run and with barely any time to think. The trap that Farsaidh and both his senior colleagues bumbled straight into and still hadn't found a way out of by the time that earthquake started.

It makes Farsaidh smile now.

He still can't tell if this is all his fault, if Gil really could have avoided all the falling debris if Farsaidh hadn't held him back. If he'd been safer or stuck in an even more dangerous place had Farsaidh not chased after him at all.

As it is, Farsaidh decides sluggishly, barely fighting the dizzy spell that's coming over him, he's glad it turned out this way. That he could be here to hold up the doorframe. To buy enough time for someone else to make it out alive.

The thick, stuffy feeling in his ears is becoming more heavy, more intense.

Noises of falling rocks, of metal screaching against stone, of a voice nearby are merging into just one low, droning sound.

He doesn't think he's moving, but his head makes him feel like he is, like he's spinning around himself in the dark. Bright stars are dancing along behind his eyelids and he takes a moment to wonder when exactly he decided to close his eyes.

"Big guy." Something rapidly taps his face and the voice manages to set itself apart from the rest of the noise for a second. "Hey. I'm bored. Tell me why you became a guardsman."

To help people, Farsaidh thinks, but the words are nothing more than a soft breath through his nose.

“Hey, come on, entertain me will you.”

His mouth feels numb, his mind too slow. He's said these words a thousand times, but now he can't and they don't feel like enough anymore and it's suddenly scary.

"Hey," the voice says. There are more words, he thinks, but they're slowly becoming nothing more than noise again.

More frantic tapping on his face. It feels far away.

He's cold.

That's weird, in the desert.

Must be nighttime already.

> Part 4.

[puttingfingerstokeys]

an egg in this trying time

Nanowrimo 2019 day 5 Featuring Brick and Mordecai, OG Vault Hunters, Borderlands What genre is borderlands? B...orderlands. Shlooter?idk Brick and Mordy, slice of ANGST, ficlet Unfinished and unedited

COMPLETE VERSION ON AO3

“Those had better not be the kind that bite, amigo; I’m still sore from the last ones,” Mordecai grunted, not even looking up from the beautiful rifle upon which he was performing routine maintenance. He had a collection of well-kept firearms, mostly of the revolver or sniper rifle varieties, but there was a small selection of repeaters to the hunter’s name and of which he was exceedingly proud. 

“I checked ‘em this time,” Brick promised, fully entering the doorway of Casa de Mordecai, a cave system that the hunter had outfitted for his comfort. Animal skins and stuffed heads lined the floors and walls. His favorite skin divided his “room” from the rest of what could only have been described as a stone-hewn studio apartment. This place was rent-free, however, which suited the painfully frugal Vault Hunter well. 

At one end, the area was dominated by a massive hole in the rocks which acted as a window, a sniper’s nest, and a launching point for Bloodwing. His perch was notably empty, though a rosary hung from one side; this twitched in a light breeze, but otherwise, all was still. Brick didn’t focus on it long and instead set the flowers in a vase near the door. There were flecks of blood on it, likely from the last set he had brought. These latest were more of a peace offering, compensation for the bitey ones, found in the Atlas biodome complex. 

“I licked ‘em,” the berserker added, by way of explanation. Mordecai looked up, raised a brow, and then shook his head. He had no trouble believing Brick had done this. Nothing could surprise him anymore. His years traveling the galaxy had taught him to expect the unexpected; Pandora had reeducated him thoroughly and had shown him that there was simply no way to do this. Here, he had learned to surf, so to speak, riding whatever wave came next. 

“‘Course you did.”

Brick moved past the table where Mordecai worked, skillful fingers finding parts and pieces, oiling them carefully and sliding them back together. This weapon, Brick recognized as a trophy piece called Reaver’s Edge. He suspected Mordecai only kept it around because the head of its former user had been vaporized beyond recognition and he couldn’t put that on his wall. 

Once more, the berserker’s eyes fell on that empty perch. Thence, they followed a veritable trail of rakk ale bottle piles. They weren’t lined up like dominos, which he had half-expected; Mordecai had a pattern and this was part of it, but contrary to that visual, he’d at least done himself the courtesy of stacking them here and there for easy access later. Pandora had no recycling program, unsurprisingly, but bottles made for satisfying targets. 

Brick’s attention finally landed back on Mordecai and his workbench. It was filled with gun parts, fewer now than when he had walked in, and empty bottles. As he watched, the hunter lifted one to his lips and emptied it without missing a beat. He had been bad when Moxxie was finished with him, but this was so, so much worse. Brick half expected alcohol poisoning to take him and to have to grab a runner and pick his friend up at the nearest New-U station, cursing and spitting that he had wasted money. It would have served Mordecai right, but the thought did not sit well with Brick. 

“Lilith asked me to see if you wouldn’t mind helping me do a job for Hammerlock,” Brick rumbled finally, approaching his friend from the rear. That was a dangerous move for just about anyone else. Mordecai did not shift, however, and continued cleaning the Edge, as if he had not heard Brick. The berserker knew his friend had registered him, however. The minutest shift in posture had told Brick everything. Mordecai was a broken man, in more ways than one, but just now, it looked a bit like putting his pieces back together was going to be like gluing powder, rather than shards. 

“That all?” Mordecai’s voice was low, dangerous, caustic, and absolutely several bottles in. He was in no shape to go on any mission, especially not the one Lilith had proposed. It was likely their siren companion had suspected this and thought perhaps Brick’s renewed presence would have sparked something in the hunter. As yet, it had not, but there was always hope. 

“More for me,” Brick responded, shrugging. “But he’s offering a lot.” 

Sir Hammerlock was an amicable fellow and unlikely to bother Mordecai while he was clearly in mourning. He was also not as familiar with the man’s pattern and predisposition toward spiraling self-destruction. Lilith, Brick thought, had made the right call enlisting his help. Besides, this kind of thing was right up Mordecai’s alley. 

Cautiously, Brick laid a hand on Mordecai’s thin shoulder and squeezed it. “Mordy,” he began, “I’m sorry… About all this… About Blood—”

“Don’t you say it! Not his name! NOT here, pendejo!” The firearm was reassembled, the final pieces fitting in with a few flicks and twists of skilled fingers and wrists and suddenly the barrel was shoved up under Brick’s chin. Brick had forgotten for a moment just how quick his friend could be when he wanted, even deep in his cups. He did not shift to remove the barrel, however, opting instead to stare the other man down. 

“I know it hurts,” Brick continued. “But this cave is killing you.”

Mordecai’s jaw tightened visibly, but he lowered the rifle and stood fully, brushing past Brick to replace it on its rack. Reaver’s Edge had a special place on Mordecai’s wall. Every trophy did. There was a place for everything and everything was perpetually in its place. He only took certain items down and then only to clean or maintain them. The man was surprisingly fastidious when his mind was not bogged down by loss. 

“No it’s not,” said Mordecai resolutely, “I am.”

Brick bristled then, feeling the rage pooling in his guts. He despised it when Mordecai talked this way. It was not often, though the man could be a bit of a downer. This was serious. Something about the tone rubbed the berserker the VERY wrong way, but rather than punch his way out, the usual tried-and-true method, he choked it back and crossed huge arms over his chest. 

Mordecai stood for several moments, his back to Brick. He wanted the man to leave, craved solitude. He needed to think, or maybe to drown his thoughts. He desired sleep, long, deep sleep, but his thoughts were racing. It was difficult to resist such an offer, but at the same time, he knew full well he was far from his peak and there was no way he would allow Brick to carry him, literally or figuratively. Decent vantage point though Brick’s shoulders might have been, now was hardly the time. 

“How long are you going to run?” It was Brick who broke the silence. The words hit Mordecai in the back like a volley of darts, stinging him. They did not dig deep enough to bleed him out, but the pinpricks of accuracy were enough to drive him almost mad. He clenched his fists at his sides and then wrapped his arms around himself, squeezing tight, as if he could force the breath out and have done with it. Brick half expected to hear a rib crack. What he heard instead was Mordecai’s voice, still low, but resigned. 

“Long as I have to.”

That was all Brick could take and he turned, leaving without another word. Hammerlock had work and Mordy wasn’t biting. That was fine. If he spent another moment in that depressing cave, which smelled of booze and stale air, he would have lost his mind. The Slabs were preferable to his best friend right now and that was not a good sign. Those guys, he could kill on a whim, for fun if he wanted. Mordecai was different. He loved Mordecai, hated seeing him suffer, and hated most of all that he had imposed a good bit of it on himself. 

What was he going to tell Lilith? Likely, it would be nothing she did not expect, but the delivery would hurt all the same. They both cared for their friend, but could think of nothing to do to help him. He had to help himself. The worst part was knowing that Mordecai also knew this and was actively choosing not to do so, almost fighting against recovery. It was as if he craved this spiral into despair and darkness. Maybe he did. Who could say? 

The sound of the runner roaring away was the hunter’s signal that Brick had given up and he finally turned, pointedly avoiding Bloodwing’s empty perch. He was headed toward his makeshift bedroom and the longest nap he could manage before Handsome Jack’s horrid, mocking voice snapped him back to reality and reminded him that he was alone.

~ 

It was a fortnight before Mordecai saw Brick again. He had only begun worrying after the first week, and had even reached out to Lilith at Sanctuary, to see if she or Hammerlock had seen the Berserker. It was this worry which had compelled him to finally step outside his cave and smell fresh air for the first time in months. 

The wind chapped his exposed flesh, of which there was very little, and brought an invigorating shiver to his whole, lanky frame. Patrolling without Bloodwing seemed wrong, but he had no choice if he wanted to find Brick. He had not returned to Hammerlock for payment, which meant he was either still on the mission, or was doing other things to make the trip more efficient, picking up and fulfilling various tasks and bounties on his way. 

Mordecai tried Lucky’s Last Chance first, in the Dahl Headland and found it predictably overrun with scythid-worshiping bandits. He mowed them down with hardly a bead of sweat for his efforts and moved on, inquiring after him in the Dust, which almost netted him a date with Ellie, a charming if rough-hewn woman who, for all her charms, was simply not Mordecai’s type. He found himself in Thousand Cuts eventually, forced to massacre the Slabs just to find someone who spoke in intelligible, full sentences. This, too, yielded little.

His last option was Hammerlock on Sanctuary. Mordecai had not wanted to seem worried when he asked after Brick the first time, had played it off as if he simply wanted to drink with the man, or that Brick owed him some money. Mordecai was tight-fisted, they all knew that, and owing him was bad news. He resolved to give it one more day and headed back to his cave. He needed a drink, nap, and then a little more courage to swallow his damnable pride and speak to Sir Hammerlock. 

“No, I’m afraid I haven’t seen him since he took on my mission in Jakobs Cove, old boy. I’m certain your punchy friend is just taking his time, enjoying the sights. The Cove has trees you could live in, by golly. If I didn’t already have a fabulous hunting lodge out on the wastes near Hollow Point, I might invest. It has been years, I’ll admit, but I’m quite certain the rumors about shambling corpses are highly exaggerated.”

This did not instill confidence in the hunter, who had seen Jakobs Cove much more recently than Sir Hammerlock and knew firsthand what kind of undead horseshit lurked there. It made his skin crawl just thinking about it. He pulled himself belly-up to the bar and ordered a shot. Moxxie obliged, but lingered a moment.

“You look like hell, Sugar. What’s on your mind?” The music thumped and the people jostled as Mordecai spoke, quietly, in confidence, so only she could hear. Somehow, she was still easy to talk to, an open ear and an even more open mind. He stopped himself staring at her cleavage, which became easier as he spoke, seated at one corner of her counter, away from everything as much as he could manage, spilling feelings he had not wanted to acknowledge to himself, much less another soul.

“Oh, Mordy, baby,” she cooed, reaching out to stroke a wind-burnt cheek. There was very little exposed flesh on the hunter’s body, but this was one of the exceptions. He leaned into it, eyes closing behind his goggles. 

“I gotta go to Jakobs Cove,” he said finally, unable to meet her gaze. Overcoming his fear of the undead would have to happen quickly. He didn’t know what kind of trouble Brick might have found, but if it was keeping him this long, there was no telling. The thought of Ned’s mutated, gut-spewing form flashed behind Mordecai’s eyelids when he blinked and the hunter shuddered 

“No, you need to go home, Mordecai,” said the bartender, smiling softly, “and sleep this off.” She gestured to the bottles. “Don’t worry. It’s on me. Go home.”

He groaned and stood, knees cracking. Moxxie was right. He was a good shot drunk, but not drunk and scared. There was no doubt that the corpses which had inhabited Jakobs Cove before would still very much be present and he was in no condition to meet them head on today. Maybe not ever, but for Brick, he would do it. 

He returned home, crashed hard, and slept the rest of the day away. The wind howled and shrieked through the mountainous area he called his casa, whistling as it caught the hole in the wall that served as a window and still he slept on. He was not young and his body took time to catch up with his various activities. Drinking was only the tip of the iceberg. 

~

The next morning found him rising to the sound of footsteps in his cave and the prickle of terror upon his flesh. A chill settled in his guts like a stone and he moved, quickly and silently, to the edge of his bed, gripping an old Tediore revolver, jaw tight, ready for anything. He had not even gotten himself dressed, such was his alarm. On the other hand, he had only managed to unwrap his upper half the previous day, which meant that, conveniently, he was still very much armed. 

“Freeze pendejo!” Mordecai’s firearm was leveled at the intruder instantly as he emerged swiftly from behind the curtain of his room. Whomever it was, they’d crouched low near Bloodwing’s old perch. “Back off!” The hunter’s voice was raspy, but sharp, commanding and absolutely not playing. Bloodwing’s perch was an altar to him, the holy of holies and nobody was allowed to lay hands upon it. The intruder stilled the swinging rosary and stood, turning. Mordecai knew the frame.

“Brick…?” The revolver fell, dematerializing into the hunter’s thigh-mounted storage deck. His heart slammed at his ribs as everything he’d said to Moxxie came rushing back. It was painful, he found, to feel all of this, all at once. He swallowed hard. “Where… where’d you go, amigo?” 

He hated the hitch in his voice, but swallowed it, wanting answers, first and foremost. There was no reason for any sentimentality, after all. Brick was invincible, as far as Mordecai was aware. He was just messing around in Jakobs Cove, enjoying giant trees, zombies, and wereskags. 

“Jakobs Cove,” said Brick slowly, as if it should have been the most obvious thing in the world and Mordecai was ridiculous for asking. “TK had some other shit for me to do, so I took a few days… and uh… Well I kinda… felt bad…”

“Felt bad?” Mordecai felt himself wrapping his own skinny arms around his upper body to shield it from the chill and exposure. Why did Brick feel bad? He was the one who’d acted like a dickhead. Brick had been trying to help, which of course Mordecai knew now. Hell, maybe he had always known. He just didn’t want to face it. 

“About Bloodwing,” Brick clarified. He held up a hand when Mordecai opened his mouth to protest. “C’mere.”

The hunter approached with caution and apprehension, doing his best to look anywhere but the perch and the swinging rosary. Brick had laid something at the base of it, had surrounded that something with torn cloth and what looked to be sawdust, perhaps some leavings from the Jakobs Cove sawmill. 

It was an egg. More specifically, it was a rare corpse-eater egg. “Turns out, Hammerlock wanted to study one of these babies, but I figured you should have it instead.” Contrary to his very nature as a Vault Hunter, Brick had passed up a huge payoff to deliver a gift to his friend, something which meant more to Mordecai than all the money on all of Pandora, which was a considerable sum. 

Mordecai fell to his knees at the base of Bloodwing’s perch, leaning forward and examining the egg, touching it gently, choking back something thick, heavy, and hot in his throat. It wasn’t the usual thick, heavy, hot thing, either. Tears threatened at the corners of his eyes, making them prickle and it was only then that he noticed he’d forgotten his goggles. But what did it matter? It was Brick, after all. 

Anyone else wouldn’t have lived to tell the tale of those amethyst irises filling with tears and spilling over on gaunt cheeks, falling on the egg like diamonds.

[scifrey]

Improbable Press put out a call asking fan fiction authors how they went from Free to Fee. Here’s my response. Happy reading!

The Story of How I Started Selling Stories

My parents, teachers, and acting/singing coaches will all tell you that I've always been a story teller. For the first twenty four years of my life, I was determined to do so through musical theatre, though I had always secretly harbored the desire to write a hit stage play. My early writing consisted of plays for my friends and I to put on, interspersed with prose that I supposed would one day become a novel, but which wasn't my passion.

I was a big reader, but where this habit came from, I'm not certain. While my mother always had a book on the go - whatever crumbling paperback law thriller or murder mystery she'd been handed by the woman down the street when she was done it, which was then passed on to the next neighbor - my father and brothers preferred sports (either on TV or outside in the yard) over reading. I stumbled into fantasy and science fiction because Wil Wheaton was hot, and his show was on every Friday night, and from there I consumed every Star Trek tie-in novel my tiny rural library carried, then started following the authors of the novels into their other worlds and series.

So you won't be surprised to learn that this was how I found fan fiction for the first time. My "I love this, gee, I wonder what else there is?" muscle was well developed by junior high, and before the internet had come to The Middle Of Nowhere Rural Ontario, I had already gotten quite adept at search keywords and codexes to track down more books to consume.  Imagine my shock and joy when, in the middle of my Phantom of the Opera phase (come on, fess up, you had one too), the internet in my school library told me about not only Fredrick Forsyth and Susan Kay's stunning re-tellings, but of something called fan fiction.

I wasted a lot of the librarian's ink and paper printing out these books and secreting them into binders and pretending to do school work at my desk or backstage between scenes. A lot. And yes, I still have most of them.

And as we all well know, the jump between reading and writing is a short when one is submerged so fully in communities of creators. Everyone else's "What If" rubs off on you, and it's just a matter of time before you find yourself playing with the idea of coaxing a few plot bunnies over to spend some time with you. Not everyone loves to write, but gosh darn it, if you want to give it a try, then you couldn't ask for a better, more supportive community. It doesn't matter how new you are to it, everyone reads, everyone comments, everyone makes suggestions. People beta read. People edit. People co-write. People cheer, and support, and recommend, and enthuse. Yeah, there are the occasional jerks, flammers, and wank-mongers, but on the whole? There's literally no better place to learn how to be a writer than in fandom, I firmly believe this.

So, of course, born storyteller that I am, I had to give it a try.

I started writing fan fiction in 1991 for a small, relatively obscure Canadian/Luxembourg co-pro children’s show called Dracula: the Series.  I used to get up and watch it on Saturday mornings, in my PJs, before heading off to whichever rehearsal or read through or practice I had that year.

1995 brought the English dub of Sailor Moon to my life, (and put me on the path to voice acting), and along with a high-school friend, I wrote, printed out, illustrated, and bound my first “book” – a self-insert story that was just over eleven pages long, which introduced new Scouts based on us.  From there, I didn’t really stop.

1996 led me to Forever Knight and Dragon Ball Z, and from there to my friend’s basement where they’d just installed the internet. We chatted with strangers on ICQ, joined Yahoo!Groups and Bravenet Chat Boards. (Incidentally, a friend from my DBZ chat group turned out to be a huge DtS fan, too. We wrote a big crossover together which is probably only accessible on the Wayback Machine now. We stayed friends, helped each other through this writing thing, and now she’s Ruthanne Reid, author of the popular Among the Mythos series.)  In 2000 I got a fanfiction.net account and never looked back.

In 2001, while in my first year of university for Dramatic Arts, I made my first Real Live fandom friends. We wrote epic-length self-insert fics in Harry Potter and Fushigi Yuugi, cosplayed at conventions (sometimes using the on-campus wardrobe department’s terrifyingly ancient serger), and made fan art and comics in our sketchbooks around studying for our finals and writing essays on critical theory or classical Latin.  I was explaining the plot of the next big fic I was going to write to one of them, an older girl who had been my T.A. but loved Interview with the Vampire just as dearly as I, when she said, “You know, this sounds really interesting. Why don’t you strip all the fandom stuff out of the story and just write it as a novel?”

You can do that? was my first thought.

No! I don’t want to! Writing is my fun hobby. What will happen if I try to be a writer and get rejected by everyone and I end up hating it? was my second.

But the seed was planted.  Slowly at first, and then at increasingly obsessive pace, I began writing my first novel around an undergrad thesis,  fourth-year  essays,  several other big fanfics that popped me into the cusp of BNF status but never quite over the tine, and then a move to Japan to teach English. From 2002-2007 I wrote about 300 000 words on the novel that I would eventually shut away in my desk drawer and ignore until I published on Wattpad under my pseudonym on a lark. It was messy. It was long. It was self-indulgent and blatantly inspired by Master of Mosquiton, Interview with the Vampire, Forever Knight, and anything written by Tanya Huff, Laurell K. Hamilton, and Charlaine Harris. This was fine for fanfic, but in terms of being comfortable with presenting it to agents and publishing houses, I felt that it wasn’t original enough.

By this time I was teaching overseas, and in my spare time (and boy, was there a lot of spare time while sitting in a Japanese teacher’s office for 40 hours per week when one only actually teaches for 11 of them) I started applying to MA programs (where I eventually wrote my thesis on Mary Sue Fan Fiction). I also spent it researching “How to Get Published”, mostly by Googling it and/or buy/reading the few books on the topic in English I could find at the local book store or order from the just-then-gaining-international traction online bookstore Amazon.

What that research mostly told me was “Write and sell a bunch of short fiction first, so you have proof that a) you can do the work and b) you can finish what you promise you’ll finish and c) you have proof that other people think you’re worth spending money on.”

Short fiction. Huh. Of course we’d studied short stories in school, and I’d even taken a short story writing class in university, though nothing I’d written for the class was indicative of the kinds of stories I preferred to tell. But I felt pretty confident about this whole writing short stories thing… after all, I’d been doing weekly challenges for years. Drabbles. Flashfic. Stories and chapters that were limited to the word count cap that LiveJournal put on its posts. I’d written novellas without knowing that’s what they were called; I’d written whole novels about other people’s characters. All I needed was an idea. Short fiction I could do.

Unfortunately, everything that came to me was fanfic inspired. It frustrated me, because I didn’t want to write a serial-numbers-filed-off story. I wanted to write something original and epic and inspiring. Something just mine. I started and stopped a lot of stories in 2006-2007. I’d been doing NaNoWriMo for years by then, having been introduced to it in undergrad, and I was determined that this would be the year that I wrote something I could shop. Something just mine. Something unique.

While I adored fanfiction, I was convinced that I couldn't make a career on it.  What had once been a fun hobby soon because a source of torment. Why could I think of a hundred ways to write a meet-cute between my favorite ships, but come up utterly blank when it came to something new and original and just mine?

It took me a while to realize that my playwriting and short story teachers had been correct when they said that there are no original stories in the world, no way you can tell a tale that someone else hasn’t already tried. The "Man vs." list exists for a reason.

The unique part isn’t your story, it’s your voice. Your lived life, your experiences, your way of forming images and structuring sentences. Your choices about who the narrator character is, and what the POV will be, and how the characters handle the conflict. In that way, every piece of writing ever done is individual and unique, even the fanfic. Because nobody is going to portray that character’s quirk or speech pattern quite like you do, nobody is going to structure your plot or your imagery like you. Because there is only one of you. Only one of me. Even if we're all writing fanfiction, no one's story sounds like anyone else's,  or is told like anyone else's.

That is the reality of being a storyteller.

And strangely enough, the woman who opened my eyes to this was a psychic from a psychic fair I attended, who told me that Mark Twain was standing over her shoulder admonishing me to stop fretting and just get something on the page – but to never forget character. My strength, she said that he said, was in creating memorable, well written, well rounded characters. And that my book should focus on that above concerns of plot or pacing.

Well, okay. If Mark Twain says that’s what my strength is, then that’s what my strength is, right? Who am I to argue with the ghost of Mark Freaking Twain?

An accident with a bike and a car on a rice patty left me immobile for six weeks in 2006, and I decided that if I was finally going to write this original short story to sell – especially since I would need income, as the accident made it obvious that I would never be able to dance professionally, and probably would never be able to tread the boards in musicals – now was the perfect time. I was going to stop fighting my fannish training and write.

I cherry picked and combined my favorite aspects of Doctor Who, Stargate: Atlantis, Torchwood, The Farm Show/The Drawer Boy, and my own melancholy experiences with culture shock and liminal-living in a foreign culture, and wrote a novella titled (Back). It was a character study of a woman named Evvie who, through an accident of time travel, meets the future version of her infant daughter Gwen. And realizes she doesn’t like the woman her daughter will become. It was a story about accepting people for who they are, instead of who you wish they would be, and had a strong undercurrent of the turbulence I was going through in trying to figure out my own sexuality and that I wouldn't have the future in performance that I had been working toward since I was four.

Deciding that I would worry about where I would try to publish the story after it had been written, I sat down and wrote what ended up being (at least for me) a pretty standard-length fanfic: 18,762 words. It was only after I had finished the story that I looked up what category that put it in – Novella. Using paying  reputable markets, like Duotrope, the Writer’s Digest, MSFV, Absolute Write, SFWA, my local Writer’s Union, Writer Beware, I realized that I had shot myself in the foot.

It seems like nearly nobody publishes novellas anymore. SF/F and Literary Fiction seem to be the last two bastions of the novella, and the competition to get one published is fierce.  The markets that accepted SF/F novellas was vanishingly thin I had to do a lot of Googling and digging to figure out who I could submit to with an unagented/unsolicited SF/F novella. If I recall correctly, it was only about ten publications. I built an excel database and filled it with all the info I found.

I put together a query letter and sent it off using my database to guide me. Most of the rejections were kind, and said that the story was good, just too long/too short/ too sci-fi-y/not sci-fi-y enough. Only one market offered on it – for $10 USD. Beggers couldn’t be choosers, even if I had hoped to make a little more than ten bucks, and I accepted.

It was a paid professional publication, and that’s what mattered to me. I had the first entry on my bibliography, and something to point to in my query letters to prove that I was a worthy investment for a publisher/agent.

And energized by this, and now aware that length really does matter, even in online-only publications, I started writing other shorts to pad out my bibliography more.

I tried to tailor these ones to what my research told me the "mainstream industry" and "mainstream audiences" wanted, and those stories? Those were shot down one after the other. I was still writing fanfiction at the time, too, and those stories were doing well, getting lots of positive feedback, so why weren’t my stories?

In 2007 I returned to Canada and Academia, frustrated by my lack of sales, desperate to kick off my publishing career, and feeling a creative void left by having to depart theatre because of my new difficulties walking. I wrote my MA, and decided that if (Back) was the only original story that people liked, then I’d try to expand it into a novel.

Over the course of two years I did my coursework, and  read everything there was to read about how to get a book deal, started hanging out in writer’s/author’s groups in Toronto and met some great people who were willing to guide me, and expanded (Back) into the novel Triptych. I kept reminding myself what Mark Twain said – character was my strength, the ability to make the kind of people that other writers wanted to write stories about, a skill I’d honed while writing fanfic. Because that's what we do, isn't it? Sure, we write fix-its and AUs and fusions and finish cancelled shows, and fill in missing scenes, but what we're all really doing is playing with characters, isn't it? Characters draw us to fanfic, and characters keep us there. Characters is what we specialize in.

Fanfic had taught me to work with a beta reader, so I started asking my fic betas if they'd like a go at my original novel. Fellow fanfic writers, can I just say how valuable editors and beta readers in the community are? These are people who do something that I've paid a professional editor thousands of dollars to do for free out of sheer love. Treasure your beta readers, folks. Really.

“It reminds me a lot of fan fiction,” one reader said. “The intense attention to character and their inner life, and the way that the worldbuilding isn’t dumped but sprinkled in an instance at a time, like, you know, a really good AU. I love it.”

Dear Lord. I couldn’t have written a better recommendation or a more flattering description if I’d tried. Mark Twain was right, it seems. And fanfic was the training ground, for me – my apprenticeship in storytelling.

Of course... what Mr. Twain hadn't explained is that character-study novels just don't sell in SF/F. They say Harry Potter was rejected twelve times? HA. I shopped Triptych to both agents and small presses who didn't require you to have an agent to publish with them, and I got 64 rejections. Take that, J.K.

At first the rejection letters were forms and photocopied "no thanks" slips. But every time I got feedback from a publisher or agent, I took it to heart, adjusted the manuscript, edited, tweaked, tweaked, tweaked. Eventually, the rejections started to get more personal. "I loved this character, but I don't know how to sell this book." And "I really enjoyed the read, but it doesn't really fit the rest of our catalogue." And "What if you rewrote the novel to be about the action event that happens before the book even starts, instead of focusing solely on the emotional aftermath?"

In other words - "Stop writing fanfiction." There seemed to be a huge disconnect between what the readership wanted and what the publishing world thought they wanted.

Disheartened, frustrated, and wondering if I was going to have to give up on my dreams of being a professional creative, I attended Ad Astra, a convention in Toronto, in 2009. At a room party, complaining to my author friends that "nobody wanted my gay alien threesome book!" a woman I didn't know asked me about the novel. We chatted, and it turned out she was the acquisitions editor for Dragon Moon Press, and incidentally, also a fan of fan fiction.

I sent her Triptych. She rejected it. I asked why. She gave me a laundry list of reasons. I said, "If I can address these issues and rewrite it, would you be willing to look at it again?" She said yes. She was certain, however, that I wouldn't be able to fix it. I spent the summer rewriting - while making sure to stay true to my original tone of the novel, and writing a character-study fanfiction. I sent it in the fall. I do believe it was Christmas eve when I received the offer of publication.

From there, my little fic-inspired novel was nominated for two Lambda Literary Awards and a CBC Bookie, was named one of the best books of 2011 by the Advocate, and garnered a starred review and a place on the Best Books Of The Year at Publishers Weekly.

The award nominations led me to an agent, and further contracts, and even conversations with studio execs. It also made me the target of Requires Only That You Hate, and other cranky, horrible reviewers. But you know what? I've had worse on a forum, and on ff.n, and LJ. It sucked, and it hurt, but if there's one thing fandom has taught me, it's that not everyone is going to love what you do, and not everyone interprets things the same way you do. The only thing we can do is learn from the critique if it's valid and thoughtful, and ignore the screaming hate and bullying. Then you pick yourself up, brush yourself off, and go write something else.

 Because a screaming hater? Is not going to ruin my love of storytelling.

But for all that... the day someone made me fan art based on Triptych is one etched in my memory. It means far more to me than any of the emails I ever received inquiring about representation or film rights, or wanting meetings to discuss series.

The lesson I learned from publishing Triptych  - now sadly out of print, but we're looking for a new home for it - is that if I chase what the "mainstream" and the "industry" want, I'll never write anything that sells because my heart won't be in it. I have to keep writing like a fanficcer, even if I'm not writing fanfic, if I want to create something that resonates with people. And if it takes time for the publishers and acquiring editors to figure out what I'm doing, and how to sell it, then fine - I have an agent on my side now, and a small growing number of supporters, readers, and editors who love what I do.

Do I still write fanfic? Very, very rarely. I’ve had some pretty demanding contracts and deadlines in the last two years, so I’ve had to pare down my writing to only what’s needed to fulfill my obligations. Doesn’t mean I don’t have ideas for fics constantly.

Sometimes the urge is powerful enough that I do give into it – I wrote To A Stranger, based on Mad Lori’s Performance in a Leading Role Sherlock AU recently, when I should have been writing the second and third novels of The Accidental Turn Series. And even more recently, I cleaned up To A Stranger  into something resembling a real screenplay and started shopping it around to film festivals and producers because I love this story, I love what I did with it, and I’m proud of the work. If To A Stranger is only ever a fanfic, that’s fine with me. I poured my heart into it and am so proud of it. But I figure that if there’s one more project I could possibly get into the real world, then why not go for it?

The worst thing the festival heads and producers can say about the work is: “No, thank you.” And being an online writer has taught me not to take the “no, thank you”s personally. Applying the values of Don’t Like Don’t Read or Not My Kink to your publication/agent search makes it much easier to handle the rejections – not every story is for every person.

Maybe once every producer in North America has rejected it, I might think about working with someone to adapt the screenplay into an illustrated comic fanbook? Who knows?

That’s the joy of starting out as a writer in fandom – felixibility, adaptability, creative problem-solving and cross-platform storytelling comes as naturally as breathing to us fan writers. It’s what we do.

You may not think that this is a strength, but trust me, it is. I was never so shocked at an author’s meetup as when I suggested to someone that their “writer’s block” sounded to me like they were telling the story in the wrong format. “I think this is a comic, not a novel,” I’d said. “It sounds so visual. That's why the story is resisting you.” And they stared at me like I suddenly had an extra head and said, “But I’m a novelist.” I said, “No, you’re a writer. Try it.” They never did, as far as I know, and they never finished that book, either.

As fans, our strength isn't just in what we write, or how we come to our stories. It’s also about the physical practice of writing, too. We’re a group of people who have learned to carry notebooks, squeeze in a few hundred words between classes, or when the baby is napping, or during our lunch breaks, or on commute home. This is our hobby, we fit it in around our lives and jobs, and that has taught us the importance of just making time.

We are, on average, more dedicated and constant writers than some of the “novelists” that I’ve met: the folks who wait for inspiration to strike, who quit their day jobs in pursuit of some lofty ideal of having an office and drinking whiskey and walking the quay and waiting for madam muse to grace them, who throw themselves at MFAs and writing retreats, as if it's the attendance that makes them writers and not the work of it.

We fans are career writers. We don’t wait for inspiration to come to us, we chase it down with a butterfly net. We write when and where we can. More than that, we finish things. (Or we have the good sense to know when to abandon something that isn’t working.) We write to deadlines. Self-imposed ones, even.

We write 5k on a weekend for fun, and think NaNoWriMo’s 50k goal and 1667 words per day are a walk in the park. (When I know it terrifies some of the best-selling published authors I hang out with.) Or if we fans don’t write fast, then we know that slow and steady works too, and we’re willing to stick it out until our story is finished, even if it takes years of weekly updates to do so. We have patience, and perseverance, and passion.

This is what being a fanfiction writer has given me. Not only a career as a writer, but tools and a skill-set to write work that other people think is work awarding, adapting, and promoting. And the courage to stick to my guns when it comes to telling the kinds of stories that I want to tell.

This is what being a fanfiction writer gives us.

Aren’t we lucky, fellow fans? Hasn’t our training been spectacular?

*

J.M. (@scifrey) is a SF/F author, and professional smartypants on AMI Audio’s Live From Studio 5. She’s appeared in podcasts, documentaries, and on television to discuss all things geeky through the lens of academia. Her debut novel TRIPTYCH was nominated for two Lambda Literary Awards,  nominated for a 2011 CBC Bookie, was named one of The Advocate’s Best Overlooked Books of 2011, and garnered both a starred review and a place among the Best Books of 2011 from Publishers Weekly. Her sophomore novel, an epic-length feminist meta-fantasy THE UNTOLD TALE (Accidental Turn Series #1), debuted to acclaim in 2015 and was followed by THE FORGOTTEN TALE (Accidental Turn Series #2) this past December. FF.N | LJ |AO3| Books | Tumblr

[cascadedkiwi]

A Peek in on My Darker Moods

This is an excerpt from my 2017 NaNoWriMo novel draft in which I basically managed to put into words what I’d been feeling (semi-depressive) beyond my extended writer’s block I’d been dealing with over the past couple years. This character, Shoshan, is not a writer, but an artist, but all the sentiments are from me as a writer. Not being able to write makes me feel like a failure, especially when it is ingrained in my very being as my only natural affinity.

“I don’t show this to Saffie or anyone for that matter,” Shoshan murmured, fully aware Maggie could hear him but not in the strength of mind to keep it locked inside like he usually did. “When I get like this it’s like… these moments when everything around me seems dull, like I just give up. Nothing’s worth trying anymore. Any and every little sound of normal life is annoying and I go from feeling dull to being annoyed and angry and then frustrated that I’m stuck in this loop inside my head that I can’t explain or share with anyone.” He sighed lifelessly. “Just hearing them moving around, going on with life normally makes me feels horribly annoyed and think thoughts like ‘Why can’t everyone just shut up? Why is life so loud when all I want is silence?’ I don’t want to cause any more trouble for Mom so I keep it to myself in my room – not that she would understand if I tried to share it with her. The way she powers through everything she’d probably just try to get me to do the same.” He lifted his hand and circled his index finger around and around as he mumbled on. “Enter that miserable cycle again of wanting to do something, having the idea in my head but just lacking the strength and motivation to actually get up and move a single muscle towards actually doing that thing. It makes me feel like a failure. Like, how am I going through life, through school, and all the other stuff I do when I can’t even escape my own thoughts?” Another audible breath streamed out of one his nostrils and he rubbed at the defective one. 

“Most times I sleep these no good feelings off but honestly, there’s no telling what triggers a mood. Sometimes, if there’s something I’ve been wanting to do, like a certain picture I feel like drawing, I’ll start, right? And it’ll be good for a while. Work on it at a steady pace every day. Then I get really busy and have awful time management and end up skipping a day. The next day I draw less lines. I’m distracted. Staring off somewhere or reading aimlessly when I could be drawing. This continues for a few more days before I buck myself up and surprise myself with finishing a whole section of the sketch in its entirety. I’m ecstatic. I feel accomplished.” He laughed at himself. “I even show Mom my little achievement. I think, ‘this could work. I could try this again tomorrow.’ And I do try. I try to replicate the same thing I did before with another section.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t work. Of course it doesn’t. It was a one-hit wonder moment like they always are. I’m not consistent. With anything outside of required schoolwork, I’m less than sporadic in what I would consider successes. I mean, I can produce stuff that I’m happy with but it takes me forever and that makes me feel like I’m lying to myself, deceiving myself and those around me. Art is supposed to be my passion. I mean, no matter how long I end up not drawing or suffering from artist’s block – and not even true ‘I’ve got no ideas’ artist’s block. The artist’s block I have is just that I don’t sit down and draw even when I get an idea for something I think would be interesting. I don’t make the time. I know I have the time, mind you, but… somewhere inside of me is afraid of drawing becoming a chore to me, something I have to do every day because it’s a requirement. I don’t want drawing to just be about meeting deadlines and fulfilling requests in my future. I want to draw because it makes me happy, because I feel inspired and want to put that inspiration on paper, maybe even share it with people one day.”

Shoshan caught Maggie’s smile in the glance he threw her way and smiled in defeat. “You see it, too, right? How I get when I talk about drawing. I really enjoy it, I have a natural basic affinity for it. I’m no art genius or anything like that, but drawing is something that just comes out of me. I don’t do it on a schedule or even because I’m good at it. I draw because it’s something I can’t seem to get away from. The shapes are always up there, floating around in my mind, twirling and swirling together to form the next possible Cane Moss Sugar Sketch.” He blinked to tamper down the water he felt in his eyes. “It’s always like this,” he said, turning to her for the first time. “I just have to let time do its healing thing. The mood always passes. Even when it goes on for days, it doesn’t affect my obligations. I’m able to focus on classes and homework, but outside of that regimen I’m nearly lifeless. I basically become a hermit. I don’t go outside, I don’t talk to anyone unless they approach me first, I hardly come out of my room. What would start out as me recharging from being social would stretch into… “ He made a face, the muscles in his cheek pulling to one side. “…one week and then two of just not checking for anyone outside of my house. The only person I would really hear from is Sorrel because he knows how I get sometimes.” He huffed. “Says he’s just making sure I’m still alive outside of school.” A cracked smiled stretched his lips a bit. “I never really feel like answering his texts but for his sake I’d send something back. Otherwise he’d show up at the house which was a whole new demon to deal with.” While Sorrel accepted and understood that Shoshan experienced boughts of depression, Shoshan knew that Sorrel didn’t comprehend nearly how deeply those moods effected him, how those feelings of misery and loss stemmed from the deepest parts of his heart. Sorrel wasn’t the affectionate or sympathetic type, he usually just left Shoshan to himself when things weren’t 100% copacetic. He’d hang around in the vicinity, but never physically got close to Shoshan, instead milling about with Violet until he had to leave for a job. It wasn’t ideal, but Shoshan appreciated his effort. At least if one of these boughts did claim him one day he wouldn’t be alone long. That thought made him shiver. If anything did happen to him, he’d definitely want to Sorrel to be the one to find him, not his mother and definitely not Saffie. He could never dream to doing that to his little sister, his literal heartstring.

[puttingfingerstokeys]

the shambling deceased

Nanowrimo day 23 Featuring an unnamed narrator Post-apocalyptic setting, zombies Zombies, death, body horror Finished and unedited

Human olfactory senses are not meant to become accustomed to the sweet stink of death. I don’t care how many television programs you have consumed over the years, where the heroes don’t notice the shambling threat until it is far too late. If the noises these revenants make are not enough to alert the characters in the show, surely the stench of rot and decay would catch their attention, right? Depending on the dramatic needs of the program, it may or it may not. But I am here to tell you, point blank, that the dead—they stink. They stink bad. They stink worse than the ugliest most odious smell you have ever experienced, bar none. A skunk cannot compare to the smell of death, though it certainly tries. The smell permeates, sticks, clings, and drags on you until you are well away from it.

And if the dead are the pursuing kind, rather than the sort who lays on the ground like a corpse really ought to do? Well, you do the math. They are not what anyone might call “quick”, but if the wind is right, the smell will do you in but good. It is rot, decay, and wrong. The smell is actually alarming, if you can believe that. Trust me when I say this: you never want to experience it if it is at all avoidable. Most people, in their lifetimes, smell death once or twice, usually when an animal has gotten itself up under their home and done the indecent thing, dying there to stink up the house and the surrounding area. They always seem to do this on hot days, too—it’s in rather poor form. Regardless, this stench only mimics what the shambling dead bring with them when they rove through an area.

That they move in herds is something the old shows used to get right, at least. I genuinely have no idea what, precisely, attracts them, though I think it might be sound. The dead, you see, don’t have lung capacity; their vocal flaps are generally decayed beyond use as it is soft tissue and, as a result, are unable to produce sounds like the groans you might think they would make.

I guess that might be one thing the television would have had right, about not being able to hear them, except those ambulating corpses would always moan and snarl and make all kinds of animalistic sounds. It was as if they were begging to be discovered. Real ones are hardly apex predators, but at the very least, they do not alert their prey of an incoming attack via audible means. It would really be embarrassing to be killed by a loud, stinky corpse.

It is still incredibly unclear what exactly animates these things. They do not appear to have normal blood flow or brain function; nothing beats or moves and they are decidedly lukewarm. Something is still firing up in their rotten noggins, but it certainly is not what you would call “proper” function. It seems to drive them toward the base urge to feed. I don’t think their bodies process the flesh they consume, however. The stuff probably sits in their guts and ferments—that’s where you get the explosive ones. We haven’t really bothered naming them anything fancy or cutesy. They’re shambling, bloated corpses and honestly, flippant as this commentary has been, there is absolutely jack shit all that’s funny about seeing once-living humans reduced to … that.

They cannot help it. There is no malice in them. There is nothing in them. They are husks, which is as good a name as any. Zombie has always sounded kind of silly to me, even if the implications are always fairly dark and dire. Husks better describes the hollowness of them, I think. So “the undead” or “the infected” work, but “husk” is a better term, given that we do not actually know if they are infected with anything or how they got that way and when you call something undead, it makes the thing somehow spookier than it has to be, lending it some sort of power. We should not fear these things. We need to dispose of them quickly; it is the absolute least we can do.

As far as corpses go, they are just as brittle and easily-perforated as what you might expect a half-decayed corpse to be. The hardest part, to be perfectly honest, is the clothing. Most people did not turn whilst also happening to be nude, unfortunately. Piercing clothes with a stick or any other blunt instrument is a lot tougher than the television shows always made it seem. You are best off with a machete or even a bat. Cutting off brain function stops ambulation. I… do not know if it stops brain function entirely unless the brain is vaporized. No one seems inclined to hang around husk-infested areas long enough to find out.

Now, I will be the first to admit that I was (partially) wrong about the events of a so-called “zombie apocalypse”. I had always theorized (during slow times at my job, mostly) that no society with known zombie-based media could fall victim to the idiotic happenings of your average zombie show, that the zombies could not last much longer than a few months, at most in, for example, a densely populated city, but that in the country, the problem would be solved within a week. There is simply more space way out in the boonies to see things like that coming—people are more armed, too, and not necessarily even with firearms. I am referring, of course, to basic farm implements: pitchforks, shovels, a literal tractor, splitting mauls, axes, actual logs—I could go on.

I was foolish, thinking it would be easy to simply go out and strike down things which had formerly been human, because I would know that they were not. What they don’t usually show in zombie shows—or didn’t; I doubt anyone will ever produce another, assuming we get to that point—is that when someone is freshly dead, they still look… human. Not just humanoid, mind you, but like a sick human being.

Okay, so remember when I said the husks don’t make noise? The old ones don’t, that’s true. But the fresh ones��� sometimes it feels as if they are trying to communicate in some way. It definitely is not the growling-hissing sound you get from a movie or whatever. It feels like speaking to a person with a severe speech impediment, who is also deaf, and has some combination of Alzheimer’s and dementia. That is to say, you are not speaking with them, so much as listening. I have no idea what they are trying to say and I have only seen a fresh one a few times; thankfully, by the time they reach our home base, they have deteriorated thoroughly enough that there isn’t any more of that half-talking thing. It gives me the shivers even considering it. Do they consider what they are doing? Can they feel it? What part of them is left—if any?

I am one of those people who hopes that whatever they feel is rudimentary, pure instinct, that there is nothing of the soul who was once occupying the body—yet another decent reason to call them “husks”, rather than zombies.

They are chilling to behold, more than any George Romero film could attempt to portray. As a matter of course, anyone who has ever owned a zombie film or series has tossed it summarily out into the gutter, so to speak—though in some cases, literally. I have genuinely witnessed people with whole collections, tossing them out into our now-defunct trash bins. The gesture seems more symbolic than anything else; the only garbage truck I have seen in the area is the one the former “rogue garbage man” (a story for another time) had used to make his living, except this thing was ass-over-teakettle in a swamp. Whether it was a group of husks or just some of the run-to-riot wildlife in the area that drove him off the road, I guess I’ll never know.

The village I call home is a small place, a five-by-five mile square with probably five hundred people, total. The cop shop doubles as the library and town hall, if that gives you any idea of the scale of things. We have a four-way which is the biggest attraction in town and isn’t even a stop—traffic on the old highway zooms right on through. We have the essentials, a bar, a hardware, a convenience store and two churches, one Catholic, the other non-denominational, the church equivalent of “Original” and “Spicy”. I’m not entirely sure which one is which, but since the Catholics serve wine, I’m going with Original Recipe—they’re the ones who own the one graveyard in town, which I am pleased to say has expelled none of its residents. It probably isn’t feasible to rise from your grave when you are encased in cement and filled with formaldehyde. Who knew that our uncomfortably Egyptian burial practices would come in handy? There are a few cross streets here and there, but they either lead to dead-ends or a twisted mass of nonsense roads that curve and twist and transform into other roads as they hit county lines.

Everything that is not a house or trailer is a field, woods, a swamp, or some combination of the two.

For having so much farmland, however, there are very few farms. In recent years, times have been tough on anything that is not a massive, factory farm and, needless to say, anything called a “village” does not have the consumer base or, likely, the location to support such a thing. The government has been doing what it does best: making it hard on the little guy. I wish I could tell you it was because of this regime or that, red or blue, but to be perfectly honest, I’m not sure the agenda changes much across the aisle—not where regulatory licensure is concerned, anyway. Farmers just cannot keep up with government subsidization if they aren’t an approved recipient and then they lose their farms, plain and simple. It isn’t the best explanation, nor is it a terribly sympathetic one; don’t think me cold for this, but I recognize that there is plenty about the world I cannot change and, when the dead are walking, you quickly learn which battles to fight, which passions to chase, and which issues to leave behind in the dust of a previous age. I’ve shaken that particular blend of mud from my shoes.

My family is one of the fortunate few who had a “hobby” farm before this whole thing went down. I don’t know who decided to call it that, but this thing is no hobby. It is absolutely, without question, a full-time job taking care of the animals. We have the staples, chickens and hogs, like you would expect in the rural Midwest, but rather than cows, my family long ago elected to raise, breed, milk, and butcher goats. Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it, my friend; goat is good eating. The milk is creamy, the cheese is exquisite, and they are friendly, mid-sized beasts who can be pushed and pulled where you need them to go. Sometimes, we lament not having at least one cow, but upon reflection, the sheer size of any bovine is enough to stop that thought quickly; they eat a ton and if they do not want to cooperate, they simply won’t. There is little a human can do without a cattle prod (or dogs) and we’re fresh out.

We are fresh out of cattle prods, that is, not dogs. We have dogs. Everyone around here has at least one dog. It’s just something you do in the country. You have dogs. We have four, actually, and right now, they make for excellent guards, alerting us to the presence of the undead with quiet barks—we call them “low-commitment”, because it isn’t a full-on bark, but it’s loud enough to let us know something is up. It’s as if the dogs understand that the dead are attracted to sounds. Now, if a human being wanders by the fence, the dogs go all out. They’re really the epitome of “a bark worse than their bite”, but nobody else knows that, so they keep the riff-raff out. By riff-raff, I mean drifters, thieves, those who are not committed to survival by hard work, but by capitalizing on the work of others. Around here, there are plenty—or there were. Needless to say, that behavior does not win you many friends during a crisis like this one. My family is generous, but we are not soft, nor stupid. Telling the good from the bad has never been difficult for us… or the dogs, actually.

So there you have it… “hobby” farm with doggy security system. We have ham, goat, and chicken a-plenty; we have eggs, milk, and cheese. We are very well-outfitted for this “apocalypse”, if you want to call it that. I think it might be a bit overblown, but nobody asked me, did they? There are plenty of people and families out there who were not so fortunate. It did not take long to realize how well-positioned we were (and still are) to survive and even to thrive in these new dark ages. Oh, but I guess I got ahead of myself again—or maybe behind… again. You probably aren’t here for logistics or whatever. You probably saw the opening monologue and thought “shit, she’s going to spill it all; we’re going to get a real juicy story”. You want to know how it started, or at the very least, how it started for me, don’t you? Well, strap in. This is a long one.