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void-ink-studios · 6 months

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Memories of the Homeland

Back on my bullshit. No idea how long with wave will last, so y'all can just enjoy the ride as it goes.

Same timeline as Wrath of the Wishmaster, which you can read here!

You can check out the other piece I did here!

This is just me indulging in worldbuilding because I eat that shit up for breakfast. Enjoy!

Word Count: 2,000

Scarab could always appreciate quiet days in the Time Room. No wish makers to please, no gods to placate, no disaster waiting to happen.

Hell, it was even one of those rare days his body was mostly cooperating with him.

It was on days like these that Prismo and Scarab found the energy to simply be. To exist in comfortable silence next to each other. Scarab's claws made a satisfying little tick tick tick sound as he typed on the laptop. There was a nice ambiance as Prismo flipped through the multiverses on the screen wall.

Yes, it was a quiet day. Wonderful.

"Hey Scarab?"

Well, easy come, easy go.

"Yes, Prismo?"

"I was just wondering... where... did you come from?"

Scarab stopped typing. He paused for a moment. He needed it. Home... He hasn't thought about home in... how long...?

"...No one's been interested in that question before. I thought it was considered... rude to ask a god his origin."

Prismo looked a little embarrassed for a beat before shaking it off.

"I dunno, I'm just... curious. No one really talks about it much. I don't really even know myself."

"You don't?"

"Nah. There's, like, a degree of separation between me and... him. Jake used to call him 'Old Man Prismo' but... well, I'm not even sure that's his name. I don't have his memories; I don't really know his life. Just what people tell me."

Scarab thought on that for a while.

"...And what have people told you?"

"Not much. Just that he's the greatest mortal wizard to have ever lived, or whatever."

Scarab chuckled to himself.

"That much is true. It's what got him Noticed by the Boss. He teleported into the Judgement Hall. By accident."

"Seriously?"

"It was quite the spectacle."

"You were there?"

"I was. Although, we didn't speak much. I was ready to cast you out for insolence, but the Boss themself stepped in." Scarab remembered the rage he felt for years. But, it's far more subdued now. Blanketed by memories of soft touches and gentle kisses.

"No kidding. Small multiverse."

"Indeed."

There was a lull in the conversation.

"...So what about you, Lovebug? Is there a chance I could flip to a random channel and find people who look like you?"

Scarab rolled his eyes, amused. "I'm not entirely sure... One of the stipulations I had when I ascended was that my homeland would be safe. How the Boss decided to interpreted that, I have no idea. I haven't been in hundreds of thousands of years. Possibly longer."

"Oh..."

Scarab looked down into the yellow floor, but didn't resume typing. It was strange, thinking of his home world again. So many memories, his entire mortal life was trapped there but... well, it was so long ago... He wasn't sure if what he was picturing was even real anymore.

"Well... Can you tell me a bit about it?"

Scarab hummed, considering.

"I can tell what it was like eons ago. So you might have to take my recollection with a grain of salt."

"That's fair." Scarab watched Prismo turn off the screen and shuffle down, propping his head up on his hands, legs kicked up behind him. The beetle chirped in an amused tone.

"Well... My world was a simple one... we weren't part of any grand alliance or greater picture. It was beautiful, full of green and trees, but utterly unremarkable. No great battles were fought there, no great warriors rose from the dirt, no scholars or mages. It was just... us. We were farmers. Builders. A simple people."

"Sounds peaceful. But it's kinda hard to picture you somewhere like that. You're always just so... on the move, at least in spirit."

"You're not wrong. I got called a butterfly quite a bit. Head in the sky. I kept looking up. I wondered. Ever since I emerged from my burrow. My job was to guard the brood mound I came from, but I got caught looking up quite a bit."

"Did you have any family?"

"Presumably. But we weren't raised in a family unit like you might be used to. I had siblings, but no real relationship with them. We hatch by ourselves, in a sealed burrow, stuffed with food. We eat and grow up as larva, pupate, then dig our way out. Then we join the rest of the world, and find our place in it. You might find yourself a mate, if you're lucky."

"Sounds lonely."

"Not entirely. It more meant the whole mound was your family. I became quite close to the ones who came out of the burrows near mine. We all had each other to call on. And different mounds would help each other if things went poorly, like a failed harvest or flooding."

"Could you have found your blood family if you wanted to? How would have even started looking?"

"Color and wings, mostly. Lineages had certain colors and patterns associated with them. I was actually unique in my lineage by being pure red. Most had some green somewhere else on their shells. And everyone's wings had different patterns. The closer your pattern was to someone else's, the more likely you were blood family."

Scarab caught himself thinking back to his mound and the people he remembered fondly. He often tried to not dwell on their memory. It just hurts to remember, most of the time. How short their lives were, compared to what his would become.

Were his people even around anymore? Or was he truly alone in the multiverse?

He jumped a little when he felt a gentle hand on his back. Prismo was smiling sadly at him. His elytra clicked together softly. Did he even remember what his own wings looked like?

"...I will give Orbo credit for one thing. He knows where to hit to hurt." Scarab ran a hand over his head, feeling the small stumps left of his antenna.

"What do you mean?"

"Of the pieces he tore from me... both were very important. Sacred parts, even. While my wings and antenna are important for me to function, they also were important for socialization on my home world. To greet someone respectfully, you bowed, opened your elytra, and spread your wings. To greet friends or lovers, you rubbed foreheads to let antenna brush against each other."

The touch on Scarab's back felt cold suddenly. Prickling. He looked at Prismo again, seeing the purplish black shadows ripple across his body.

"Shh... It's okay, my dear." Scarab scooted a bit closer, pressing his head against Prismo's. "I can still do this." He shook his head, nuzzling against the Wishmaster. "I can still show you I love you, just as I would have eons ago. And I enjoy your kisses dearly, despite not coming natural to me. Come back to me."

He felt the Wishmaster sigh, shuddering out a breath, as the wamrth returned to him.

"Hmm... That feels nice, Lovebug."

"I'm glad... Did I ever tell you the time I outwitted Orbo? When I was still just a lowly beetle?"

"No, but now you have to."

Scarab chuckled, giving Prismo one more nuzzle before pulling back.

"I called on the gods for help. My planet wasn't important, not in the cosmic sense... But, it was in the path of something important. Something awful. Something big. It was eating worlds in its way. I don't think I ever found out what its name was, but I knew it was on the Boss's watch list. I spotted it. I watched it eat an entire solar system. A whole star, gone from the night sky. I... I had to do something. I was no magician, I could never achieve what your dreamer could achieve, but... I knew how to use tools. I knew books and tools and languages. And I found my way upward.

"I managed get an audience with Orbo. And he tried to hit me with a fly swatter. I think it just annoyed him I wouldn't simply disappear. I kept pleading, I made my case to the Judgement Hall. And what was I told? 'It's on our list.' My world wasn't important enough to save. They were waiting for that mouth in the void to get close to something actually important."

A tight hiss had crept into his voice. He paused his story, took a moment to breathe. He shivered as Prismo pet his back.

"So you know what I did? I stole a crystal from the Judgement Hall. Right out from Orbo's nose. It's the same crystal that was in my cane. I learned how to use it. I mastered how to use it. And I killed the mouth in the void. It tried to eat my world, and I skewered it in the throat."

Prismo looked at his love in awe, and Scarab couldn't help but preen. He, lowly little bug Scarab, took down a cosmic threat. Without help.

"That is what got me Noticed by the Boss. I earned my godhood. I clawed it out of the higher up's hands. They've never forgiven me for it. But I don't care much anymore. I used to. I used to care too much. I had learned that no one liked bugs. I was never meant to be there. No one wanted me to succeed. But I did. Out of spite, I did it."

Scarab didn't know when he had started standing up, but he was standing now. His elytra had opened, his sorry wings trying to flutter behind him. Prismo still had that look of awe.

"...You're incredible, you know that?"

The beetle would deny the blush on his face till the day he died, but that didn't deter the Wishmaster from pressing a kiss there anyway.

"Like... woah. You're like a superhero. I know you haven't been back home in... a long time. But... I hope the people there remembered you. I hope they knew what you did for them. I hope you know that you deserved what you achieved."

"...Thank you, Prismo. I think I do know that. At least... I do now. Because their lessons were wrong. There is someone who... likes bugs."

"Guilty as charged, Lovebug." Prismo hit him with a dopey, affectionate expression, pressing his face into Scarab's side.

"Get off of me, Prismo!" Scarab batted at his head, but with no real intention of actually pushing the Wishmaster away. After a few halfhearted attempts, he leaned into the warmth, chirping contentedly. "...Thank you for asking, by the way. It has been... a very long time since I thought of home. It was nice to share a part of it with someone. And I'm glad that someone was you."

"Aww, no problem beautiful. Thanks for sharing with me."

The pair of them returned to the comfortable silence from before this conversation, just now with Prismo's face pressed against Scarab's chest.

There were a lot of thoughts swirling in Scarab's head at that second. Thinking of Home tended to do that. But, there was something that the talk dug up. Something he remembered looking forward to someday...

So, he started to sing. His chirps and trills carried a melody to fill the quiet Time Room.

He remembered spending an embarrassing amount of time practicing it. Back when he had little else to care about than what he was eating that night. He practiced in a secluded spot in his burrow, for hours every night.

He hadn't told the Wishmaster everything about his old culture yet for a reason. Maybe he will someday. Maybe then he'll tell Prismo about the tradition of the love drone. A song unique to the singer, sung only to a chosen mate.

A song Scarab was happily singing, right that moment.

#prohibitedwish #scarab x prismo #scarab the god auditor #prismo the wishmaster #prohibitedwish fanfic #worldbuilding #backstory nonsense #Wrath of the Wishmaster

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gopher-jade · 1 year

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What endlessly frustrates me about the writing in the moon arc is that it is so focused on technobabble and philosophical arguments that it completely neglects what even made honkai such a good story in the first place - the masterful portrayal of the characters' emotions, struggles and growth.

We love Kiana because we saw and heard how she was a bratty kid, and then became depressed, and then slowly climbed out of that hellhole. Props to the translaters, the scriptwriters, the voice actors, the staff behind the CGs. Mei's arc was heart-rending also because we saw how crushed she was by Kiana's struggles. Seele in CG slamming her fist on the ground and crying to herself, "Move, you coward!" will always haunt me. Veliona seeming like a psychopath and being pit against Saule and then eventually reconciling was the best thing ever, because the team really did such a good job of making it really seem like Veliona might harm Seele, and then later of conveying just how much Veliona actually loved her.

What do we get of that kind of character-building in this arc? Basically nothing. The characters are so busy talking about the technicalities of Project Stigma that we don't really know how they feel about the whole thing apart from (stock action movie hero voice) "that is so despicable and we will stop you!"

Senti is thankfully an exception, because she doesn't bother engaging with conversation unless it directly affects her. And she's got the right idea!

imo, when it comes to storytelling, the worldbuilding only needs to be as coherent as is necessary for the emotional stakes to make sense. The writers have spent so much time trying to explain the tech to us that they completely forgot about establishing the emotional stakes. Anyone who's stuck around with Honkai this long knows that the worldbuilding doesn't really make sense. Things gets retconned all the time. Anything that doesn't make sense gets blamed on Fenghuang Down. The writers really don't need to spend so much time convincing us that the worldbuilding make sense. We already know, it doesn't, and we loved you anyway. Why did you stop doing what you were good at?

Another thing that takes time away from actually establishing the emotional stakes is the philosophising. Okay, so most of the world is going to die and be reborn as a new entity that isn't really them. But the characters we love are mostly spared from that fate, so why should we care? I know this might make me sound heartless, but I only care about these fictional nameless people because the characters I love care about them. These nameless masses are fictional. I don't care. I can't even tell if the protags even care about these masses outside of an abstract "killing people bad" ideology. I don't know if it's because I haven't cleared the chapter yet (the writing is just that boring; the trio just met Kevin). But after hours of gameplay, the trio have never displayed any emotion outside of mere disapproval. The kind I might have when I go "wow that person has such a shit take on things, but I'll just live and let live". What are they even fighting for?

Granted, I do think the philosophical arguments are interesting and I'm not saying that there shouldn't be any in Honkai at all. But I can only enjoy it to a certain point, and it's not even done well here. We don't get to see any of the protagonists actually engaging with the philosophical argument. From what I can tell, it's just "Project Stigma is the only way some semblance of humanity can live past Finality" "Okay but CE isn't as driven into the corner as PE, can you let us try our things first before you effectively kill all of us?"

That's not a conversation. There's literally no emotional grappling with the fear that maybe, maybe Kevin is right and they will really fail, and that if they miss this chance then all of humanity really will be doomed.

Not to mention that we already covered this philosophical argument with the Kolosten arc. "Do a small group of elite, powerful people have the right to decide the fates of the masses, even when they've arguably already made it a good deal for them?" The answer is no, not when the timeline and form in which they existed would no longer exist, and when they didn't even consent to it. We got it! We had to go through that long arc to reach the moon arc! We got it! Can we move on to the character arcs now?

#honkai impact #honkai impact 3rd #rant #moon arc #theres literally!!! no emotional connection in this damned arc at all!#the VAs are doing their best but theyve got nothing to work with!#mimin talks

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altairring · 1 month

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the new clavis card..... I see they just completely gave up even attempting to be medieval huh 😂😂😂😂

I think they gave up being historically accurate from the start. Not that I seek/want them to be true to the setting, because I do not really expect much from cybirb otome games aside from romance and sex. Especially since that is their selling point and that’s what they’re focusing on ! 😭 I mean, the timeline of events itself is very confusing. Culture and worldbuilding is just an afterthought (and that’s where we come in. HAH! ✨fandom creativity✨).

The setting of it being medieval is just a—setting. A backdrop. A prompt. I did not expect more that’s why I usually ignore it. Although, canonically, Clavis and Gilbert are the characters who do technological advancements so they can create products that can replicate what people already have in modern times. So, him? In a bnuuy suit? Is an excuse for them to put kinky stuff pfft—. It’s fucking funny to me. LMAO.

Clavis did made a doll of himself for Emma, right 🧍🏻‍♀️.

Fiction aren’t supposed to be accurate. That’s why it’s fiction! A lot of huh-moments are gonna written/made, HAHAHA. In the end, it’s really up to us if we’re gonna enjoy it or not. :3c

Props to ikepri tho for having more worldbuilding than in any of their other games…I think.

Sorry for the rambling, this is a thought that comes to my mind often because I do always think about this 🤔.

#hmmmmmmmm brain fart. i hope i was making sense here 😭🙏🏼#alt rambles #alts inbox

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maxwell-grant · 5 months

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🔥 X-men/Krakoa?

Allright let me swing at the hornet's nest here a bit: Krakoa was wasted on the X-Men, not the other way around.

Krakoa was, however problematic and shitty and complicated it might have been even from day one, was onto something enough to generate the intense interest and instant fandom it did, and it's biggest problem wasn't with the forgiving of unrepentant monstrous villains (because that door got blown open forever ago), or the no-humans-allowed policy, or the genocide in Latin America, or the pod people resurrection that took the bite out of every mutant genocide and death past and future, or that the entire premise was built around them trusting the funi haha eugenicist Nazi to build their paradise and let himself be stopped later, or that it kept revolving around the petty courtly intrigues of the arch assholes in charge with only like, two writers capable of propping up this to make it worth reading about. The central problem didn't have as much to do with the fact that the newfound central focus on shadowy detached superhumans huffing their supremacist royalist fumes 24/7 is precisely why nobody likes the Inhumans and especially why nobody liked them as a replacement to the X-Men, and you can't cobble a story out of Magneto/Emma Frost/Mr Sinister mean girl one-liners and hot takes even if that's all the fans want (yes, the X-Men are bastards and so is everyone in the MU, how cutting and insightful and powerful they are yes very impressed, but an Epic Bastard Moments compilation is still not a story). I don't even think it can be entirely blamed on the fact that they had the X-Men speedrun through the 14 rules of fascism as the opening act to a larger story only to decide that actually, we don't need that larger story after all, thanks Hickster but we can just take it from here and keep Stage One as is, everyone's gonna be cool with the cult shit if it still feels like it's going anywhere other than back to the school, we can keep this up forever now! This isn't even a bit, I don't think these things were the biggest cause of death for Krakoa even if they all were there.

I think the biggest problem is that, no matter how many cool or great characters they add to their ranks or what turns into epic pulp sci-fi bombast they take, the X-Men might just be foundationally, irreperably broken as a concept, smothered under the weight of the selling metaphor that just gets more dated and problematic and easier to tear holes into with every passing year, and Krakoa ultimately just elevated all these problems to center stage. There was never going to be a world where Magneto says something as full of shit as "There has never been a mutant war and we've never conquered or stolen land or made slaves and that's why we're better, by the way we're going to be your new gods now" with a straight-face and didn't have that proven immediately wrong (not counting all the people in the Council who absolutely did do all of those things). Krakoa couldn't be both the terra nullius dream clubhouse and the "queer separatist utopia" people desperately craved and a cult backed up by genocide run by self-destructive warmongering hypocrites and a next step in evolution and the headquarters to a superhero team you need to tell monthly exploding punchy stories about and a place that was going to live forever and lead us into the better future and a house of cards waiting to be toppled. It didn't have a future because quite frankly, the mutants don't have a future.

The mutants are, even after all this time, still a half-baked idea of people entirely defined by their oppression, by their death and torture and the hollow space where you're expected to insert your own marginalized traits to identify with instead of much of anything akin to how real marginalized identities are formed and developed and solidified over time. Pretending that the mutants can subsist forever on past shoddy worldbuilding and dated, vague parallels just gets more embarassing over time. It's not an issue individually cool comics or characters are going to fundamentally fix. Krakoa, to it's credit, was some way towards trying to define the mutants past their oppression, but they barely had a language or a flag, and even these attempts were smothered under the Claremontian shadow that's been choking this franchise forever and by the inability of The Big Two to truly hand the reins to anyone other than the same stables of white dudes who always get the final say in everything. Krakoa was Going Somewhere up until it wasn't, and the promise alone breathed a whole new life into the X-books, we really did get some very good comics out of this era, but it was always going to end the way it ended.

Actually scrap all of that, my hot take is, not for racist reasons or anything, but we should destroy the X-Men and replace them with big cool robots that can make us safe forever. Has anyone tried that already?

#replies tag #I really do mourn Fred Dukes as a bartender though #the last years went such a long way towards making a character out of him and addressing all the fatphobia and doing such good work with hi #there were indeed decisions made with the characters in this period I did like #but that's more of a case-by-case basis

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chaifootsteps · 8 months

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The issues with Stella are so goddamn easy to fix it's actually painful any time she comes on screen and they have to find a way to bend over backwards to make her as unlikable as possible to artificially prop Stolas up as well as avoid the classism plot that THEY WROTE INTO THE SHOW.

Just establish very clearly AT THE BEGINNING OF THE SHOW that both of them were okay with the other sleeping around (since neither liked each other and neither wanted to get married) but have Stella get mad specifically because Stolas was caught sleeping with an imp, and that reflects badly on her. If you want her to be a villain, you don't need her to be cartoonishly evil and completely bereft of personality and likeability beyond bitch (derogatory) even as a child; she can just be classist and obsessed with status. (Also maybe don't make her stupid? Maybe don't have her creepy incest-vibes brother around at all? Give her some agency as a villain, you know? Maybe let her be funny? MAYBE LET HER TALK TO HER FUCKING DAUGHTER ON SCREEN?)

But fixing Stella would force the show to actually acknowledge the classism that they've set up and have been trying to ignore in lieu of writing fluff one shots of their favorite ships. And it sucks because she could be a really, really interesting and entertaining lens into how the upper-crusts of this setting actually behave. She SHOULD HAVE BEEN the face of that plot. If you want her to be this evil scheming funny girlboss bitch (affectionate), LET HER BE ONE. Hell, she can even be sympathetic and redeemable if you play up the fact that her behavior comes from a fear of being othered by the Goetia.

As a side note, why are arranged marriages even a thing when divorce exists and vice versa? If it's a eugenics thing for blue bloods why is marriage even a factor when they could just have the kids without it? If they're immortal outside of specific weaponry why do they need heirs in the first place? How DID Striker get all of his angelic weapons? How did Stella even meet Striker, who HATES the upper classes? Why does Striker even work for her when she's the ONE CHARACTER explicitly shown in-canon to embody the things he hates about the system at large?

I guess my point is that fixing Stella's writing would kind of cascade out into actual worldbuilding, stakes, more screen time for female characters, and more coherent better-constructed plots so Spindlehorse won't do it because they want to focus exclusively on a middling romance between two characters who have ZERO CHEMISTRY. If they wanted to focus on that, great, but why on EARTH did they set up all of this other shit? Season one set up conflict and interest and season two has done nothing but blue-ball me by dangling those plot threads in front of me and yanking it away at the last possible second. I WANT the show to be good, but it desperately needs better editing at the script level which I am CONVINCED only goes through one draft and are written several weeks apart.

ALSO THE LATEST EPISODE GAVE ME MOTION SICKNESS WHY WAS THE CAMERA MOVING SO MUCH WHEN THE CHARACTERS WERE STATIC HOW MUCH BUDGET AND TIME GOT WASTED WITH THE UNNECESSARY FUCKING SHAKY CAM?

(Sorry for dropping this huge chunk of text on you, it was supposed to just be about Stella originally but holy fuck that last episode made me nauseous and I got a bit carried away.)

No apologies needed; it was an excellent chunk of text.

Stella deserved better, and we as an audience deserved better, which isn't to say she needs to be redeemable or even likeable. But she does need to be human...to do something outside of scream and drink wine and exist. She needs to do more than just prop up the show's main ship. Give her something she thinks about, cares about, and like you said, let her talk to her fucking daughter.

Nothing about this shaky-cam show makes sense or feels fleshed out. Agreed completely that there's no way it's going through multiple drafts, and the longer these 30 car pileups of plot holes and characterization problems continue to go on, the closer the show gets to a point where no amount of revising is going to save it.

#Anonymous #hb stella #Helluva Boss #Helluva Boss critical #vivziepop critical #actual blog post

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youhideastar · 7 months

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Fit for Purpose Deleted Scenes IV: Rut

Today's deleted scenes from Fit for Purpose deal with the question of LWJ's rut/a beta's ability to satisfy a rut or heat in general in this universe - a question to which I gave waaaaaay too much thought haha. Other deleted scenes posts are linked in the masterpost. NSFW text. I hope you enjoy!

Okay, so. WWX says several times during Fit for Purpose that, as a beta, he can’t satisfy an alpha’s rut or an omega’s heat. It’s not clear in the story whether that is literal, i.e., there’s a biological incompatibility, or just societal, i.e., “can’t” because it would be scandalous or otherwise transgress social norms. Originally, I figured it would be the latter, which gave rise to this scene:

“It’s kind of too bad you can’t take my rut,” the bold girl says, afterward. She’s breathing hard, still. Sweat gleams in the valley between her breasts. “You’re so good at that, da-shixiong.”

Wei Wuxian props himself up on his elbow. He’s eighteen now, and he’s done a lot of things, but he hasn’t done that, and now that he thinks of it, he’s not sure why. “I could, if you want,” he offers.

He knows right away that it’s a mistake.

She looks like she’s smelled something bad. “That’s for—don’t joke about that. Rut is for your mate. It’s not—” She shivers.

Wei Wuxian smiles, ingratiating. “Ah, forgive this one, shijie – how would I know about mates, ah?”

She laughs. “Good point. Well. Ruts and heats are for your mate, da-shixiong. Serious, you know? Not just for fun. Not like this.”

That would then be followed by this scene:

LWJ’s rut happens during Sunshot. WWX hovers around outside Lan Zhan’s tent. Thinks about how he can’t help Lan Zhan.

Afterward, Lan Zhan asks him why he was hovering.

“How—”

“Scent,” Lan Zhan says succinctly.

“I don’t… I don’t have a scent.” That’s the whole point.

“You do. Now.” A negative.

“And what do I smell like? Now?”

Lan Zhan hesitates.

“Tell me.” Rasp.

“Like death.”

Beat.

“Ah.”

That would have been way too bleak for the finished fic, so I cut it quite a while ago. But I kept ruminating on the topic, and I changed my mind: I wanted the source of the problem to be a supposed biological difficulty (just like the lack of fertility backs up the “no kids” and the lack of a scent gland backs up the “no claim”), because the societal take above was just too bullshitty. It didn’t seem like something that would prevent WWX from believing he could be LWJ’s mate. There needed to be at least a grain of truth to it.

“But Dea,” I hear you say, “did this question need to be answered in the story in the first place?” Well, I ultimately decided the answer was no, and the final posted fic leaves the question open:

“I can’t—” satisfy your rut, Wei Wuxian almost says, parroting what he’s been told his whole life. But those same voices told him he couldn’t have a mate. Or a son.

So instead, he takes a deep breath and says, “Yeah. I’d like that.”

But for, like, a month, I was convinced that if I left this worldbuilding thread unresolved, readers would not find the story satisfying. They’d be left wondering whether WWX and LWJ’s relationship is about to fall apart the first time LWJ goes into rut. Explaining it like this, it sounds so irrational. But I really worried about this! I was sure I needed to get into the nitty-gritty. So I wrote stuff like this:

“Lan Zhan.”

“Mn.”

“It’s all right if you want to spend your ruts with someone else.”

“No.”

“Lan Zhan—”

Kiss in the dark.

“If Wei Ying does not wish to share my ruts, I will continue to suppress them. At my level of cultivation, the techniques to do so are not harmful.”

Beat.

“If Wei Ying would wish to share my ruts. It would—that would bring me joy.”

Beat. WWX swallows. “It’s not that I don’t want to. I can’t. I can’t—” he’s blushing. “I can’t take your knot.”

Lan Zhan’s hand slips between his legs; his fingertips circle WWX’s hole. He sounds almost amused when he says, “Wei Ying imagines his body can stretch no farther than this?”

“Lan Zhan.” WWX’s cheeks flaming.

“You can take more,” Lan Zhan says, with perfect unconcern. “With careful and patient preparation. But only if you wish to.”

This kind of worldbuilding nerdery is so fun for me. (And I flatter myself that this scene is hot.) But this is SO in the weeds, and it was making the final sex scene SO long, when really, that scene needs to be as short as possible so as not to compete with the actual climax of the fic. In fact, I ultimately did not include any sex in the final sex scene at all, for that very reason!

So then I tried an abbreviated version that would answer the basic question during the sex itself:

“I—I’m sorry I can’t do this for you in your rut.” WWX all apologetic.

“Why not?”

“I can’t—you know. Take your knot. Physically.”

Lan Zhan raises an eyebrow. He twists his fingers inside Wei Wuxian; tugs at Wei Wuxian’s rim with his thumb, making him gasp. “Wei Ying’s body stretches no further than this?”

“Lan Zhan!” Blushing furiously. He has to admit, “I… don’t know. Maybe it does.” Everybody says—but then again, everyone says all kinds of stupid things. Maybe he can satisfy an alpha’s rut. Lan Zhan’s rut. Maybe he could have all along.

But (a) like I said, I was starting to realize that I didn’t need to write the sex itself and (b) this bit doesn’t actually resolve the question (although it suggests an answer) and if I’m not going to answer the question anyway, then I might as well just set the question aside super briefly, which is what I eventually did in the two lines of the finished fic quoted above.

I hope this was interesting! Tomorrow, we’ll go through all my failed attempts at getting Jiang Cheng to talk about his feelings. 🤣

#the untamed #deleted scene #my writing #wangxian #fit for purpose #wangxian a/b/o bingo

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bomberqueen17 · 9 months

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caught up

Ha so i managed to watch all the episodes of the new Witcher season this weekend, so now i can -- let's be real I wasn't avoiding spoilers before, but like, I've read the books right, it's like, there's only so much they can do to surprise me. (below discussion is not in-depth or spoilery, more general and I don't have a ton of time so not meant to be anything profound)

I see they've taken Cahir's character in a delicious other direction-- book!Cahir is a dutiful young fanatic whose youth and relative inexperience is kind of critical to his character (and kind of parallels Ciri's contemporary journey, as she goes from being an idealistic child through all the things she goes through, he also is humbled and shamed and loses his idealism and his fanaticism gets a layer of tarnished desperation and then he finds his humanity etc-- chefkiss), but the Netflix version is an older, more deeply-committed fanatic, more intimately and personally tied to the ruler he serves so faithfully. They've also done some worldbuilding for Emhyr's missing years that I think is very interesting. It's funny, Cahir's actor is too old (but a great actor), and Emhyr's is too young, they've tried to age him up but he's like. Well he's like thirty. It hits weird. But, television, that's how television is.

I was using my sister's television since i had the house to myself, and could not figure out how to get subtitles on, so any of the lines that were whisper-growled-- that is to say almost all of them-- were largely unintelligible to me. But many of the ones I could make out were also just-- word salad, pretty things strung together for the vibe, so I don't feel like I missed out. You just had to get the gist, and sometimes it was an incredibly impactful book line that they crammed in there kind of unearned, but if you recognized it you could imbue it with the correct meaning yourself. This is not really a criticism. The whole thing was so rushed because they had to cover like 20 episodes' worth of material in eight, so it was just cruising on vibes and did so I think admirably, conveying a lot of worldbuilding complexity without having really a moment to get into it, and shorthanding character development in snappy one-liners that were pretty effective if you just. Suspended disbelief about literally any kind of logistics.

I did like some of the details they did choose to give us. Cool themes with Ciri, which I think convey the entire message of the book extremely well. And like-- when she's exposed to a bunch of sunlight, they showed her suffering with sunburn. That's a great grounding little bit of detail, even if it went away by the next scene because there wasn't time-- such a good detail, really eloquently conveyed by the framing and the actress and the props.

It's like.... an incredibly abbreviated art form, where they're doing grand gestures of vibes to get the story across.

Absolutely perfect for fanfic, LOL. There's really no well thought out detail to contradict so you've got a largely blank canvas. I also have deep regret that I don't think I can retcon my fic Keira into the Keira from Netflix who was both hot and had like, the perfect earthy practical personality, fuck she's good. Relatedly I loved the detail of how in the books Margarita Laux-Antilles was described as the most beautiful women in the world, and they cast a fat Black woman to play her, an absolutely gorgeous fat Black woman, and there in every scene of the sorceresses being beautiful were several fat women being beautiful too. It's something, ok.

I kept being like "omg woman hot" as i was watching, which was funny. I was by myself though, so it was fine, no one was there to witness my incoherence except the discord channels i kept typing into the wrong ones of.

one tiny sort of spoilery bit: i loved the delicious scene with Ciri confronting Cahir, but it was so rushed it was awkward, instead of showing us much they just had to have Cahir say it, and it was-- well the vibes were fucking delicious, but the execution kind of clumsy. But as I don't plan to rewatch, have zero fear that in my head I will rebuild this myself into something absolutely fucking perfect and id-tastic. Alas that we lost the book vibe where she clearly hadn't really realized he was a person until she knocked his helmet off and saw his stupefyingly blue eyes etc., and his terror and such, but i'm just gonna go ahead and fold that back in there in my mental recreation of it, don't worry. LOL if it worked for you as shot I Do Not Blame You.

oh also i'm in love with Philippa and now i feel bad i was so careless with her in my fic. Maybe I need to give her a bit more depth. I used her game characterization, I admit it, and Netflix did so well by her I'm sort of ashamed I didn't think of her like that.

#the witcher #the witcher netflix #tv watching #about the author #b watches tv like once every two years #cahir mawr dyffryn aep ceallach

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mostlydeadallday · 10 months

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Lost Kin || Chapter XXXIV || A Mixed Blessing

Fandom: Hollow Knight Rating: Mature Characters: Hornet, Pure Vessel | Hollow Knight, Quirrel Category: Gen Content Warnings: referenced abuse, panic attacks AO3: Lost Kin | Chapter XXXIV | A Mixed Blessing First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Chronological Notes: Apologies for the late update! Next one will likely be another month out, due to aforementioned Activities. I nearly finished another chapter—it needs a few final paragraphs, but I went "eh, good enough" and decided to upload anyway. Hollow is actually onto something important here; bonus points if you can tell what it is. It ties into the worldbuilding post I've been meaning to make... maybe someday soon.

○

They talked late into the night.

Or, rather, Quirrel talked. Asking questions, offering suggestions, building plans that Hornet hesitantly approved or dismissed. She felt worn nearly through, coherent thought gradually leaking from her grasp as the hours went on—until Quirrel seemed to notice that she had not replied to any of his questions for at least a quarter hour, sitting with her chin propped in her hand and staring into the lantern until her eyes hurt, attempting to keep herself awake.

He insisted on stopping then, although once she ushered him upstairs to let him take his pick of the abandoned rooms and came back down with another two pillows for her own bed, she was wide awake again. She lay on the hearth, listening to the barely audible sounds Quirrel made while settling in for the night. Once those died away, she stared into the dark, where the pale arc of her sibling’s horns was just visible, timing the space between each inhale, tracing the sprawled lines of them again and again, as if she could imprint them into the world, keep them alive by her determination alone.

Quirrel had been forthright about her chances of restoring Hollow to health. So much was unknown, and what he did know was not promising. He had said, however, that he was operating on his knowledge of infected mortals, that his memory pertaining to vessels was faulty at best. Hollow had already defied the odds, and they had the lineage of three gods on their side.

He had also said a great deal more than that, but Hornet remembered little of it.

Thankfully, she had what he had written down for her: an immediate plan for further communication with Hollow, a set of questions to ask them when they woke, and a few signs to add to their vocabulary. She’d laid the pages in front of her while she slept and woke to them crumpling in her hand as she panted silently, body quivering, mind still in the grip of a nightmare that she could not remember.

She’d never had this many, this often. Night after night, she woke feeling like she couldn’t breathe. Night after night, she had to drag her own name back out of the darkness, out of the clinging, grasping fear that wanted to make an animal of her.

And waking was a mixed blessing, when every nightmare fear that faded was replaced with a real one that she could not ignore.

Hornet loosened her fist, releasing the paper, and rolled onto her back, staring up at the ceiling. Every nerve sang, her body ringing like a struck gong. Her heartbeat drummed at double speed. She wanted to throw open the door and disappear, fling out skein after skein of soul-silk, fly all the way to Greenpath without her feet ever touching the ground.

But she couldn’t. She couldn’t.

A soft noise slipped out of her mouth—a groan of disappointment. No louder than the papers crinkling, but she still looked over to make sure Hollow hadn’t woken.

They hadn’t. Nothing stirred, not even when she lifted her head to listen for sounds upstairs. The light was yet low, and no one in the house was awake but her.

The thought made her want to groan again. How long would she have to lie here, dreading the coming day, mired in memories of the night before? Recalling every crack in her control, every choked breath and faltering word that had surely told Quirrel more than she ever wanted him to know about her?

He hadn’t shown any signs of wanting to leave. In fact, he seemed more determined to help than ever—and she, more than ever, was regretting it.

Why couldn’t she have turned him away at the door? Reassured him that she did not need what he’d offered? She’d have preferred the empty house, the silence, to this low thrum of anxiety that had crawled inside her shell with her.

When her breathing calmed, her heart slowing, and the restlessness still did not fade, she stood, swallowing another complaint as her aching limbs protested. Still sore from her reckless flight, lack of sleep compounding the pain. She shouldn’t complain, not when Hollow’s battle wounds had yet to heal, but she mouthed an oath as she stretched, two of her backplates giving a muffled crack like splintering ice.

In the kitchen, the lumaflies roused as soon as she opened the lantern’s shutter. Though she was not hungry, she ate the third and last tiktik from the night before, cleaning her fangs and placing the empty shell with the others. She pointedly ignored the pile of supplies on the table and the neat sheaf of notes Quirrel had taken, bringing only the lantern with her—the beam of light narrowed to a slit—as she returned to the main room. The thought of more mending made her neck and fingers ache, but it was productive, time-consuming, and would not wake her sibling.

And, more to the point, it kept her from snatching up her needle and bolting out the door.

It was over an hour before anything interrupted her, and the sound was so soft she nearly missed it: a thump directly overhead, as of something hitting the floor.

Hornet jumped, then scowled, relaxing the muscles at the back of her neck that wanted to raise her spikes into the air. After a moment, she looked down and forced herself to keep working, motivated by a vague sense that it would be strange for Quirrel to come down the stairs and catch her staring.

Head lowered, she tracked his footsteps across the ceiling, past the washroom and onto the landing, ignoring the part of her that wanted to shove the fabric aside and grip her sewing needle like a dagger, to stand and face the threat head-on.

Not a threat. Or at least, not the kind she was used to. She might be more than half feral, but she didn’t have to act like it.

She waited until he’d descended the first flight and was three steps into the second before she lifted her eyes.

He halted, that hand once more creeping back toward his empty belt, before he deliberately relaxed. “Good morning.”

Hornet glanced at her sibling, but they did not stir; Quirrel had only spoken just above a whisper. Rather than replying, she nodded to him, then went back to her work. Polite enough, she thought; no need to waste words.

All of her etiquette classes seemed ridiculously far away.

Quirrel did not seem to mind.

She watched from the corner of her eye as he ducked into the entryway to retrieve his nail. They had agreed last night that he would take the opportunity to hunt in the morning, both for her and himself, as well as scavenge the other houses for more paper—he’d used nearly all of her stash—and some proper pencils. She would have Hollow practice their signs while he was gone and then ask some of the questions he’d suggested the night before. Hopefully, their anxiety would be reduced in his absence, allowing them to answer her more easily.

Quirrel stepped back into the room, nail and satchel at his side, kerchief tied on over his head. Hornet hesitated, then set her work aside and stood to lock the door behind him.

“Thank you.” He shivered as he stepped out into the rain. “I’ll try not to be long.”

She nodded again. He said nothing else, though his mandibles twitched beneath his mask with the beginnings of a smile.

Annoyance pricked beneath her shell, and she shut the door before he could walk away. Then she pressed her back against it, as if to keep him from coming back in, and exhaled with a groan.

Oh, this was going well.

○

It blinked awake.

The light was bluer.

This was a strange observation to make, perhaps especially so just after waking, but undoubtedly true. There was a slice of brighter light on the wall, a flickering brightness as changeable as water, emanating from a small metal box on the hearth. A lantern.

That had not been here before.

Something had woken it, however, and it was not the light.

The vessel lay still, memories flitting just out of reach. It knew if it waited, they would settle and return, although they seemed to take longer than they should, and it did not know why it knew that.

Its sister was not in the room.

Her hands stroking its back, her voice commanding it to sleep—

—the stranger, watching, watching, watching—

A sound by the door, a flash of color it could not fully see. It shifted, minutely, in the way it had learned to, and the building pressure in its chest loosened. Not the stranger. Only its sister, although to describe her as only its sister was a disservice; she was so much more than that. Warrior, princess, heir of the kingdom that it had destroyed—

And gentle. Compassionate. Merciful, in a way that belied her cool exterior, for how could she be all that she seemed and still be kind to a thing like the vessel?

She noticed it staring. Impolite, but how could it not stare at her? How could it not?

“Oh,” she said. Something in her posture eased, like a fist unclenching. “I’m sorry to wake you.” She gestured behind herself, toward the entry to the house. “Quirrel has gone to hunt. He will return later.”

A knot of emotion pulled tight within it. She could wake it whenever she pleased, and she did not need to tell it that her ally had left, but she persisted in apologizing, in giving it information that it shouldn’t need, that it shouldn’t be grateful for.

It was, nonetheless.

She approached it, knelt beside it, murmured something about it looking cramped. It had, indeed, fallen asleep in a less-than-ideal position, as its hand was currently numb, but that was incidental; its discomfort did not matter. Once again, however, she asked for it to move, to make itself comfortable, and although this was something it was unfamiliar with, it tried to do as she asked.

It settled back. As the pain rose and then ebbed, Hornet half-watched it, the tips of her claws just visible under the drape of her cloak, worrying at a catch in the fabric.

“I—” she began, and then stopped.

Tension wrapped around it once again. It was not like her to be indecisive. Whatever was to come was bound to panic it once more, and had she not just asked for the opposite?

Questioning its wielder. The vessel had grown far too careless, if that seemed reasonable. It must obey. Submit, fully, completely, to any orders she might give it, if it was ever to have another chance at usefulness.

“I know that… yesterday,” Hornet said, slowly enough that its heartbeat had time to lurch and then calm in the pause between her words, “I expected you to ask before I touched you.”

Its breath stopped.

Finally, it was happening. Finally, she would condemn it for what it had done. For the small actions taken, the slender cracks that attested to its deeper flaws—the fear, the need—that were now plain to see beneath the surface.

She had said she needed to speak with Quirrel the night before. After it fell into sleep, she might have told him anything. Everything. Perhaps her ally had made it plain that there was no salvaging the vessel’s ruined shell. That she should rid herself of it, remove the danger to herself and to the world—

“I realize now that that expectation may not be sustainable.” Its sister looked down at her claws and forced them still, though not without a sigh. “I will have to finish cleaning your wounds, and there may be other instances where I must touch without you asking.”

This—

This did not make sense.

It was not built to need context, to infer intent or interpret complex orders. Yet as long as its sister insisted on interacting with it like this, she would force it to use its ill-begotten mind to comprehend her desires.

Did she know? Was this her goal, to determine the extent of its intellect? To understand just how fully it had been corrupted, how deep its failures really went?

It pushed its chest to rise, made its lungs expand, that she might not notice its distress. She had not liked when it stopped breathing before. It should at least attempt to not upset her, if it couldn’t manage not to upset itself.

The effort drew her attention, and its next breath stuttered as her gaze sharpened. Before it could press back the building panic, she raised her hand, and her words were suddenly clearer, precise and clean-edged as calligraphy. “You have done no wrong. I am only informing you of a change in my methods.”

How could it not be in the wrong? How could she pretend to accept the wretched thing it had become?

And it was questioning her. Again.

Where was the vessel that had once waited in perfect stillness for its orders? Where was the numb patience it had once been capable of, those first days and weeks within the temple? How had it broken so thoroughly?

Its sister looked down at it, fangs twisting in distress. Distress that it had brought about, with its failure. Distress that—

Her hand was on its arm, her fingers warm against its shell. “Listen to me. Unless I tell you to lie still, you need not endure any touch you find objectionable, including this one. You may pull away, from myself or anyone else, if you wish.” She squeezed its arm, gently, her claws closing around it, and then lifted her hand away. “There. I am finished; there is nothing else.”

It—

It could—

No.

The thought that it might defy her will, might acknowledge and express a desire contrary to hers, might ever want badly enough that it would dare to pull away from her—

No, this was a thing it would not do.

It simply would not.

A cold dread crept over its shell. The last time it had sworn not to do something, it had broken that oath in mere days. It was faithless; its word meant nothing. It could not know what it might do. It could not know that it would not do this.

What would be the consequences for such a thing? Was this another test? Would its sister abandon it, or finally give it the death it deserved?

It was unimaginable that she might do nothing.

Unimaginable, and yet—

—why would she say this, if—

No. Enough. These were dangerous thoughts, thoughts it was surely not meant to have, for it was never meant to think to begin with. Its sister deserved obedience, though it cost everything the vessel had.

She was watching it, it realized. Gauging the effect of her words. Perhaps waiting for an answer. Should it answer? Should it use one of the signs she had given it to indicate understanding? What did she want of it?

Vaguely, the vessel felt that its current state could very generously be described as a mess.

Its sister—gods below, its sister knew.

She reached for it again, this time for its hand—half-clenched, trembling—and pressed its fingers open. Not to guide it into any sign, but simply to lay her palm into the vessel’s, small fingers and fine claws lacing with its own.

It lay still. Fear was, suddenly, the farthest thing from it; it felt as though it had been given something precious, something unfit for it to take, a delicate bloom trapped between its talons. It could feel her heartbeat, swift and strong, in the vein beneath her palmpads, and the faint hum of soul below her shell.

It would give her everything.

Did she know? How could it tell her?

It would die for her.

○

Well. She had obviously accomplished something.

What, exactly, that something was eluded her.

Hollow had stopped shaking. That counted as progress. The stare they were currently giving her, however, was right on the edge of unnerving. The tension in their hand, as their fingers curled slightly to hold her own between them, just shy of brushing her knuckles with their claws—she did not know what to make of that.

But they had not pulled away from her.

She knew they understood. They would not have reacted so if they didn’t. Or perhaps she was wrong, and this was nothing but utter confusion, and she hadn’t accomplished anything at all.

And since she had so handily trapped them, she could not even ask for confirmation. She had all but clapped a hand over their mouth, rendering them as mute as when they met.

Not that they would likely choose to speak to her, whether she let go, or whether they pulled free—though this had all been in service of giving permission for them to do exactly that, if they wished.

Apparently, they did not. Their grip was tightening on her hand, so slowly that she wasn’t even sure they knew they were doing it, and the pressure was absurdly light, as though they feared her shell would shatter.

Well, she appreciated the sentiment.

It was a fight, every time she had the urge to comfort them, not to ignore it. It took her back to her days in the Palace, watching them spar in practice and in tournaments, watching them take injuries that would cripple a lesser fighter. The way her breath had hissed past her fangs, her hands tightening on the balcony, as the Pure Vessel tore through scores of kingsmoulds like a scythe through dry grass, rank upon rank closing in until her sibling was limping badly, dripping void and leaking soul, and still never faltering, pushing on and on until her father finally—finally—called a halt.

And the next time she saw them, they would be whole, healed, as still and silent as ever, with new scars marking their shell.

Those events had been tests of her mettle, as much as they had been of her sibling’s. She had felt the Pale King’s gaze upon her as the blows rained down, waiting for her to flinch, watching for doubt.

She’d learned to hide those twinges of empathy. To bury them so deep that she could deny she’d ever felt them at all.

It was like opening an old wound, now, to unearth them again. Like cutting into a scar. But she would do it, for them. She would.

She could start small. Both of them were unused to this—giving comfort or receiving it. Much as she wished she could take every burden from their shoulders, this would have to suffice for the moment.

“Good,” she whispered, running her thumb up the side of their hand. “Good, Hollow. Be calm. There’s nothing to fear.”

A twitch ran through their fingers at that, though nothing else changed. She continued stroking their hand, watching for any indication that she should stop—she didn’t trust them to take her at her word, to allow themselves to challenge her, but Quirrel had agreed that it was important that she lay the groundwork and mark out exactly where they stood.

His suggestions had been helpful already, she had to grudgingly admit. And it had been like a long breath of clean air to have someone to listen to her, whether she made good use of that opportunity or not. She felt a little less out of her mind, now, after speaking to someone who could answer. Who could examine all the jumbled pieces she spilled on the table and begin to fit them together, in ways that both confirmed and challenged her own conclusions.

That did not mean she had stopped regretting having asked for it.

Quirrel. Who knew how much time she had left before he returned. She should be putting this time to good use, not idling it away.

Without letting go, she twisted round and retrieved the wrinkled pages with her free hand, then spread them out on her lap, still with Hollow’s hand in hers.

Or rather, her hand in theirs. There was no way to hold their hand that did not result in hers being completely engulfed. Not that she minded, as long as they continued to hold it so carefully. Gingerly, never so much as letting their claws touch her, maintaining the precise amount of pressure necessary to keep her fingers from slipping free.

Unfortunately, her next task would require letting go. Though if it had helped as much as it seemed to, perhaps she could find an excuse to come back to it later.

“I’d like to have you practice the signs I’ve already taught you,” she said. “Just as we did before.”

No reaction from her sibling, at least not one she could see. She lifted their hand, briefly clasping it in both of her own to feel the solidness of it, the cool weight and minute roughness of their grip. Then she placed it on their stomach, withdrawing her touch with a final squeeze of their fingers.

Was she doing this right? She hoped—oh, she hoped what she saw in them was calm, and not apathy, or terror so complete that it held them still in its thrall. They seemed to respond well to being touched and held while she spoke to them; they had not panicked nearly as much as she expected. She could only wish that she had come to this conclusion earlier, rather than holding herself apart out of misplaced concern or awkwardness.

And it was awkward, still. But that was nothing. She could tolerate awkward, if what Quirrel said was true, if they stood to gain so much with so little effort.

She did not want to overwhelm them, which might put their new permission to pull away from her to the test, but if they became stressed during practice—which she did not doubt they would—she would attempt to calm them before continuing, rather than push through until they broke.

Neither one of them, she suspected, wanted a repeat of yesterday.

Oh, what had she been thinking? She could hardly have invented a better way to terrify them. Many of her own lessons had ended with her holding back tears, out of frustration at her own ignorance and the unfairness of what her tutors were asking of her. Not all of them had made her feel that way, but… enough.

And now it seemed she was doomed to mimic her own worst examples.

At least she’d had the solace of wishing all kinds of imaginary carnage on the tutors she liked the least. If she were to venture a guess, Hollow had no such inclinations.

Or, at least, she hoped not.

She cleared her throat. “I’ll start at the beginning. When I say the word, repeat the sign I taught you.”

Their hand still shook as they moved through the signs, but not as much as she’d come to expect. It was easier to praise them, then, easier to sound like she meant it.

Progress. This might be real progress, and it almost felt too good to be true.

She reached forward when they finished reciting what they’d learned, laying a hand on their wrist while the tension slowly drained and they lay limp, staring at her in what seemed like distracted bewilderment.

That bewilderment was likely warranted. She’d never been affectionate, especially not when they came to know her. Before then, she remembered only hazy scenes from her childhood, before she could walk or climb, of being passed from one set of sturdy arms to another, or lifted up to cling to a shoulder or back as the spiders and Weavers took turns working and holding her. She had not sought that out once she outgrew it, and certainly not once she was taken to Hallownest. The Deepnest taint clung to her shell like a stuck molt, awkward and ugly, and she had been angry enough to reject any attempts at companionship, had anyone made any.

She had also been too busy causing havoc, at first. Working herself deeper and deeper into her father’s side like a thorn, half-hoping he would pluck her out and cast her away, give her back to the family she could never have again—not now that her mother was sworn as a Dreamer, not now that the Weavers planned to leave Hallownest. It could never be the same now, but that did not stop her from wanting it.

And then she’d given up, at last, and that had been the end of it. She’d accepted the role he placed on her, set foot on the path that had brought her here, and now she was stroking her sibling’s shell awkwardly, and hoping that the confusion this elicited was somehow a step forward.

In any case, it was likely better than terror.

“I have a few new signs for you,” she said, leaning back. “This is ‘sometimes.’”

Following Quirrel’s suggestions, she taught them former and latter, as well as other, signs that would be necessary to answer the questions he’d hoped to ask them. She added Quirrel, a twist of the fingers at the chin, denoting the beaded tassel on his kerchief. By then, her sibling was wheezing audibly, and their gestures had become more stilted as their hand and arm slowly seized and that strange, strained tension returned, as if they were simultaneously attempting to obey her and trying not to move.

This time, it took longer to fade, and she spent a silent few minutes rubbing her hand up and down their arm, listening to the whistle in their lungs grow fainter and die out as they relaxed.

“Well done,” she murmured when they were quiet again. “Thank you. I know I am asking… much of you.”

The confusion was back—if she was reading them right, and she wasn’t certain of that. But if she had to guess at the look they were giving her, it was somehow conveying complete bafflement without shifting an inch.

Hornet swallowed down something that hurt, something angry and inadvisable, and it burned like a hot coal in her stomach.

I am not our father.

I do not expect perfection.

I want this for you.

I want you to live.

Having said that to Quirrel the night before, she could not now forget it. She hadn’t even thought as much to herself—since learning Hollow was alive, she hadn’t dared to imagine a goal at the end of all this. She owed her life and more to them; after she had wiped out so many of their kind in stupid, blind obedience, the least she could do was offer her time and her hands and her company. She had no right to expect anything, whether protection or gratitude or companionship.

But if it was necessary to establish a purpose to work toward, it would be this, and only this.

They had been born as a sacrifice. They had given everything for their father’s plan. And even now, they were obedient to him, as best they could be—though some unknown, misplaced devotion drove them to heed her. Even when her orders clashed with her father’s, throwing out sparks like crossed blades.

She glanced out the window, past the rain tapping steadily at the glass. It had been over an hour, and Quirrel would likely be back soon. She didn’t wish to stress them much further, given what the rest of the day would hold. But they had responded well to her attempts to calm them, and she was curious; the chance to hold a real conversation with her sibling, fragmented though it would be, was too tempting to ignore.

The questions Quirrel had left her included a few that she could be relatively certain they would answer. She skipped over the questions about their pain—though she would have to ask those again, eventually.

Instead, she paused the motion along their arm, only rubbing one thumb over a seam in their elbow, her claw clicking softly across the gap between the plates. Their attention was on her already—it had never left—but she did not wish to distract them.

“I will not be upset if you cannot answer. For any reason,” she began. “But I would like for you to practice using the new signs. And these questions may help me understand how to move forward.”

Perhaps only because she was paying close attention, she noticed the shift as their arm tightened—and then relaxed—beneath her hand. Something indefinable swelled in her throat, something bitter and bloody. Sympathy. Guilt. She didn’t know.

They were trying. They were trying so hard to give her what she wanted, fighting every moment against their own fear, and as much as she wished she could avoid it, or take it from them altogether, the only way forward she could see was to push through.

She took her hand from their arm, so they would not need to pull away from her to sign, and waited.

“Are you able to read or write?” A simple question first, a question that would hopefully not distress them, but could be used to test their understanding with a specific method of answer. “Answer with ‘former’ or ‘latter’ if only one is true, ‘yes’ for both, or ‘no’ for neither.”

They considered this. Calmly, thank the gods. She gave them a moment; this was the first time she had offered this many possible answers to a question, although she suspected she already knew the answer. Still, they might surprise her.

The answer came hesitantly; if they could speak, the word would have been only a murmur. No.

She tilted her head, acknowledging. “As I thought. It is no matter.” It would have made communication easier, but not significantly so, when she could think of no comfortable way for them to write while confined to their bed. Perhaps that could be remedied once they were stronger, although she thought Quirrel far more suited as a literacy teacher than she was.

The next question was more important, and simpler still. “Are you colder or warmer than you should be? Answer with ‘former,’ ‘latter,’ or ‘no,’ if neither is true.”

As questions went, this one also seemed unthreatening. It was not related to their pain, and she assumed they would have a good sense of their natural body temperature. If Quirrel was right, then it was possible Hollow’s fever had still not completely broken.

And perhaps she could finally find out whether they needed a blanket.

The answer, when it came, was shaky, delayed, and disappointing, and she could not have been happier to see it.

Latter.

Too warm, still. She would have to do something about that—draining the rest of the infection, first and foremost. The thought made her gut turn over, with both nausea and giddy relief that they were listening and answering her.

They were starting to lock up now, shoulder creeping up toward their neck, jaw clenching tight. “Good,” she breathed, realizing too late that she’d gone too long saying nothing. “Good. I am glad to know that. Thank you.”

○

Glad?

She was—

Why was she glad?

That it was still too warm, its body still rebelling against its father’s design, was an unmitigated failure. It was a consequence of the infection in its veins, a consequence of weakness, something that should never have happened. The void within it should have stripped it so empty, hollowed it so completely, that it never knew anything but the numbness and the chill and the dark silence of the sea.

She should be ashamed of it. She should be disappointed. She should not be trying to thank it.

This did not appear to dissuade her in the least.

“I would like to know if you have needs I’ve not been able to meet.” She touched it as she spoke, her hand once more coming to rest on its arm, gliding up to the top of its shoulder and back. It could not help the way its tension bled away under her touch, though it should have felt nothing whatsoever.

She knew this. And yet she persisted.

“Although I know I have asked this before, I need to be sure I know the correct answer.” Hornet paused, chewing over her question, still absently petting its shell. “You’ve said you don’t require food. But I do not know precisely what that means.”

Ah. It had not answered well enough, the first few times she asked it. Given that it had never been intended to speak, perhaps that was allowable—

But no. A flaw was a flaw, and it was meant to be flawless. Since it could speak, it was obliged to do so with the precision and excellence that were required of it elsewhere.

“You do not need food to survive. Is this true? Answer with ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

This answer was an easy one, but it hesitated. Sister’s hand was still on its arm, and it did not mean to defy her, but while she wished to touch it, it should not express otherwise—

And she realized that an instant later, and withdrew.

The rising fear retreated, slowly, but its answer was still shaky.

Yes.

“Although you do not need it to survive, would consuming food aid your body in healing?”

It knew the answer to this as well, but as its hand rose, it hesitated.

During its training, it had been injured severely. Not often, for it was a unique creation, too valuable to risk. But its father walked a delicate line; if it had not been thoroughly tested and hardened for battle, it could not have been judged fit to contain the infection. He had methods of healing beyond the reach of scholars and mages, but on a few occasions, his magic had not been enough to restore it.

He had taken it to his workshop, then, and laid it down on the table where it had been shaped and molded, its present form wrought from the softness of a nymph by the sharp intent of its father’s magic. He had retrieved a container, and given it to the vessel, and instructed it in what to do.

It still recalled the sensation of the void pouring down its throat, the thickness of it, the blank absence of any smell or flavor, the stirring within its guts as the liquid joined with what already existed within, absorbing cleanly until there was nothing left but the vessel itself, whole again, and strong.

Void was not food. Void was poison, an endless dark that consumed what it touched, that winked out mortal lives like candles.

That was likely not what its sister meant. A vessel consuming more of the substance that formed it could not be defined as eating, any more than void could be defined as food.

It had hesitated too long. Its sister was growing impatient, tilting her head in confusion, searching its eyes for any hint of an answer forming, and it froze.

But she said only, “My words were… imprecise, perhaps. Disregard that question,” and then sat thinking, as its breathing grew lighter again and the taut set of its shoulders eased.

With a sharp sigh, she spoke again. “I do not know what vessels are able to eat, or what substances would be beneficial to consume. Do you eat any of the things someone such as Quirrel or myself would?”

Relief rushed through it, though numbing fear followed close on its heels. She understood the true reason for its hesitation. She saw it, its flaws, its limitations and its defects. It must be truly lacking, for such a simple thing to seize hold of it and prevent it from answering. To force its sister to repeat herself, to rephrase her questions in order to accommodate its fractured mind.

No, it should not be relieved to have its flaws made known. It should be ashamed—or it should feel nothing. It should not have flaws, let alone the very ability to feel, and it should be trying to hide these facts from her, to bury them, not put them on display, not reveal them so clearly that she made allowances for it—

Wrong wrong wrong wrong—

If it did not answer now, it would soon be unable to, it realized. The pressure was growing in its chest again, a weight of panic like lack of air underwater.

The sign was rushed this time, and too short, too sharp, in its haste to give its sister what she wanted.

No.

Its vision was hazing white at the edges already, its breaths beginning to become gasps, and it clenched its teeth, forcing its chest to rise, forcing its throat to open, while the sound from its battered lungs rose into a harsh, fluttering keen.

She could certainly see its flaws now.

There was another sound. Another weight against it. Another hand within its own again, warm and steady where it trembled. Its sister was so small, her touch so light, and yet her every whim captured its attention completely.

Its next exhale shook and shuddered, and she reached up with her free hand, laying her palm beneath its eye, and her fangs chattered softly, a gentle, steady sound like breezes through its mother’s leaves, a sound meant to soothe, to calm and comfort hatchlings in the shell.

It blinked, and wheezed, and clenched her hand more tightly.

“Shh, Hollow.” She leaned against it more firmly where she’d settled, climbing onto the bed and pressing herself into its side, and it did not deserve this, had done nothing to earn this, had done everything wrong, and to her, it seemed, that did not matter. “Shh.”

○

Taglist: @botslayer9000 @moss-tombstone @slimeel Send an ask or reply to this post to be added to (or removed from) the taglist!

#lost kin fic #lost kin chapter #hollow knight #hollow knight fanfic #mywriting #hk the hollow knight #hk hornet #hk quirrel #hk

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margridarnauds · 2 months

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writers truth or dare: 🎱🕯️🔪🎨

🎱 ⇢ post your AO3 total stats

User Subscriptions: 27

Kudos: 2,587

Comment Threads: 279

Bookmarks: 597

Subscriptions: 410

Word Count: 348,060

🕯️ ⇢ on a scale from 1 to 10, how much do you enjoy editing? why is that?

6, probably. It isn't my favorite bit, because it's harder to tell when IT'S done VS when the overall plot is done, it's much harder to constantly reread what you've written and go "did I do what I set out to do?" I think that with my last thing, I spent more time editing than writing; there was one part that required the whole scene to be rewritten about three times. And it's never fun to have a part that you really liked and then have to cut (there was one line in my most recent one that KILLED me to cut -- it's safe in another document so I can use it down the line, but still). On the plus side, it's also where I get to fill out parts, add things to suit the mood, build atmosphere when I feel like I need to do that.

🔪 ⇢ what's the weirdest topic you researched for a writing project?

...oh. God. WEIRD, hm. I guess that depends on how you define "weird" -- for some people, authentic Old Irish is weird, but for me, that's just bringing my job into my fanfic. But I suppose for things that are far away from what I would usually do...

For anything set in the Toho RetJ world, I actually did look at pictures of, say, Chernobyl now, to give myself a template for how the world would look like. I looked up different predictions for how the world would look after a certain number of years, including weather patterns, natural disasters, etc., looked at videos like "Life After People" from the History Channel (which is...the History Channel, but gave me some inspiration), looked up photos of crumbling apartment buildings and how they look and the kind of natural decay that settles in, while also hunting down articles on the Shakespeare so that that could inform some of my characterizations.

Likewise, for my Terra Nova fanfic, I often found myself looking up fossils from the Cretaceous period, both plant and animal, trying to integrate them into the world of Terra Nova, looking through pictures of the sets so I could try to do some worldbuilding for how the world of the show works.

For my BG3 things, I have, like, 4-5 lore books on my computer, and I've looked up everything from, say, how to kill Lolth to drider transformation to Drow foods in the Underdark to Drow burial rites to coming of age rituals to necromancy to whether Devils in the world of DND eat mortals (...undecided) to Cambion biology (answer: they'd have to be able to decide on what a Cambion IS first) to what body temperature a Drow VS an Elf would have. I've looked up the ingredients to various potions for the sake of Kitrye's alchemy, common traits among albinos IRL VS the Szarkai in DND for Malla (Malla's eyesight is too good, but it's essential to her character, so sure), and real-world contracts and the language involved to write Raphael's deals. For a non-DND player, I've had to dive as deeply into the lore as possible (and often, esp. with regards to the Drow, going "that's stupid, I'm doing something better".)

For weirdest research OVERALL, definitely probably walking up and down a ~16th-17th century fortress so I could get a feel for how the Bastille might have felt.

...actual 18th century smut and how gay men in the 18th century usually conceived of sex. Opera schedules from the 18th-19th centuries, so that, when an opera's mentioned, it's usually something that was either playing at the time or plausible.

🎨 ⇢ link your favourite piece of fanart and explain why you like it

God, I've gotten to see a lot of really good fanart, and, especially, now that I'm doing BG3 things, I am really routinely being spoiled. I'm going to give a list, just because I think that there are worse things to spill a lot of ink on than giving people their proper due.

First of all, propping my friends, @hotelfgirl did a piece of Kitrye that lives rent free in my head. She has that specific sad girlfailure vibe that I love to see.

@drewsaturday did some Morléans fanart for my birthday that also lives eternally rent-free in my head; it really captured part of the appeal of the ship (besides the tragic ending), which is the level of trust involved, the intimacy of it.

For Irish Myth stuff, even if it's always slightly awkward to call it "fanart" in the same way that, say, BG3 things are fanart or things for my musicals are fanart, anything by @amylouioc, absolutely wonderful interpretations of medieval Irish figures by a modern Irish artist, my favorite is probably Nuada over here. I love the lighting, I love the color scheme, I love the detailing around the arm, especially the little blue tatoos...and, admittedly, I also love that Nuada's a KILF (King I'd Like To--terrorize the Fomoiri with) because I am, at the end of the day, a simple woman. (You all thought it was going to be Bres, didn't you?)

@aodhan-art - WONDERFUL pieces from medieval Irish lit; the first piece of his I was aware of was this one which...well. He knows the context, but it was a very memorable part of a very memorable trip for me. There's this real...sassiness Áed in particular has that I love, this real sense of personality. I also have to talk about this; it isn't often that we get Bres/Sreng fanart (or anything about Bres at ALL), so I love seeing him memed; I'm glad someone put up the money to do the commission and I'm even more glad he did it, it's perfect for both of them. Lest anyone think I'm forgetting Bres' better half, though, I love the work done on Bríg here; I love all the little detailing, all the textures, the little freckles on her skin, the clothing ITSELF looking like something from medieval Ireland.

Speaking of which, @violetcancerian's drawing of Bres and Sreng here, like. Look at them. It's Christmas. They're happy.

For BG3 fanart...

@lemmeurs Raphael fanart here is great; I love anything that captures the duality of Raphael's character, I love the use of lighting and shadow in it, the single strand of hair hanging over his face in both the Cambion and Human forms, the sharp edges of his cheekbones, the overall color scheme. Legitimately have not stopped thinking about it for days.

@shahs1221 ANYTHING by her is great, I really love this one here. For obvious professional reasons, I can't engage with any Professor/Student Raphael content on here (nothing personal, but if I don't engage with it, I have nothing to hide if anyone decides to link my fandom life to my academic life...which has happened before, regrettably), BUT her Professor Raphael art, both this and the follow-up, live rent-free in my brain (I will also note, if any colleagues, mentors, undergrads, potential peer reviewers, etc. should FIND this, they will note that it is based on a wonderful fic series where Raphael is dating someone who is NOT a student). LOVE the cozy academia vibe, especially the one in the follow-up where he's sleeping in a nice, incredibly comfortable looking sweater. (The real question in life: Do I want Raphael in this art or do I want to BE Raphael in this art?) Also...the baby cow eyes paired with sharp cheekbones are in full effect, causing me to briefly have my IQ drop into the single digits.

@adarlingmess WONDERFUL Raphael content in general, but I think I lean towards Dadbod!Raphael in the bath . I love it for the...plot? ("The plot" in this case being "Those cheekbones + a soft stomach"). I love the atmosphere, the kind of haze created by a combination of the steam + candles, Raphael looking relaxed for once in his immortal life, the way the candlelight plays on his face, the railing in the background (...not...that kind of railing...the railing from the game. The metal railing that is in the game.) Overall, it just really captures the feeling of that area of the Boudoir very well, it brings in a lot of small details, AND Raphael looks very good.

@potatocrisp Absolutely LOVE the dynamic that their Tav has with Raphael, the kind of push/pull dynamic on both ends, the way the two of them are both compromised for one another but are extremely stubborn about it (favorite Tavphael dynamic, ngl), the way that her Tav very clearly has the upper hand over this immortal, ancient being. I love her character design, I love the detailing on his doublet, especially the little shine of metal at his wrists, the little lace edging at her stockings.

@infernaldaydreams Hahaha, BG3 fanart that is NOT Raphael. I love everything I've seen of hers, but this one is probably my favorite, not the least because it was the first one I saw. I love how bittersweet it is, I love the tenderness, the focus on hands, the way that Gortash's face gets overshadowed and then lightens up for her, I just...God, these two rotten people have me in a chokehold, I love them. (But also, in the nicest possible way, fuck you for making me feel THINGS, knowing how Durgetash ends in canon.)

#long post #thank you!

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nuri148 · 8 months

Text

LOOK AT THIS POINT

No, really, take a look at it.

For at 17:23 CEST, on September 23rd of the Year of our Lord 2023, I have finished the first draft of the 15th and last installment of Clarity.

Peeps, I am grieving.

When I set out to put this story into words, I had never written anything beyond 10K. The idea of doing a chaptered story, a slow burn at that, was so foreign to me. I was convinced I'd either solve the plot in 3-4 chapters or, as it's happened to me in the past, I'd lose faith in the story and ditch it, and it'd become one of those abandoned fics we all hate to love.

It wasn't easy, not just because I'm writing in a language not my own. Some of the scenes I'd played dozens of times in my mind before sitting to write them, and then they would... jut not come out? Emotionally charged scenes drain me; Blorbo's feels are my feels. I felt insecure about a myriad things that I'm not experienced about, or didn't do the research about, or just plain thought were too silly or self indulgent for others to like.

I got caught in the rabbit whole of worldbuilding, and created props and hid them as easter eggs and no one but one person found them but I had a blast anyhow.

I got also caught in the rabbit hole of tea and drank a ridiculous amount of it to create a menu and make it more than just a character quirk.

I had lots of fum coming up with the fake preview posts before every chapter (did you getthe hidden message in the last one? did you?)

Most of all, I rekindled my love of writing and I've found amazing people in the fandom, fellow delulus from all around the globe who support and inspire each other and (gasp!) even liked my fic.

Thank you all who accompanied me in this amazing journey, be it by reading, commenting, kudosing, or just supporting me with likes and reblogs here. Special shout-outs to @chaosisbeauty23, one of the most talented fic writers out there, for sharing so much of my delulu as well as the outlook on life of us the not-so-young ones; @onigiri-dorkk my first fandom friend here, for being a ray of sunshine and always encourage and support fellow fans; @bryhaven (even if idk when you'll read this) for your amazing feedback; @ash-aot for bringing my fic to life with your lovely voice; @binibchielq for creating a safespace for us rm spawnlings; @lucysarah-c for the "aguante" and the fandom talks with Argentine taste; @lividayis for the beautiful fanart you created for my humble story.

The party isn't over yet though! I still have to edit this, as well as a last look at ch. 14 before I upload it, but this is it for this story for now. While I still have ideas in the Clarity universe, I would also like to chase other things and/or take a break. In the meantime, Thank you thank you thank you!!!!

#clarity tea house #rivamika #levi ackerman #mikasa ackerman #rivamika fic #aot fanfiction #levimika #rivamika fanfiction

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baladric · 1 year

Note

For the writer ask meme!! 🎀 🪄 💌 (I wanted to ask everything but I showed restraint- if 3 is too many just do one or two ok love yooouuu)

hey i LOVE u :')

fic writer ask meme!

🎀 Give yourself a compliment about your own writing

oh boy hmmM well hey there little guy, you sure can write a sentence that punches people in the face!!!!! and you're very good at naming ocs, and your worldbuilding gets lusher and lovelier every time you sit down with it!!!

🪄 What is your post-writing/sharing aftercare? How do you take care of yourself or celebrate yourself when you've finished a fic?

answered here!

💌 Share something with us about an up-and-coming work (WIP) that has you excited!

i say it a lot and i KNOW y'all always tell me to hush but i feel SO BAD that all i ever wanna talk about is pirate au, and yet there's nothing out here for anyone to READ!! STILL!!! nearly a year later!!!!! but it's so in progress, and it only gets better, and i literally cannot wait to tie off the first draft and start the editing pass to make it cohesive from the start—at which point we'll start posting it! like post as we edit kind of a thing!!

so. i mean. UH. HERE'S A FUCKIn PREQUEL PIRATE FICLET IN ITS ENTIRETY a;ldkfjwl;f shhhhh nobody tell celebros i shared her xmas present before we posted the fic (jk she reads my tumblr)

He did not know why he was surprised, but all told, it took a good long while for sailing to become fun. He had theories, of course—six years of running wild with only Freja to impose a schedule had evidently done a number on his habits—and now there were work shifts to keep track of, and problems to solve with only one right answer (“When in doubt, call for Sozu or Arnezha or Iölo or me or literally anyone other than Sinker, I beg of thee, darling.”) There were knots to learn—a startling discovery, as he had thought he knew them all already—and terminologies and what do you mean, there are two ships?

Simply put, it was a lot, and Maia took care not to harbor regrets, but it was occurring to him in drips and drabs that this was maybe a teeny tiny little bit of a mistake. That, perhaps, Shaleän had been right, and he was not necessarily cut out for the sailing life. That maybe Paris had had a point when he hinted that Maia could have been of just as much help (if not more) at home, with Freja.

He was tired and he was sore in places he hadn’t known he owned and he missed his warm little bed in Freja’s warm little cottage and this was all just so strange. Idolatry was a child’s game in which he had seriously overinvested, and now it was like being struck over the head to realize that Shaleän on her gilded pedestal was a criminal—a pirate, the King of pirates.

He’d had an inkling, of course, but it was one thing to fantasize about his rake of an aunt, the glint of her saber raised in the battle cry, and another to stumble across a frightened goblin child in the same cargo hold in which he himself had hidden not two days before, her hair shorn in a servant’s crop and one of her ears notched in a clear sign of past cruelty. It had been another thing entirely to calm her down and bring her to Shaleän, propped on his hip, his collar still damp from her tears, and learn that she was part of a matched set squirreled away in a secret room on the ship, and that her mother was as yet too deep in the megrims that sometimes stole over a person whose situation has taken a sudden, hopeful turn to keep a proper eye on her michen.

Was this smuggling? Soul trafficking?

“No,” Shaleän had said, her frown heavy and fitting far too well on her face; lines Maia had attributed solely to her broad, bright grin suddenly made more sense. Frown lines. Scowl lines, like wheel ruts worn into the hard-packed earth of her. “It is liberation, Maia. We offer what freedom is available in this blighted world to the people who need it most, and my only regret is that I cannot give it to everyone suffering under the weight of man’s cruelty and greed.”

So, he was… adjusting, one could say. In light of the insistence with which he had forced his way into this world—onto Shaleän’s ship, into Shaleän’s so-called business—he found this struggle to be more than a little embarrassing.

It was not fun—it was work. Good work. Work with an undeniably positive influence on the world, regardless of who might label the unlicensed liberation of indentured servants a crime.

Maia brought a smile to the fugitive Min Pallared’s face within an hour of meeting her properly (And Cstheio Cairei, was the hold in which they hid their refugees small) and it was work, but he felt that spark of light as a tectonic shift in the bedrock of his soul. Paris was wrong—he could help here, without a sword. And so he did it again with their next lot of escapees—a family of Telvar, whose anxious tails and too-wide eyes made Maia sick to his stomach in the imagining of the lifetime of cruelty required to so damage them. They reminded him too much of himself, those first few months away from Edonomee, and when he laid in his hammock between shifts and caretaking duties, he could not help but sink into gruesome thoughts of what he himself would have become, had he been left to Setheris’ cruel hands for a lifetime.

It was work, to be sure, but he had never felt so alive as he did in those first months aboard that two-faced ship.

All around him were people, storied and vibrant, and he doubted he would ever tire of cracking them open, that they might tell him of their families, their dreams, lost loves and the folklore that belongs to single blood lines. Sozu Khalamar and his grandmother’s insistence on the ill omens of curdling milk. Sinker Shipsblight and the long string of willful calamities that had earned him his moniker, and the respect of Paris. Iölo Marin and her repeating dream of sprouting wings to fly away from everything she had ever known.

And, of course, there was the music. He had not expected the music.

Sometimes, as they drew to the end of a hard sail, Paris would turn a blind eye to the halving of the usual night shift in favor of a sleepy skeleton crew abovedecks, and everyone else would retreat to the ship’s galley and drain the last kegs of ale dry. It was a raucous thing, everyone thoroughly soused, and then someone would start singing—Sinker, usually, lusty and loud as the south wind.

The repertoire were things Maia had heard before, having spent nearly half his life in sailing communities: rowing songs, shanties, bawdy ballads. He knew the tunes to most of them, if not the lyrics—and the ones he did not know came to him quickly.

Almost six months on, he felt he had nearly gotten the hang of it all. He could scale the mizzenmast in sixty seconds, rarely got tangled up in all the different words for wind, and could wail a bawdy drinking song with the best of them.

They had just finished one such song, and Maia’s cheeks were hot with drink and the youthful embarrassment of singing about breasts with a zealous lot of sailors on a dry spell and a trio of especially fervent marnai. He was fully considering tapping out from the excitement of it all, when someone cried over the merry shouting of the men, “Let’s have Maia lead one!”

The roar that rose at the idea was a thing of beauty. It sped Maia’s pulse, for he doubted that even an ocean’s worth of ale could fake such unmistakeable delight. The clamor rang of something like acceptance, and Maia was helpless to resist the hands that chivvied him to stand atop the swaying table.

Someone pressed a fresh flagon of ale into his hand, and he heard shouts of “Let’s have it, lad!” and “Put thy chest into it, sprout!” as well as a clangor of song requests—and, so dizzied, Maia startled himself as much as everyone else by belting out the opening call of his favorite shanty:

“Ye nations have your princes, you kingdoms have your kings,

But we who set to sail the sea

Bow only to the Wind!”

Laughter and cheers of recognition met the first bit of the tune, and though his voice shook with sudden nerves at the start, by the time he reached the chorus, he had built to a jubilant shout. He raised his flagon as all joined in the singing.

“So follow me, lads,” the crew of the Glorious Dragon wailed as one voice, and Maia stomped the tabletop with all his might.

“‘Fore he storms upon the fray!

Corat’ will whip you down to dust

And blow you straight away!”

The beating of fists and stomping of feet raised the beat of The Ballad of King Corat’, and Maia did not think he had ever smiled as hard as he did then, singing of his legendary aunt, the King of Pirates.

“The baron sees no bloodshed, the emperor no rain,

But the Serpent King who skims the sea

Reigns only over pain!”

The men howled, and a jostling in the crowd caught Maia’s attention—the crew shifting to give Shaleän, Corat’ herself, space as she waded towards the table, her grin a rakish slash of white in the warm dimness of the galley. Maia beamed and reached to haul her up beside him, and they stomped out the chorus together, arms around shoulders.

“So follow me lads!

‘Fore we heel to his domain!

Corat’ will crush us down to dust

And rinse us down the drain!”

“Your krakens and your sirens,” Maia sang, thrilled as Shaleän joined him, her voice rough and far from tuneful.

“Your leviathans and all

Know better than to raise a hand

To Cruelty the Squall!”

She clashed her flagon to his, dousing them both thoroughly in ale, and Maia did not know if he had ever been so happy in his life. It was such a simple feeling, yet so large that it brimmed over all of his shakily sketched borders, rendering him a jubilant creature in Shaleän’s tight grip.

“So follow me, lads!

‘Fore he finds us in a pall!

Corat’ will strike us down to dust

And spell a fell downfall!”

And so they sang and stomped and crowed for the whole sprawl of verses, telling a blazing tale of Shaleän’s conquests—and her pressed to his side all the while, loud and calamitous and alive alive alive. The both of them, so very, wildly alive.

Maia’s voice was shot by the end and his blood ran hot with a palpable sense of belonging unlike anything he had ever felt. Joy, repeating. Life, glorious and wretched and reeking of too many people in too small a space.

Shaleän embraced him then, like she knew what brilliant cacophony was brewing in his chest. Like it was the work of her life to hold him in one piece, whether the shaking be a thing of joy, or of grief.

“I love thee, my heart,” she murmured for him alone. “More than every jewel in thy Lady’s starry sky.”

“Oh,” Maia said—a silly thing, for he had long known the timbre of his aunt’s love. It was only that having this talented, determined crew respond to him with nothing but delight in their collective voices had stripped him raw, and it brought to the surface that little part of him that still curled into a protective ball when he slept. And that part was ever so hungry for all Shaleän and her crew offered.

“I love thee, too,” he replied, squeezing her tight enough that she gave a little Oof of surprise. “More than the whole sea.”

“More than the mermaids?”

“More than every blessed fucking fish in the place.”

Their laughter was lost beneath the clamor of their crew, which was just fine with them.

#aj answers #himbohaggins #ask meme #ask #the writing tag #maia's a pirate now #;alskdfjawl;kfdjw IDK GUYS I WANT EVERYONE TO CARE ABOUT THIS FUCKING STORY AS MUCH AS I DO

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a-small-batch-of-dragons · 2 years

Text

Perfectly Proportioned

Prompt: Logan/Roman curséd physics A/B/O fic? <3 - ghostofasecretary

be honest how many of you are gonna click on this because you saw that this was omegaverse and went excuse me you're writing what now

also this is 10000% the fault of @ghostofasecretary because here i was INNOCENTLY explaining something and they went >:) but what if you did worldbuilding

then i did worldbuilding

and they went >:) what if you wrote a fic about it

I love you dearly, my darling, but i am dragging you down with me.

Read on Ao3

Warnings: none

Pairings: logince, can be platonic or romantic i guess

Word Count: 4271

Everything is fine. Everything is so fine.

Everything is so fine and good right now in the way that it's happening.

Roman's brain is still trying to process the fact that Logan just said the words your omega.

He doesn’t quite choke on his breath but it’s close. “I’m sorry, my what now?”

It starts like this:

Roman walks into the living room to see Logan on the couch, squinting at a notepad in his lap with a textbook open on the coffee table. The end of a pen hangs out of his mouth as he types into a graphing calculator.

“Hey, Specs.”

Logan glances up, smiling. “Ah. Hello, Roman.”

“May I?”

“Certainly. Though I’m afraid I won’t be much for conversation at the moment.”

Roman waves a hand and takes a seat on the couch, far enough away that he’s out of the radius of Logan’s sprawl. He braces one arm on the back of the couch. “What’re you working on?”

“A simple set of problems to keep my physics skills sharp.”

‘Simple,’ yeah, maybe for Logan. “Is this one of those moments where explaining it to someone else would be helpful?”

“If you could give me a few minutes to finish this problem, yes, I would like to take you up on that offer.”

Roman nods and pulls out his phone, absentmindedly opening something to scroll through as the soft scratch of Logan’s pen resumes. The living room fills with an amicable quiet as each of them loses themselves momentarily in their work.

Yes, Roman is going to shamelessly take advantage of the fact that he is Creativity to excuse mindless scrolling as work.

After a few minutes, true to his word, Logan scribbles something down with an air of finality and smiles. Roman glances up and quickly stashes his phone away, propping his hands up under his chin as Logan turns to look at him.

His efforts are rewarded when it makes Logan pause, huffing a laugh and shaking his head.

“Did you copy that from Patton or is it something you both do naturally?”

“At this point, I think we’ve got equal rights to it.”

“Mm, and does speaking like that where your entire head moves up and down equivocate the adorable factor?”

“You tell me, Specs.”

Logan rolls his eyes fondly and sits up a little straighter, reaching for the textbook. “Would you still like to learn?”

“I’m not making this face because it’s comfortable.”

“Very well. What do you know about simple harmonic motion?”

Roman blinks, sitting in a more comfortable way. “I know what ‘harmonic’ means in a context that I’m pretty sure isn’t this one.”

“Simple harmonic motion is a term in physics used to describe a special type of periodic motion where the restoring force on a moving object is directly proportional to the magnitude of the object’s displacement and acts toward the object’s equilibrium position,” Logan rattles off.

When he looks up and sees Roman blinking at him, he smiles.

“Let me explain another way: do you know how a pendulum moves?”

Roman raises a hand and swings it back and forth.

“Exactly, good job. That’s an example of simple harmonic motion,” he says, holding up his hand to repeat the movement, “where the object travels through an equilibrium position—that’s the middle, here—and the distance it travels away from that position is equal on both sides.”

“…okay?”

Logan pauses again. “Do I need to go slower?”

“No, no, it’s just—big words.” Roman holds his hand up. “So…this is my pendulum, right?”

“Yes.”

“And…this is my middle position?”

“Yes.”

“So…because it’s simple harmony—wait, harmonic?”

“Harmonic, yes.”

“Okay, because it’s simple harmonic…” He moves his hand to one side. “If it swings this high on one side, it’s gonna swing the same height on the other?”

“Yes, precisely.”

“But then wouldn’t it just keep going forever?” Roman frowns. “Pendulums do, like, stop after a while.”

Logan sighs. “As with most things in physics, simple harmonic motion describes an ideal system where things like air resistance don’t exist.”

“Ah. So it could theoretically go on forever if air resistance wasn’t getting in the way.”

“Precisely.”

“What about gravity? Doesn’t that make it stop too?”

Logan grins, reaching out to ruffle his hair. Roman squawks indignantly. “You’re getting ahead of yourself, we’ll get there.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Roman flattens his hair back down. “What were you saying about proportional things?”

Logan glances at his notes, then at the textbook, then back at Roman. “This would be easier to explain if I had a pendulum.”

“I can make one, if you want?”

“No, I have a better idea.” Logan’s eyes light up and he stands, offering a hand to Roman. “Let’s go to the Imagination.”

Roman lets Logan pull him up as they walk toward the Imagination. He watches Logan’s expression out of the corner of his eyes. He looks so happy. Like he doesn’t mind that Roman needs a bit more help understanding something because he loves explaining.

It makes Roman smile too.

“Alright,” Logan says as he pushes open the door to reveal…

“…a swing set?”

“A pendulum.” Logan places a hand on Roman’s back and guides him forward. “One you’ll be a bit more familiar with.”

“Okay.” I get to spend time at a swing set with Logan, I am not going to complain about this. “So…how does this help me?”

“Did you remember what the equilibrium position is?” Roman looks at him blankly. “Also called the mean position? No? That’s okay. Basically, it’s where the system wants to be. The ‘rest place’—“ he makes quotes with his fingers— “where it’ll go if there’s no energy.”

“Okay,” Roman mumbles, trying not to get lost.

“That’s this.” Logan points to the still swing. “Hanging straight down, that’s where it wants to be.”

“Okay.”

“That means that whatever I do to it, it’s going to want to come back here.” He points upwards. “In line with this bar.”

“Because…that’s where gravity wants to pull it?”

“Yes,” Logan murmurs, “good job. See? I told you we’d get there.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yes, Roman, good job.” Logan smiles and Roman’s face is stupid and turns red because of it. “So this is the equilibrium point. This is where it wants to be. So displacement is zero.”

“Wait, hold on, what? ‘Displacement?’”

“Distance from the equilibrium position.”

Roman frowns. “But it’s at the equilibrium—oh. Oh, so it’s—right. No distance. Carry on.”

“Don’t be afraid to stop me again if you don’t understand,” Logan says softly, “alright?”

“Yep. Mhm. Won’t do that.”

“Good. Now, you were right before when you said that the amount of displacement on one side—or the height—has to be the same as the amount of displacement on the other. In physics,” he says, taking the swing by one of the chains, “we tell which side is which by calling one direction positive and the other one negative.”

“Why can’t you just call it left and right?”

“Because it’s quicker to write a negative sign than it is to write two whole words. At least that’s the explanation I’ve always gotten.”

“Fair enough.”

“Now, do you remember which direction is positive and which direction is negative?”

“You want me to remember math?” Roman closes his eyes, straining for something, anything—oh, hey, wait. “Uh, left is negative, right is positive?”

“Very good.” If anyone else had said that to him, it would be the epitome of condescending. Literally anyone else. “So if I want the maximum positive displacement, where should I go?”

“Wait, but your left is different from my left.”

“Well,” Logan smiles, “then why don’t you come and stand next to me?”

Roman gulps. Okay. This is fine. He can do this. No problem.

He goes and stands next to Logan.

…this is fine.

“Now, where am I going for maximum positive displacement?”

“Uh…” Roman points to their right.

“Correct.” Logan brings the swing up to his chest. “And if I want the maximum negative?”

Roman moves his finger to the other side and Logan nods, walking the swing forward until it’s at the same height on the other side of the bar.

“And zero?”

“Back to the middle?”

“Right.” Logan sets the swing back in the middle. “Any simple harmonic motion will have displacement values between these two points. Maximum positive displacement and maximum negative displacement.”

“Can’t you just say the minimum?”

“Minimum and maximum tend to refer to the absolute magnitude versus negative and positive, so…maximum negative.”

“Why?”

“In physics, negative and positive tend to refer to direct relativity to a certain point rather than a mathematical value. For instance—“ Logan stands a few feet away and walks toward Roman— “if I walk toward you at this speed, and then walk away from you at the same speed, it doesn’t really make sense if I call one the minimum, does it?”

“How,” Roman mumbles, staring at Logan, “do you remember all this stuff?”

Logan chuckles. “It is my job, Roman. Do you want to keep going?”

“Yeah, yeah, um—“ please don’t stop, for the love of god— “keep going.”

“Okay. Let’s talk about velocity next.”

“That’s how fast you go, right?”

“Yes. How fast and in what direction.” Logan lifts up the swing and lets go, watching it swing back and forth. “Where do you think the swing is going the fastest?”

“Uh…” Roman squints. “In the middle?”

“Yes. Which is where displacement is…”

“Zero?”

“Good.” Logan catches the swing and lets it go again. “And where the displacement is at its maximums…”

“Wait, but that’s where it changes direction, right? At the—at the highest point?” Roman holds his hand out and lets the swing clip it as it changes direction. “Right here? That’s maximum displacement.”

“Right. So what’s the velocity?”

“But it changes direction.”

“Yes,” Logan says patiently, “which means it has to stop first before it can change direction, right?”

“…I guess?”

“So...?”

“Zero, then?”

“See,” Logan murmurs, “you are capable of remembering these things. It’s alright,” he says quickly when Roman shakes his head, “you’re clever, you can understand, you weren’t taught this the way I was.”

“…yeah?”

Logan reaches out and ruffles his hair again. “Yes, Roman.”

“Well, you’re a good teacher.”

“Thank you.” He gestures to the swing. “The only tricky thing with velocity is that you really have to know which direction you’re going.”

“Why?”

“To know if it’s positive or negative.” He moves the swing back and forth. “If you’re going this way, it’s positive, if you’re going this way, it’s negative.”

“But it’s always the biggest in the middle?”

“Maximum in the middle, yes.”

“Maximum, right.” Roman puts his head in his hands, staring at the swing. Logan chuckles.

“You alright?”

“Mhm…just…a lot of physics.” He looks up at Logan, pouting a little. “So much physics.”

“My hope is that if you understand it a bit more, it’ll be easier to remember.”

“Mhm.”

“Roman?”

“Yeah?”

Logan looks at him for a moment before reaching out and setting a hand on his shoulder. “You’re not going to be tested on this. This isn’t a class you can fail, I’m not assuming any position of authority over you. You asked me something, I’m answering it, but you—this isn’t a class, alright?”

Roman smiles, nudging him. “I know, Specs. It’s okay. You’re doing great. I’m just being dramatic.”

“As is your right.”

“Can I quote you on that?”

Logan rolls his eyes. “Alright, theater kid, you want to learn about acceleration?”

“Let’s do it.”

“As you wish.”

Get back in my chest, you traitor, Roman thinks furiously at his heart as it pounds away in his throat.

“What is acceleration?”

“It’s when you go faster, right?”

“Not precisely. It’s the change in speed and direction over time, or the change in velocity over time. That can be speeding up, slowing down, or just changing the direction.”

“Okay.”

“The main thing to remember in simple harmonic motion is changing direction. So going forwards and backwards.”

“Or left and right?”

“Or positive to negative, correct.” Logan shakes his head. “Directions…relativity…you understand.”

“As long as this way is still positive and this way is still negative, I got it.”

“Excellent.”

“But isn’t acceleration just going to be the same as velocity? Because it’s going the fastest in the middle.”

“But acceleration isn’t just about going fast, remember? It’s about changing.” Logan moves the swing. “It’s going to be the maximums at the edges.”

“What?”

“Because that’s where it changes. The swing has to slow down, stop, and change direction.” Roman stares at him blankly and he smiles. “Have I lost you?”

“Yes.”

Logan hums, thinking for a moment. “May I try something?”

“Sure, uh—“ why are you coming closer, what’s going on, what—

Logan takes hold of his shoulders and steers him to sit down on the swing. He leans down and hooks his fingers through the sides, fingers almost brushing Roman’s hips.

“Is this alright?”

Logan has the audacity to ask this in a soft voice with his face that close to Roman’s. Roman swallows heavily. “Uh, um, yeah, it’s—it’s fine, uh, what’re you doing?”

“Helping.” Logan pulls the swing up—how strong is Logan, when did this happen, oh my god not now gay panic—until Roman’s head is a little higher than his. Now he’s the one looking down. “Still alright?”

“Mhm.”

Logan smiles. Oh, god, he’s so pretty. Have his eyes always been that shade of brown?

Not now!

“Where do you want to go right now?”

“Uh?”

“The swing,” Logan says—oh, that’s what he meant—“where does the swing want to go right now?”

Right. Focus. “Uh…back to the middle?”

“Back to the equilibrium point, right.” Logan tugs lightly on the swing. “Can you feel that? Can you feel how much the swing wants to go that way?”

“Um, yeah. Yeah, I can.”

“Good. That’s your acceleration, how much it’s trying to make you go that way. So it’s going to be the biggest it’s going to be right now, because this is the furthest you’re going to get from the equilibrium position.”

Logan has a freckle right on the tip of his nose. “Okay.”

“I’m going to let you go now,” he says, “and you’re going to swing over to the other side. Catch yourself over there, alright?”

“Okay.”

“Ready? Three, two—“ Roman swings to the other side and catches himself, legs propped against the ground. “Good. Now, what’s your acceleration?”

He points at Logan. “Back towards you.”

“Back toward the equilibrium point, right. And if you’re coming this direction, it’s…?”

“Positive.”

“Correct. And back that way…”

“Negative?”

“Very good. Alright, come back to me.”

“…I’m gonna kick you, move out of the way.”

“I’ll catch you, don’t worry.” And sure enough, Logan’s fingers hook easily into the sides of the swing as he grins up at Roman. “See?”

“Hi.”

“Hello.” He tugs the swing. “Now, where is your acceleration going to be zero?”

“Uh…if it’s the highest on the sides, then…in the middle?”

“Why?” Roman falters and Logan begins to walk him back down. “You’re correct, Roman, in the middle is right, but why?”

“…because that’s where it wants to be?”

“That’s correct. No change in velocity—it’s the fastest it’s going to get in this direction, and it’s where it wants to be. So when it’s right here, where the equilibrium position is, there’s no change. Acceleration is zero.”

“Okay.”

Logan’s smile softens. “You got it?”

“…yeah,” he mumbles, “yeah, I think I got it.”

“Great.” The simple praise makes Roman’s chest feel lighter. Logan steps away. “If I asked you where the maximum negative displacement would be, could you show me?”

“Uh, yeah, yeah. It’s back here.” Roman moves to stand up with the swing behind him.

“Good. Where is your velocity going to be the biggest?”

And so it goes. Logan asks and Roman is stunned to discover he can actually remember most of the answers. He gets tripped up a few times by positive and negative but he’s not fumbling blindly for answers.

He’s also surprised to discover just how much he wants to get it right. Most of the time—okay, maybe all of the time—during school, he didn’t care about impressing the science teachers, or the math teachers, if only to get the grade and move on with their life. He didn’t care if they were proud.

But with Logan…oh, does he want Logan to be proud of him.

“Well,” Logan says once they’ve run through everything, “I’d say you’ve gotten it down.”

Roman huffs a laugh. “Who knows, maybe I’ll forget everything by tomorrow.”

“Oh, I don’t think you will.”

Hands gently cradling the swing as he’s lifted into the sky. Encouraging smiles and praise when he gets something right. A soft voice and an even softer expression asking ‘is this alright?’

“…no,” Roman mumbles, “I don’t think I will either.”

Logan chuckles. “Really, it’s just important to be able to tell positive and negative apart so you can effectively calculate your omega.”

Record scratch.

Pause.

Go back.

Roman doesn’t quite choke on his breath but it’s close. “I’m sorry, my what now?”

Logan looks down, frowning. “Omega. It’s the character that represents angular velocity. It looks a lot like a cursive letter ‘w.’”

“Oh. Oh, that’s what you meant.”

“Yes, it’s useful in calculating exact velocities and amplitudes of simple harmonic motion once you get to the solving equations steps.” He tilts his head. “Why, what did you think I was talking about?”

“Uh…nothing.”

Logan narrows his eyes. “Nothing?”

“Yeah, yup. Nothing physics related. It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

Unfortunately for Roman, Logan immediately hums. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with Virgil recently, haven’t you?”

“What? No, what are you talking about? I haven’t read anything like that lately. And what makes you say Virgil?”

“I never said you were reading anything.”

Roman groans, burying his face in his hands as Logan chuckles. “I’m glad Janus can’t sense lies in here.”

“Mm.” A hand cards through his hair. “This omega is not related to the Omegaverse, no.”

Then Roman has an idea. An awful idea. Because his brain is awful and draws connections where there should not be connections and he is going to make this Logan’s problem as well.

“Logan,” he asks, blinking up at him, “what if it was?”

“What if what was what?”

“What if the omega was related to the Omegaverse?” When Logan frowns, he expands. “What if you made a physics explanation for Omegaverse? Do the other Greek characters appear in physics too?”

“Well, yes, but not to do with simple harmonic motion. Alpha is—well, one use of it is for radioactive decay, as is beta, but the third time of decay would be gamma and not omega, which would mean…”

Roman grins triumphantly as Logan pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs.

“For the love of Neils Bohr…alright, fine.”

“Thank you, Logan,” Roman says in the sing-song way children always thank their teachers.

Logan pushes the swing and Roman laughs, grinning wider when Logan breaks and smiles a little too after a moment.

“You’re going to have to give me a while to figure it out.”

“Oh, I can’t wait.”

“But,” Logan says, leaning over him with a smile, “you’re going to have to do something for me.”

Roman swallows. “And what’s that?”

“You have to be the one to explain to Virgil why I know about this.”

———

This is where they are now:

Roman comes down to the living room to see Logan with a notebook on his lap, looking over his notes. He glances up and smiles as he sees Roman, patting the couch.

“You’re early.”

“Yeah, well, wanted to come down and see you.” He sits and nods to the notebook. “Is that it?”

“Mhm. Best I could do.”

“I’m feeling such an odd mix of pride and mortal terror.”

“An appropriate reaction, I can assure you.”

Roman braces himself. “Okay, what do you have?”

Logan opens the notebook. “People exist as particles that are bound gravitationally to a single center point. They move in relation to this center mass in simple harmonic motion, not dissimilar to a pendulum or a mass on the end of a spring.”

“Great, we’re all on giant cosmic swing sets, got it.”

“The center point is radioactive and as such, undergoes radioactive decay. There are three types of decay it can undergo: alpha decay, beta decay, and gamma decay.”

“Is that…actually how radioactive decay works?”

“Yes. Those are the three types.”

“What makes each one…do each one?”

“It depends on what it is that’s radioactive. It refers to the spontaneous random process by which a nucleus stabilizes.”

“…sure, okay, I’m just gonna go with that.”

Logan smiles. “Not willing to have two lectures in one?”

“Please don’t describe talking about Omegaverse as a lecture.”

He chuckles and turns back to his notes. “Alpha decay involves the release of an alpha particle. This is the heaviest—in that it has the most mass—of the decay particles. When it enters into simple harmonic motion with the center mass, it will have the greatest angular velocity. As such, it’s important to know what the angular velocity is so the entire system of particles can function cleanly.”

“Because it’s the heaviest?”

“Yes. Big, heavy particle, swinging around. Like how you don’t want to get in the way of a swing set with someone.”

“Got it.”

“Beta decay involves the release of a beta particle, either a negative beta particle or a positive beta particle. Also released are an anti-neutrino or a neutrino, respectively, in order to preserve the matter/antimatter balance. These are lighter—in that they have less mass—than alpha particles and because they are released with another particle that will have the same inverse angular velocity, they’re less likely to destabilize the system and are ‘pre-paired,’ so to speak.”

“Wait, wait, wait, what?”

Logan pauses, glancing up. “Are you familiar with the law of conservation?”

“You gotta conserve everything, right?”

“Correct. That includes matter; you also can’t just make matter out of nothing. If you release a matter particle, you also have to release an anti-particle—made of antimatter—in order to conserve everything.”

“Antimatter is real?”

“Yes, it’s real. It normally occurs in very small quantities and annihilates upon meeting matter, but yes.”

Roman lets his mouth quirk into a smile. “So it’s infinitesimal?”

Logan glowers at him.

“Sorry, sorry, got it. Charge, matter, antimatter, -1.”

“Right,” Logan says, still giving him a look, “so if you release an election, you also have to release an antineutrino. That’s the name of the antiparticle.”

“So beta decay releases an electron and an antineutrino?”

“Or a positron and a neutrino.”

“A what?”

“A positron is an anti-electron. It has a charge of +1 and it’s made of antimatter. So it needs to be released with a normal neutrino to accomplish the same thing.”

“I think you had too much fun with this.”

Logan smirks. “Perhaps.”

“Okay, okay. What about omega?”

“Gamma decay involves the release of a photon. Photons do not have mass and so will not enter into simple harmonic motion but will instead fall into a standard orbit around the center point. They can, however, still have angular velocity. Due to wave/particle duality, they can also have a frequency, wavelength, and other wave characteristics.”

“Do I even want to know,” Roman says tiredly, “what wave/particle duality is?”

“Depends. How long do you have?”

He scrubs a hand over his face. “Not that much brain space, sorry, Specs.”

“That’s quite alright. I can save the explanation of classical mechanics as heteronormative physics for later.”

And before Roman can ask what the fuck that means, Logan’s continuing.

“In the equation for simple harmonic motion, a key variable is the angular velocity represented by a lowercase omega. In order to properly ‘stabilize’ the alpha particles, their angular velocity must be known. Finding a photon that has the same angular velocity—and ideally, complimentary frequency and wavelength—enables this ‘stabilization.’ The photons released are therefore known as omega particles, as their angular velocity is often their primary identifying trait.”

“Oh, that’s how you worked in the omega. Okay. Okay, I got it. That’s how—okay.” Roman closes his eyes and nods his head a few times. “Got it. Got it, okay.”

“Once an omega is assigned to an alpha, their relationship becomes proportional.” Logan turns the last page in his notebook. “This changes the alpha particle to an open alpha, which in physics is used to illustrate a proportional relationship.”

Roman stares at him.

Wow.

“You…you actually made it sound like a real physics thing.”

“Of course I made it sound like a real physics thing,” Logan scoffs, “what do you take me for?”

“I’m a little scared of you right now. You actually found a way to justify Omegaverse dynamics through physics, oh my god.”

Logan just laughs at him. Roman shakes his head.

“And you—did you actually find a way to explain how they can still pair up regardless of designation? You did, because it’s all about mathematical compatibility and which ones are more likely to—oh my god.”

“See? You do understand it.”

“Part of me wishes I didn’t. Wow. You’re scary. That’s scary. It makes too much sense. No. Why did I ask you to do this?”

And of course, that’s when Virgil decides to come downstairs. “What’d you fuck up now, Princey?”

Logan turns to him with an expectant look on his face and Roman hates everything right now.

“So I introduced Omegaverse to Logan—“

“I’m sorry, you did fucking what?”

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